Back then, the Ecazi separatists had seemed to be misguided dreamers, violent yet naive guerrillas who needed to be crushed into submission, lest they set a bad precedent for other uneasy worlds in the galactic Imperium.

 

Dominic had lost many good men in those struggles.  He had buried comrades.  He had seen the painful deaths of soldiers who followed his orders into battle.  He remembered rushing across the stubbled field of a burned forest beside Johdam's brother, a brave and fast-thinking man.  Yelling, weapons pointed ahead, they had fired into the nest of resistance fighters.  Johdam's brother had dropped to the ground.  Dominic thought he'd tripped on a blackened root, but when he bent to pull the other man to his feet, he found only a smoldering neck stump from a photonic artillery blast. . . .

 

Dominic had won the battle that day, at the cost of nearly a third of his men.  His troops had succeeded in wiping out the Ecazi rebels, and for that, he had received accolades.  The fallen soldiers had received mass graves on a planet far from their homes.The Corrinos did not deserve such sacrifices.

 

The CHOAM directorship of House Vernius had been expanded because of his great deeds.  At the victory celebrations, with a very young Archduke Ecaz seated once again on the Mahogany Throne, he'd been a revered guest on Kaitain.  At Elrood's side, Dominic had strolled through halls brimming with crystal, precious metals, and polished woods.  He'd sat at feasting tables that seemed to stretch for kilometers, while crowds outside cheered his name.  He'd stood proudly below the Golden Lion Throne while the Emperor presented him with the Medal of Valor, and other medals for his lieutenants.

 

Dominic had emerged as a famous hero from those battles, earning the undying loyalty of his men -- as they had shown him for years now, even here in this squalid place.  No, the Corrinos deserved none of that.

 

What are you thinking, Dominic?  The voice seemed to whisper in his head, a soft musical tone that was oddly familiar . . . yet nearly forgotten.

 

Shando.  But it could not be.  What are you thinking, Dominic?

 

"What I saw on Ix drove away the last vestiges of my fear.  It killed my restraint," he said aloud, but in a quiet voice so that no one heard him . . . no one but the ethereal presence of his lovely Lady.  "I've decided to do something, my love -- something I should have done twenty years ago."

 

 

IN THE MONTHS-LONG ANTARCTIC DAY, Dominic did not mark the passage of hours or weeks on his chronometer.  Shortly after he returned from Ix, with plans formed like stone sculptures in his mind, he went out alone.  Dressed in worker's clothes, he requested an audience with the water merchant, Rondo Tuek.

 

The smugglers paid handsomely for Tuek's silence every month, and the industrial baron arranged secret connections with the Guild for transport to other worlds.  Dominic had never been interested in turning a profit and only stole solaris from the Imperial treasury in order to sabotage the Corrino name, so he'd never regretted paying the bribes.  He spent what was necessary to do what he needed to do.

 

None of the off-worlders at the water-processing factory recognized him, though some gave Dominic disapproving glances when he strode into the complex and insisted on seeing the water merchant.

 

Tuck recognized him, but did not manage to cover his expression of shock.  "It's been years since you've shown your face here."

 

"I need your help," Dominic said.  "I want to purchase more services."

 

Rondo Tuck smiled, his wide-set eyes glimmering.  He scratched the thick tuft of hair on the left side of his head.  "Always happy to sell."  He gestured to a corridor.  "This way, please."

 

As they rounded a bend, Dominic saw a man approaching.  His heavy white parka was open at the front, and he carried a plex-file pack, which he flipped through as he walked.  He had his head down.

 

"Lingar Bewt," Tuek said, his tone bemused.  "Watch out or he'll run into you."

 

Though Dominic tried to avoid him, the man wasn't paying attention and brushed against Dominic anyway.  Bewt leaned over to retrieve a dropped plex-file.  His face, bland and round, was deeply tanned.  He looked soft around the chin and the belly -- definitely not military material.

 

As the preoccupied man hurried on his way, Tuek said, "Bewt handles all my accounting and shipping.  Don't know what I'd do without him."

 

Inside Tuek's locked personal offices, Dominic barely noticed the treasures, the wall hangings, the artwork.

 

"I require a transport ship.  Unmarked, a heavy hauler.  I need to get it on board a Heighliner with no mention of my name."

 

Tuek folded his splayed hands together and blinked repeatedly.  A slight tic in his neck caused his head to twitch from side to side.  "You've found a large strike, then?  How much spice did you get?"  The squat man leaned forward.  "I can help you sell it.  I have my connections --"

 

Dominic cut him off.  "Not spice.  And there's no percentage in it for you.  This is a . . . personal matter."

 

Disappointed, Tuek sat back, his shoulders slumping.  "All right, then.  For a price -- which we can negotiate -- I'll find a big hauler.  We will provide whatever you require.  Let me contact the Guild and arrange for passage aboard the next Heighliner.  Where's your final destination?"

 

Dominic looked away.  "Kaitain, of course . . . the den of the Corrinos."  Then he blinked and sat up stiffly.  "But then, that's none of your business, Tuek."

 

"No," the water merchant agreed, shaking his head.  "None of my business."  A troubled expression crossed his face, and he distracted his guest as he shuffled papers and attended to the useless business cluttering his office.  "Come back in a week, Dominic, and I will give you all the equipment you need.  Shall we establish a price now?"

 

Dominic turned away, not even looking at him.  "Charge me whatever is fair."  Then he walked to the door, anxious to get back to his base.

 

 

AFTER DOMINIC SUMMONED HIS MEN into the largest chamber in his base, he spoke in a somber, cadaverous voice as he described the horrors he had witnessed on Ix.  "Long ago when I brought you here, I took you from your homes and your lives, and you agreed to join me.  We allied ourselves against the Corrinos."

 

"With no regrets, Dom," Asuyo interrupted.

 

Dominic made no acknowledgment, but continued in his droning voice.  "We meant to become wolves, but instead we were only gnats."  He rested his large hands on the tabletop and drew a long, slow breath.  "That's about to change."

 

Without explanation, the renegade Earl left the room.  He knew where he had to go and what he had to do.  These men could follow him or not.  It was their choice, because this was his battle.  No one else's.  It was well past time to bring an accounting to House Corrino.

 

He penetrated deep into the cold fortress, down dim corridors where the floors were coated with grit and dust.  Few people came there; it had been years since he himself had set foot in the armored storehouses.

 

Don't do it, Dominic.  The whispering voice prickled the back of his head again.  A chill ran down his spine.  It sounded so much like Shando, his conscience trying to make him reconsider.  Don't do it.

 

But the time for any choice in the matter had long since passed.  The thousands of years of Corrino rule following the Butlerian Jihad had left a deep scar on the glorious timelines.  The Imperial House did not deserve it.  At the watershed of the old Empire, that other renegade family -- whatever their names had been, whatever their motivations -- had not finished the job.  Though Salusa Secundus lay destroyed, the other renegades had not done enough.

 

Dominic would take vengeance one step further.

 

At the sealed doors of the deepest storage chamber, he keyed in the proper code before slapping his palm against the scanner plate.  No one else had access to this vault.

 

When the doors slid open, he saw the collection of forbidden weaponry, the family atomics that had been House Vernius's last resort, held in reserve for millennia.  The Great Convention absolutely forbade the use of such devices, but Dominic no longer cared.  He had nothing to lose.

 

Absolutely nothing.

 

After the Tleilaxu overthrow, Dominic and his men had retrieved the secret stockpile from a moon in the Ixian system and brought it here.  Now, he ran his gaze over the whole array.  Sealed in gleaming metal containers were warheads, planet-killers, stone burners, devices that would ignite the atmosphere of a world and transform Kaitain into a tiny, short-lived star.

 

It was time.  First, Dominic would visit his children on Caladan to see them one last time, to say goodbye.  Before this he hadn't wanted to risk calling attention to them or incriminating them . . . Rhombur and Kailea had been granted amnesty while he was a hunted fugitive.

 

But he would do it just this once, with utmost discretion.  It was appropriate to do that after all these years.  Then he would strike his final blow and become the victor after all.  The entire corrupt bloodline of the Corrinos would become extinct.

 

But the voice of Shando in his conscience was filled with sadness and regret.  Despite all they'd been through, she didn't approve.  You always were a stubborn man, Dominic Vernius.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Innovation and daring create heroes.  Mindless adherence to outdated rules creates only politicians.

 

-VISCOUNT HUNDRO MORITANI

 

 

THE EVENING AFTER the Corridor of Death ordeal, the gathered Swordmasters sat in a large dining tent with the 43 surviving members of the original class of 150.  These students were now treated as colleagues, finally awarded the respect and camaraderie of fighting men.

 

But at such a cost . . .

 

Rich, cold spice beer was served in tall mugs.  Off-world hors d'oeuvres lay spread on porcelain dishes.  The proud old instructors were congratulatory, wandering among the rugged trainees they had shaped for eight years.  Duncan Idaho thought the students' revelry carried a hysterical tinge.  Some of the young men sat in shock, moving little, while others drank and ate with wild abandon.

 

In less than a week they would regroup at the main island's administration building, where they still had to face a final round of oral examinations, a formal checking of the intellectual knowledge they had absorbed from the Swordmasters.  But after the murderous obstacle course, answering a few questions seemed anticlimactic.

 

Released from their pent-up tension, Duncan and Resser drank too much.  Over years of rigorous training, they had consumed only meager fare to toughen them up, and they had developed no tolerance for alcohol.  The spice beer hit them hard.

 

Duncan found himself growing maudlin as he remembered the struggles, the pain, and all his fallen schoolmates.  What a waste . . .

 

Resser reeled from his triumph, full of celebration.  He knew his adoptive father had expected him to fail all along.  After separating from his fellow Grumman students and refusing to quit his training, the redhead had won as many psychological battles as physical ones.

 

Long after the yellow moons had passed overhead, leaving a wake of sparkling stars, the party broke up.  The students -- bruised, scarred, and drunk -- wandered off one at a time, forsaking further revelry to face battles with impending hangovers.  Inside the main huts, dishes and glasses were broken; nothing remained to eat or drink.

 

Hiih Resser walked barefoot with Duncan into the island darkness.  They wandered from the big house toward the cluster of lodging huts farther down the broad white beach, their steps uneven on the rough ground.

 

Duncan clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder in a brotherly gesture, but also to help keep his balance.  He couldn't understand how the enormous Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari managed to walk with such grace.

 

"So, when all this is over, will you come with me to see Duke Leto?"  Duncan formed his words carefully.  "Remember, House Atreides would welcome two Swordmasters, if Moritani doesn't want you."

 

"House Moritani doesn't want me, not after Trin Kronos and the others left the school," Resser said.  Duncan noted no tears in his friend's eyes.

 

"Strange," Duncan said.  "They could have celebrated with us tonight, but they made their own choices."  The pair walked down the slope toward the beach.  The sleeping huts seemed very far away, and blurry.

 

"But I still have to go back there, to face my family, to show them what I accomplished."

 

"From what I know of Viscount Moritani, that sounds dangerous.  Suicidal, even."

 

"Nevertheless, I still have to do it."  In the shadows he turned to face Duncan, and his somber mood slipped away.  "Afterward, I'll come to see Duke Atreides."

 

He and Duncan peered through the darkness, stumbling around as they tried to adjust their eyes.  "Where are those huts?"  They heard people ahead and a clank of weapons.  Warning signals went off in Duncan's fogged mind, but too slowly for him to react.

 

"Ah there, it's Resser and Idaho."  A blazing light stabbed his eyes like luminous ice picks, and he raised his hand to shield against the glare.  "Get them!"

 

Disoriented and surprised, Duncan and Resser bumped into each other as they turned to fight back.  A group of unrecognizable, dark-clad warriors fell on them in an ambush, carrying weapons, sticks, clubs.  Unarmed, Duncan called upon the skills Ginaz had taught him, defending himself next to his friend.  At first he wondered if this was some kind of additional test, a last surprise the Swordmasters had sprung after lulling their students with the celebration.

 

Then he saw a blade, felt it slash a long shallow wound in his shoulder -- and he no longer held back.  Resser yelled, not in pain but in anger.  Duncan spun with fists and feet, lashing out.  He heard an arm crack, felt one of his toenails gouge open a sinewy throat.

 

But the mob of opponents pounded Duncan's head and shoulders with stunsticks; one attacker struck the base of his skull with an old-fashioned club.  With a grunt, Resser tumbled to the soft ground, and four men piled on top of him.

 

Drunk and maddeningly sluggish, Duncan tried to throw off his attackers to help his comrade, but they struck him at the temples with the stunsticks, flooding his mind with blackness. . . .

 

 

WHEN HE CAME TO CONSCIOUSNESS, struggling with a sour gag in his mouth, Duncan saw a seaskimmer beached nearby on the dark shore.  Farther out, with no running lights, the shadowy hulk of a much larger boat bobbed in the waves.  His captors threw him unceremoniously aboard the skimmer.  The limp form of Hiih Resser tumbled beside him.

 

"Don't try to get free of those shigawire bindings unless you want to lose your arms," a deep voice growled in his ear.  He felt the fiber biting into his skin.

 

Duncan ground his teeth, trying to chew through the gag.  On the beach he saw pools of blood, weapons broken and discarded into the rising tide.  The attackers carried the wrapped forms of eleven men, obviously dead, onto the narrow skimmer.  So, he and Resser had fought well, like true Swordmasters.  Perhaps they weren't the only captives.

 

The shadowy men shoved Duncan into a crowded, stinking lower deck, where he bumped into other bound men on the floorboards, some of his comrades from class.  In the darkness he saw fear and rage in their eyes; many were bruised and beaten, the worst injuries patched with rag bandages.

 

With only a faint groan, Resser awoke beside him.  From the glint in his friend's eyes, Duncan knew the redhead had assessed the situation, too.  Thinking alike, they rolled together at the bottom of the skimmer, back to back.  With numb fingers they worked carefully at each other's bonds, trying to break free.  One of the shadowy men uttered a curse and kicked them apart.

 

At the front of the skimmer, men spoke in low tones with heavy accents.  Grumman accents.  Resser continued to struggle against his bonds, and one of the men kicked him again.  The motor started, a low purr, and the small craft got under way, heading out into the waves.

 

Farther out at sea, the ominous dark boat waited for them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How easily grief becomes anger, and revenge gains arguments.

 

-PADISHAH EMPEROR HASSIK III, Lament for Salusa Secundus

 

 

 

 

IN A DOME-ROOFED CHAMBER of his Residency at Arrakeen, Hasimir Fenring contemplated a difficult mind-teaser puzzle:  a holo-representation of geometrical shapes, rods, cones, and spheres that fitted together and balanced perfectly . . . but only when all of the electropotentials were evenly spaced.

 

During his youth, he had played similar games in the Imperial Court of Kaitain; Fenring usually won.  In those years, he'd learned much about politics and conflicting powers -- learning more, in fact, than Shaddam ever had.  And the Crown Prince had realized it.

 

"Hasimir, you're much more valuable to me away from the Imperial Court," Shaddam had said when sending him away.  "I want you on Arrakis watching over those untrustworthy Harkonnens and making sure my spice revenues are untouched -- at least until the damned Tleilaxu finish their amal research."

 

Rich yellow sunlight drizzled through the dome windows, distorted by house shields that diverted the day's heat while protecting the mansion against possible mob attacks.  Fenring simply couldn't abide the high temperatures on Arrakis.

 

For eighteen years now, Fenring had built his power base in Arrakeen.  At the Residency, he lived with all the comforts and pleasures he could wring from this dustbowl.  He felt content enough in his position.

 

He placed one shimmering puzzle stick above a tetrahedron, almost let go, then adjusted the piece to precisely the correct location.

 

Willowbrook, the slack-jawed chief of his guard force, chose that moment to stride in and clear his throat, shattering Fenring's concentration.  "The water merchant Rondo Tuck has requested an audience with you, my Lord Count."

 

In disgust, the Count switched off the pulsing puzzle before the separate pieces could tumble across the table.  "What does he want, hmmm?"

 

" 'Personal business,' he called it.  But he stressed that it is important."

 

Fenring tapped long fingers on the tabletop where the brain-teaser puzzle had glowed moments before.  The water merchant had never requested a private audience.  Why would Tuek come here now? He must want something.

 

Or he knows something.

 

Typically, the odd-looking merchant attended banquets and social functions.  Knowing the true seat of power on Arrakis, he provided Fenring's household with extravagant amounts of water, more than the Harkonnen overlords received in Carthag.

 

"Ahhh, he's aroused my curiosity.  Send him in, and see that we're not disturbed for fifteen minutes."  The Count pursed his lips.  "Hmmm-mm, after that, I'll decide whether or not I want you to take him away."

 

Moments later, the lumpy-shouldered Tuck entered the domed chamber with a rolling gait, swinging his arms as he walked.  He swiped a hand across his rusty-gray hair, smoothing it into place with sweat, then bowed.  The man looked flushed from ascending so many stairs; Fenring smiled, approving of Willowbrook's decision to make him climb rather than offering the private lift that would have brought him directly to this level.

 

Fenring remained at his table, but did not motion for the visitor to sit; the water merchant stood in his formal silver robe, wearing a gaudy necklace of dust-pitted platinum links around his throat, no doubt sandstorm-scoured in a rough attempt at Arrakis art.

 

"Do you have something for me?" Fenring inquired, flaring his nostrils. "Or do you wish something from me, hmmm-ah?"

 

"I can provide you with a name, Count Fenring," Tuck said without prettying his words.  "As for what I wish in return --"  He shrugged his lumpy shoulders.  "I expect you will pay me as you see fit."

 

"So long as our expectations are commensurate.  What is this name . . . and why should I care?"

 

Tuck leaned forward like a tree about to fall.  "It's a name you haven't heard in years.  I suspect you'll find it interesting.  I know the Emperor will."

 

Fenring waited, but not patiently.  Finally, Tuck continued.  "The man has kept a low profile on Arrakis, even as he does his best to disrupt your activities here.  He wishes revenge on the entire Imperial House, though his original quarrel was with Elrood IX."

 

"Oh, everyone had a quarrel with Elrood," Fenring said.  "He was a hateful old vulture.  Who is this man?"

 

"Dominic Vernius," Tuck replied.

 

Fenring sat straight up, his bright, overlarge eyes widening further.  "The Earl of Ix?  I thought he was dead."

 

"Your bounty hunters and Sardaukar never caught him.  He has been hiding here on Arrakis, with a few other smugglers.  I do a little business with them now and then."

 

Fenring sniffed.  "You didn't inform me immediately?  How long have you known?"

 

"My Lord Fenring," Tuck said, sounding overly reasonable, "Elrood signed the vendetta papers against the renegade House, and he's been dead for many years.  As far as I could tell, Dominic seemed to be causing no harm.  He'd already lost everything . . . and other problems demanded my attention."  The water merchant took a deep breath.  "Now, however, matters have changed.  I feel it's my duty to inform you, because I know you have the Emperor's ear."

 

"And what exactly has changed, hmmm?"  In the back of Fenring's mind, wheels were turning.  House Vernius had disappeared long ago.  Lady Shando had been killed by Sardaukar hunters.  Exiled on Caladan, the Vernius children were considered no threat.

 

But an angry and vengeful Dominic Vernius could cause damage, especially so close to the precious spice sands.  Fenring had to ponder this.

 

"Earl Vernius requested a heavy transport.  He seemed . . . extremely disturbed, and may be planning a strike of some sort.  In my opinion, this might mean an assassination plot against the Emperor.  That was when I knew I had to come to you."

 

Fenring raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead.  "Because you thought I would pay you a greater reward than Dominic's bribes add up to?"

 

Tuek spread his hands and responded with a deprecating smile, but did not deny the accusation.  Fenring respected the man for that.  Now at least everyone's motivations were clear.

 

He ran a finger along his thin lips, still pondering.  "Very well, Tuek.  Tell me where to find the renegade Earl's hiding place.  Explicit details, please.  And before you depart, see my exchequer.  Make a list of everything you require, every desire or reward you could imagine -- and then I'll choose.  I'll grant you whatever I believe your information was worth."

 

Tuek didn't quibble, but bowed.  "Thank you, Count Fenring.  I am pleased to be of service."

 

After providing the known details of the smugglers' antarctic facility, Tuek backed toward the door just as Willowbrook reentered, precisely at the end of fifteen minutes.

 

"Willowbrook, take my friend to our treasure rooms.  He knows what to do, hmmm?  For the rest of the afternoon, leave me in peace.  I have much thinking to occupy me."

 

After the men departed and the door to the chamber slid shut, Fenring paced, humming to himself, alternately smiling and frowning.  Finally, he switched on his brain-teaser puzzle again.  It would help him relax so that he could focus his thoughts.

 

Fenring enjoyed plots within plots, spinning wheels concealed within wheels.  Dominic Vernius was an intelligent adversary, and most resourceful.  He had eluded Imperial detection for years, and Fenring thought it would be most satisfying to let the renegade Earl have a hand in his own destruction.

 

Count Fenring would keep his eyes open, extending the spiderweb, but he would let Vernius make the next move.  As soon as the renegade had everything in place for his own plans, then Fenring would strike.

 

He would enjoy giving the outlaw nobleman just enough rope to hang himself. . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paradise on my right, Hell on my left, and the Angel of Death behind me.

 

-Fremen Conundrum

 

 

TRUE TO HIS WORD, the water merchant obtained an unmarked hauler for Dominic Vernius.  Absent-minded Lingar Bewt piloted it from Carthag to the antarctic ice-mining facility and, with a sheepish smile, handed over the control card for the ship.  Dominic, accompanied by his lieutenant Johdam, flew the battered craft back toward the secret landing field in the crevasse.  The former Earl of Ix remained silent for most of the journey.

 

The heavy hauler was old and made strange groaning sounds as it cruised low through the atmosphere.  With a curse, Johdam slapped the control panels.  "Damned slug.  Probably won't function for more than a year, Dom.  It's junk."

 

Dominic gave him a distant look.  "It'll be good enough, Johdam."  Years ago, he'd been there when Johdam's face was burned by a backlash flame.  Then the veteran had saved Dominic's life during the first abortive raid on Ix, hauling him from the line of Sardaukar fire.  Johdam's loyalty would never flag, but now it was time for Dominic to set him free, to give the man back his life.

 

When Johdam's skin flushed with anger, the burn-scar tissue looked pale and waxy. "Have you heard how many solaris Tuek charged us for this wreckage?  If we'd had equipment like this on Ecaz, the rebels could have beaten us by throwing rocks."

 

They had broken Imperial law together for years -- but Dominic had to do the rest alone.  He felt oddly content with his decision and kept his voice even and calm.  "Rondo Tuek knows we will no longer pay him our usual bribes.  He wants to make as much profit as he can."

 

"But he's cheating you, Dom!"

 

"Listen to me."  He leaned close to his lieutenant in the adjacent seat.  The heavy hauler vibrated as it came in for a landing.  "It does not matter.  Nothing matters.  I just need enough . . . to do what I must do."

 

Sweat glistened on Johdam's scarred face as the craft came to a stop at the bottom of the crevasse.  The lieutenant moved with tight, jerky gestures as he stomped down the landing ramp.  Dominic could see the uncertainty and helplessness in the man's face.  He knew Johdam was not furious merely with what the water merchant had done, but also at what Dominic Vernius planned to do. . . .

 

Dominic longed to liberate Ix and his people, doing something positive to make up for all the wrongs that had been done by the Tleilaxu invaders and their Sardaukar allies.  But he could not accomplish that.  Not now.

 

In his power he had only the capability for destruction.

 

The former Ixian Ambassador, Cammar Pilru, had made repeated pleas to the Landsraad, but by now the man had merely become a tiresome joke.  Even Rhombur's efforts -- probably made with secret Atreides support -- had amounted to nothing.  The problem had to be destroyed at its heart.

 

Dominic Vernius, former Earl of Ix, would send a message that the entire Imperium would never forget.

 

 

AFTER MAKING HIS DECISION, Dominic had taken his men deep into the fortress and opened the storage vault.  Staring at the stored atomics, the smugglers froze; they had all dreaded this day.  They'd served with the renegade Earl long enough that they needed no detailed explanations.  The men stood inside the cold corridors, leaning against the polymer-lined walls.

 

"I will go to Caladan first, then alone to Kaitain," Dominic had announced.  "I have written a message for my children, and I mean to see them again.  It has been far too long, and I must do this thing."  He looked at each one of the smugglers in turn.  "You men are free to do as you wish.  I suggest you liquidate our stockpiles and abandon this base.  Go back to Gurney Halleck on Salusa, or just return to your families.  Change your names, erase all records of what we did here.  If I succeed, there will no longer be a reason for our band to exist."

 

"And the whole Landsraad will be out for our blood," Johdam growled.

 

Asuyo tried to talk Dominic out of it, using a military tone, an officer reasoning with his commander -- but he would not listen.  Earl Vernius had nothing to lose, and a great deal of vengeance to gain.  Perhaps if he obliterated the last of the Corrinos, his own ghost and Shando's could rest peacefully.

 

"Load these weapons on board the cargo hauler," he said.  "I will pilot it myself.  A Guild Heighliner arrives in two days."  He gazed at them all, his expression flat and emotionless.

 

Some of the men wore stricken looks.  Tears welled in their eyes, but they knew better than to argue with the man who had commanded them in countless battles, the man who had once run all the industries on Ix.

 

Without friendly banter or conversation, the men took suspensor grapples and began to drag out the atomics, one load at a time.  They did not move with haste, dreading the completion of their task.

 

Without eating or drinking, Dominic observed the progress all day long.  Metal-encased warheads were carried out on pallets and then guided through tunnels to the crevasse landing field.

 

He daydreamed about seeing Rhombur and talking with him about leadership; he wanted to hear Kailea's aspirations.  It would be so good to see them both again.  He tried to imagine what his children looked like now, their faces, how tall they were.  Did they have families of their own, his grandchildren?  Had it really been more than twenty years since he'd seen his son and daughter, since the fall of Ix?

 

There would be some risk, but Dominic had to take the chance.  They would want him to do it.  Every precaution would be taken.  He knew how difficult this would be emotionally, and he promised himself he would be strong.  If Rhombur found out what he was up to -- should he tell his son? -- the Prince would want to join the effort and fight in the name of Ix.  What would Kailea's reaction be?  Would she try to talk her brother out of going?  Probably.

 

Dominic decided it would be best not to reveal his plans to his children, for that could only cause problems.  Best to see his son and daughter without telling them anything.

 

There might be one more child, too, whom Dominic wished he could locate.  His beloved Shando had given birth to a son out of wedlock before marrying Dominic.  The child, borne secretly when she was a concubine in the Imperial Palace, had been Elrood Corrino's, but had been taken away from her shortly after its birth.  In her position, Shando had not been able to keep her son and, despite her persistent requests for information, she never learned what had happened to him.  He just disappeared.

 

 

UNABLE TO BEAR watching the preparations, Asuyo and Johdam worked at transferring the treasury reserve and supplies into the hands of the men.  Old Asuyo had made a point of removing his medals and rank insignia, throwing them on the ground.  Everyone would have to depart from the base at once and scatter to the far corners of the Imperium.

 

Muttering to himself, Johdam inventoried the stockpile of spice they had collected, and with two other men, led an expedition back to the water merchant's industrial facility.  There, they intended to convert the remaining merchandise into liquid credit, which they would use to buy passage, identities, and homes for themselves.

 

In his final hours, Dominic removed possessions from his quarters, giving away meaningless treasures, keeping only a few things he wanted at his side.  The holo-portraits of Shando and keepsakes of his children meant more to him than any wealth.  He would give them back to Rhombur and Kailea, so they had some memento of their parents.

 

Smelling the cold brittleness inside what had been his home for so many years, Dominic noticed details he hadn't seen since building the fortress.  He studied cracks in the wall, uneven lumps on the floor and ceiling . . . but he felt only failure and emptiness inside.  He knew of only one way to fill that void -- with blood.  He would make the Corrinos pay.

 

Then his children, and the people of Ix, would be proud of him.

 

When all but three hover-warheads and a pair of stone burners had been moved aboard the heavy hauler, Dominic walked out into the wan antarctic sunshine, a slice of light that carved into the deep fissure.  He had planned every step of his attack on the Imperial capital.  It would be a complete surprise -- Shaddam wouldn't even have time to hide under the Golden Lion Throne.  Dominic would make no grandiose speeches, would not revel in his triumph.  No one would know of his arrival.  Until the end.

 

Elrood IX was already dead, and the new Padishah Emperor had only a Bene Gesserit wife and four young daughters.  It would not be difficult to exterminate the Corrino bloodline.  Dominic Vernius would sacrifice his life to destroy the Imperial House that had ruled for thousands of years, since the Battle of Corrin -- and he would call it a bargain.

 

He drew a deep breath into his barrel chest.  He turned his head, looking up the sheer canyon walls of the fissure, saw Johdam's shuttle land, returning from his errand at Tuek's water factory.  He didn't know how long he stood like a statue as his men moved around him, taking inventory of the atomic stockpile.

 

A voice startled him out of his concentration.  Johdam rushed red-faced toward him, his parka hood tossed back.  "We've been betrayed, Dom!  I went to the water merchant's facility -- and it's abandoned.  All the off-worlders are gone.  The factory is closed down.  They packed up and left in a hurry."

 

Panting, Asuyo added, "They don't want to be around, sir, because something is going to happen."  His entire demeanor had changed:  even without his medals, Asuyo looked like a military officer again, ready for a bloody engagement.

 

Some of the smugglers cried out in rage.  Dominic's expression turned stony and grim.  He should have expected this.  After all the years of cooperation and assistance, Rondo Tuek could still not be trusted.

 

"Gather what you can.  Go to Arsunt or Carthag or Arrakeen, but leave before the end of the day.  Change your identities."  Dominic gestured toward the old heavy hauler.  "I want to get the last warheads and take off.  I still intend to go about my mission.  My children are waiting for me."

 

 

LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, during the final preparations for evacuation and departure, the military ships arrived -- an entire wing of Sardaukar in attack 'thopters, cruising low.  They dropped concussion bombs that fractured the frozen walls.  Wide lasgun beams flashed the cliffs into steam and dust, liberating the ice in the matrix and sending boulders tumbling down into melted craters.

 

The Sardaukar vessels tilted their wings to dive like predatory fish into the chasm.  They dropped more explosives, destroying four transport ships parked on the loose gravel.

 

Determined, Asuyo rushed to their nearest 'thopter and leaped inside.  He fired up the jet engines, as if already confident of receiving another medal for bravery.  As he rocketed upward, the 'thopter's weapon turrets brightened.  Asuyo spared a few breaths over the comsystem to curse Tuek's treachery and the Sardaukar, too.  Before he could get off a shot, though, two Imperial ships blew him into a smudge of fire and greasy smoke in the sky.

 

Troop carriers landed on the flat ground, and armed fighting men surged out like maddened insects, carrying hand weapons and knives.

 

With precise accuracy, Sardaukar forces turned the engine pods of Dominic's loaded heavy hauler to slag.  The family atomics -- suspected by the Sardaukar to be aboard -- were now stranded.  The banished Earl could never take off, never reach Kaitain.  And seeing the swarm of Imperial troops, Dominic knew that he and his smuggler band would never get away.

 

Bellowing like a military commander again, Johdam led his final charge. The men ran recklessly, firing mismatched weapons into the oncoming Sardaukar troops.  Using knives or bare hands, the Emperor's fighters slew every smuggler they encountered.  To them, this activity was little more than practice, and they seemed to be doing it for the sheer enjoyment.

 

Johdam retreated with his few surviving men back to the tunnels where they could barricade themselves and defend.  In a frightening flash of deja vu from the Ecazi rebellion, Dominic watched a Sardaukar las-blast take off Johdam's head, just like his brother's. . . .

 

Dominic had only one chance.  It would not be the victory he had anticipated, and Rhombur and Kailea would never know about it . . . but given the alternative of total failure, he chose another desperate measure.  He and his men were going to die anyway.

 

For honor, he wanted to stay beside his troops, to fight to the death with each one of them -- in what would ultimately be a futile gesture.  They knew it, and so did he.  The Sardaukar were representatives of the Emperor -- giving Dominic Vernius the opportunity to strike a deadly, symbolic blow.  For Ix, for his children, for himself.

 

As concentrated fire began to bring down the walls of the chasm in mounds of slumping mud and stone, Dominic ducked inside the base.  Some of his men followed, trusting him to lead them to shelter.  Silent and grim, he offered no reassurances.

 

The Sardaukar penetrated the facility, advancing in attack formation through the passages, cutting down anyone they saw.  They had no need to take captives for interrogation.

 

Dominic retreated into the inner passageways, down toward the vault.  It was a dead-end corridor.  The frightened men behind him now understood what he meant to do.

 

"We'll hold them as long as we can, Dom," one man promised.  He and a partner took up positions on either side of the corridor, their meager weapons drawn and ready.  "We'll give you enough time."

 

Dominic paused for just a moment.  "Thank you.  I won't let you down."

 

"You never have, sir.  We all knew the risks when we joined you."

 

He reached the open door to the armored storage chamber just as a loud explosion rang out behind him.  The walls collapsed, breaking through the polymer sheath and sealing him and his men down there.  But he had never intended to leave anyway.

 

The Sardaukar would cut their way through the barrier within minutes.  They had smelled the blood of Dominic Vernius and would not stop until they had him in their hands.

 

He allowed himself a mirthless smile.  Shaddam's men were in for a surprise.

 

Dominic used the palm lock to seal the vault doors, even as he saw the collapsed barricade glowing with inner heat.  Solid walls muffled the sounds behind him.

 

Shielded by the heavy vault door, Dominic turned to look at the remaining items in his atomic stockpile.  He chose one of the stone burners, a smaller weapon whose yield could be calibrated to destroy an entire planet, or just wreak havoc in a specified area.

 

The Sardaukar began hammering on the thick door as he removed the stone burner from its case and studied the controls.  He never thought he'd need to understand these weapons.  They were meant as doomsday devices, never to be used -- whose mere existence should have been a sufficient deterrent against overt aggression.  Under the Great Convention, any use of atomics would bring down the combined military forces of the Landsraad to destroy the offending family.

 

The men out in the corridor were already dead.  Dominic had nothing left to lose.

 

He tamped down the fuel consumption of the stone burner and set the activation mechanism to vaporize only the vicinity of the base.  No need to wipe out all the innocents on Arrakis.

 

That was the sort of thing only a Corrino would do.

 

He felt like an ancient sea captain going down with his ship.  Dominic harbored only one regret:  that he hadn't had a chance to say his farewells to Rhombur and Kailea after all, to tell them how much he loved them.  They would have to carry on without him.

 

Through a blur of tears, he thought he saw a shimmering image of Shando again, her ghost . . . or just his wishful desires.  She moved her mouth, but he couldn't tell if she was scolding him for his recklessness -- or welcoming him to join her.

 

The Sardaukar cut their way through the frozen wall itself, bypassing the thick door.  As they entered the vault, smug and victorious, Dominic did not fire at them.  He simply looked down at the scant remaining time on the stone burner.

 

The Sardaukar saw it, too.

 

Then everything turned white-hot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If God wishes thee to perish, He causes thy steps to lead thee to the place of thy demise.

 

-Cant of the Shariat

 

 

OF ALL THE COVERT ATTEMPTS C'tair Pilru had made during twenty years as a guerrilla fighter on Ix, he had never dared to disguise himself as one of the Tleilaxu Masters.  Until now.

 

Desperate and alone, he could think of nothing else to do.  Miral Alechem had vanished.  The other rebels were dead, and he had lost all contact with his outside supporters, the smugglers, the transport officials willing to accept bribes.  Young women continued to disappear, and the Tleilaxu operated with complete impunity.

 

He hated them all.

 

With cold calculation, C'tair waited in a deserted corridor up in the office levels and killed the tallest robed Master he could find.  He preferred not to resort to murder to achieve his aims, but he did not shrink from it, either.  Some actions were necessary.

 

Compared to the blood on the hands of the Tleilaxu, his heart and conscience remained clean.

 

He stole the gnomish man's clothes and identity cards and prepared to discover the secret of the Bene Tleilax research pavilion.  Why was Ix so important that the Emperor would send his Sardaukar here to support the invaders?  Where had all the captive women been taken?  It had to be more than simple politics, more than the petty revenge of Shaddam's father against Earl Vernius.

 

The answer must lie within the high-security laboratory.

 

Miral had long suspected an illegal biological project, one that operated with covert Imperial support -- perhaps even something that went against the strictures of the Butlerian Jihad.  Why else would the Corrinos be willing to risk so much, for so long?  Why else had they invested so heavily here, while overall Ixian profits diminished?

 

Determined to discover the answers, he donned the robes of the slain Tleilaxu Master, shifting the folds and cinching the maroon sash to hide the dark stain of drying blood.  Then he disposed of the body, dumping it into the reopened field-lined shafts to the molten core of the planet.  Where the garbage was supposed to go.

 

In a secret storeroom, he applied chemicals to his face and hands to leach the remaining color from his already-pale flesh, and smeared wrinkling substances on his face to give himself the gray-skinned, shriveled appearance of a Tleilaxu overlord.  He wore thin-soled slippers to keep his height down, and hunched over a little.  He wasn't a large man, and he was aided by the fact that the Tleilaxu were not the most observant of people.  C'tair needed to be most wary of the Sardaukar.

 

He checked his records, memorizing the passwords and override commands he had hoarded for years.  His identity cards and signal jammers should be sufficient to get him past any scrutiny.  Even there.

 

Taking on a hauteur to complete his masquerade, he emerged from his hidden chamber into the expansive grotto.  He strode to the front of a crowd and stepped aboard a linked transport.  After slipping his card through the scanner port, he punched in the location for the sealed research pavilion.

 

The private bubble closed around him and detached itself from the rest of the transport system.  The vessel cruised in midair above the crisscrossed paths of surveillance pods.  None of the transeyes turned toward him.  The transport bubble recognized his right to travel to the laboratory complex.  No alarms were raised.  No one paid attention to him.

 

Below, workers moved about in their labors, guarded by an increasing number of Sardaukar.  They did not bother to look up at the vessels drifting across the enclosed grotto sky.

 

One step at a time, C'tair passed through successive guarded gates and security fields, and finally into the hivelike industrial mass.  The windows were sealed, the corridors glowing with an orange-tinged light.  The stuffy air was warm and humid, with a putrid undertone of rotting flesh and unpleasant human residue.

 

Huddled in his disguise, he walked along, trying to conceal the fact he was lost and uncertain of his destination.  C'tair didn't know where the answers might lie, but he dared not hesitate or look confused.   He didn't want anyone to take notice of him.

 

Robed Tleilaxu moved from chamber to chamber, absorbed in their work.  They pulled hoods over their ears and heads, so C'tair did the same, glad for the added camouflage.  He withdrew a sheaf of ridulian-crystal reports written in a strange code that he could not decipher, and pretended to study them.

 

He turned down corridors at random, changing course whenever he heard other people approaching.  Several gnomish men marched past him, speaking to each other in heated voices in their private Tleilaxu language, gesturing with long-fingered hands.  They paid no attention to C'tair.

 

He located biological laboratories, research facilities with plazchrome-plated tables and surgical scanners -- visible through open doorways that seemed to be protected by special scanning devices that he didn't want to try to penetrate.  Nothing, however, provided him with the answers he needed.  Breathing hard and sweating with tension, he followed main corridors that led toward the heart of the research pavilion.

 

Finally, C'tair found a higher level, an open-windowed observation gallery.  The corridor behind him was empty.  The air smelled metallic with chemicals and disinfectants, a scrubbed, sterile environment.

 

And a faint but distinct odor reminiscent of cinnamon.

 

He peered through the broad window into the huge central gallery of the laboratory complex.  The vast chamber was large enough to be a spacecraft hangar, holding tables and coffin-sized containers . . . row upon row of "specimens."  He stared in horror at the pipes and sample tubes, at all the bodies.  All the women.

 

Even knowing how vile the Tleilaxu were, never before had he imagined such a nightmarish reality.  The shock dried his unshed tears to a stinging acid.  His mouth opened and closed, but he could form no words.  He wanted to vomit.

 

In the gigantic complex below he saw at last what the Tleilaxu criminals were actually doing to the women of Ix.  And one of them, barely recognizable, was Miral Alechem!

 

Staggering with revulsion, he tore himself away.  He had to escape.  The sheer weight of what he'd seen threatened to crush him.  It was impossible, impossible, impossible!  His stomach knotted, threatening to double him over -- yet he dared not show any weakness.

 

Unexpectedly, a guard and two Tleilaxu researchers rounded the corner and came toward him.  One of the researchers said something in an unrecognizable guttural language.  C'tair didn't respond.  He staggered away.

 

Alarmed, the guard shouted after him.  C'tair stumbled down a side corridor.  He heard an outcry, and his need for survival burned away his stunned malaise.  After penetrating this far, he had to get out.  No other outsider suspected what he had now seen with his own eyes.

 

The truth was far worse than anything he could have imagined.

 

Bewildered and desperate, C'tair worked his way back to the lower levels, aiming for the external security grids.  Behind him, guards rushed toward the observation galleries he had just left behind, but the Tleilaxu had not yet sounded an all-out alarm.  Perhaps they didn't want to disrupt their daily routine . . . or maybe they simply couldn't believe that one of the foolish Ixian slaves had managed to penetrate their tightest security.

 

The research pavilion wing he had destroyed with wafer-bombs three years ago had been entirely rebuilt, but the self-guiding supply rail had been moved to a different portal.  He raced over there, hoping to slip through lighter security.

 

Summoning a transport bubble, he climbed inside, using his stolen identity card and brusquely dismissing one of the guards who tried to question him.  Then C'tair drifted away from the security installation toward the nearest work complex, where he could shuck his disguise and melt in among the other laborers again.

 

Before long, he heard a strident alarm raised behind him, but by now he had escaped the compound and the Tleilaxu secret police.  He alone carried a hint of what the invaders were actually doing, why they had come to Ix.

 

The knowledge did not comfort him, though.  Now he felt a despair deeper than any he had experienced since beginning his fight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Treachery and quick-thinking will defeat hard-and-fast rules any day.  Why should we be afraid to seize the opportunities we see?

 

-VISCOUNT HUNDRO MORITANI, Response to Landsraad Court Summons

 

 

 

ON THE HEAVING DECK of the unmarked boat, a wild-eyed giant gazed down on his captives.  "Look at the would-be Swordmasters!"  He laughed hard enough that they could smell his reeking breath.  "Weaklings and cowards, pampered by rules.  Against a few stunsticks and a squad of half-trained soldiers, what good are you?"

 

Duncan stood on deck next to Hiih Resser and four other Ginaz students, nursing cuts and bruises, not to mention skull-splitting hangovers.  They had been released from their shigawire bindings, but a squad of heavily armed soldiers in yellow Moritani livery waited nearby, holding an assortment of weapons.  Overhead, the knotted gray sky brought darkness a full hour before its time.

 

The deck of the dark boat was wide and clear, like a practice floor, but slick with spray from drizzle and whitecaps that washed over the rails.  The Swordmaster trainees kept their balance, as if this were just another exercise, while their Grumman captors held on to stay-ropes and support rails; some of them looked a bit seasick.  Duncan, though, had lived for a dozen years on Caladan, and he felt completely comfortable on a boat.  Loose equipment had been tied down in the rough seas.  He saw nothing nearby that could provide a weapon for the prisoners.

 

The ominous boat headed out through the channels of the archipelago.  Duncan wondered how even Grummans dared to do such a thing.  But House Moritani had already flouted the rules of kanly and launched inexcusably vicious attacks on Ecaz.  After the Ginaz School had expelled the Grumman students in disgrace, no doubt their anger had been stoked.  As the only one to remain behind, Hiih Resser would face worse treatment than any of his companions.  Looking at the redhead's bruised and swollen face, Duncan could see that Resser understood as much.

 

Standing before them, the huge man had a braided black beard from cheekbones to chin, dark hair that cascaded over broad shoulders.  Teardrop fire-jewels dangled from his ears.  Entwined into his beard were bright green extrusions like small branches; the ends were lit in slow-burning embers so that foul gray smoke curled around his face.  Two shiny maula pistols were tucked into his waistband.  He had identified himself only as Grieu.

 

"What good has all this uppity training done for you?  You get drunk, you get complacent, and you stop being supermen.  I'm glad my son pulled out early, without wasting any more time."

 

Another wiry young man in a yellow Moritani tunic stepped out of the main cabins.  With a sinking heart, Duncan recognized Trin Kronos as he took his place beside the black-bearded man.  "We came back to help you celebrate the completion of your training, and to show you that not everyone needs eight years to become adept at fighting."

 

With his beard smoldering, Grieu said, "So, let's see how well you fight.  My people need a little practice."

 

The Moritani-uniformed men and women moved with an animal grace.  They carried swords, knives, spears, crossbows, even pistols.  Some wore martial-arts outfits, others wore the more fanciful garb of Terran musketeers or swashbuckling pirates, as if in mockery of the Ginaz training islands.  As another joke, they tossed two blunt wooden swords to the captives; Resser caught one, and Klaen, a musically inclined student from Chusuk, caught the other.  The toys were laughably inadequate against maula pistols, flechette guns, and arrows.

 

At a signal from the hirsute Grieu, Trin Kronos stepped in front of the battered Ginaz students and raked his deprecating gaze over them.  He paused in front of Resser, then Duncan, and finally moved on to the next student, Iss Opru, a dark-skinned native of Al Dhanab.  "This one first.  As a warmup."

 

Grieu grunted in approval.  Kronos shoved Opru out of line, to the center of the deck.  The other fighters stood tense and waiting.

 

"Get me a sword," Kronos said, without looking over his shoulder.  His eyes remained locked with Opru's.  Duncan saw that the student had automatically crouched in a perfect fighting stance, ready to react.  The Grummans clearly felt they had all the advantages.

 

Once he held the long blade, Trin Kronos provoked the dark-skinned captive, waving its sharp point in his face, swishing it expertly across the top of his head so that hairs were sliced away.  "What are you going to do about this, sword-boy?  I've got a weapon, and you don't."

 

Opru did not flinch. "I am a weapon."

 

As Kronos continued to advance and taunt, Opru suddenly ducked under the blade and chopped the edge of his hand against his opponent's wrist; the sneering young man cried out and dropped his weapon.  With a fluid motion, Opru snatched the pommel before the sword hit the floor, rolled away, and sprang to his feet.

 

"Bravo," the giant said, while Kronos howled and nursed his wrist.  "Son, you've got a lot to learn."  Grieu shoved the young man away.  "Stay back so you don't get hurt even more."

 

Opru clutched his stolen sword, knees bent, ready to fight.  Duncan tensed, with Resser beside him, waiting to see how this game would play out.  The other captives coiled, ready to attack.

 

Opru circled at the center of the deck, keeping the blade pointed, weaving, ready to strike.  He stayed on his toes, kept his gaze moving, intent on the black-bearded giant.

 

"Isn't that pretty?"  Grieu strode around to get a better view.  Acrid smoke twined around his face from the embers in his beard.  "Look at his perfect form, right out of a textbook.  You dropouts should have stayed in school, and then you might have looked good, too."

 

With his uninjured arm, Trin Kronos yanked one of the maula pistols from his father's belt.  "Why prefer form over substance?"  He pointed the pistol.  "I prefer to win."  And fired.

 

In an instant of shock, the captives understood that they would all be executed.  Without hesitation, before Iss Opru's body had crumpled to the wet deck, the Swordmaster trainees launched into an all-out offensive with violent, sudden abandon.  Two of the smug Grummans died from broken necks before they even realized the captives had begun to attack.

 

Resser rolled to his right, and a wild projectile hit the deck and ricocheted off into the swollen waves.  Duncan dove in the opposite direction as the Moritani soldiers hauled out all their weapons.

 

The mob of Grumman fighters closed in behind the giant Grieu, then fanned out around the remaining captives.  Individuals broke off from the swarm to attack the students at the center and then retreated under a hail of defensive blows and spinning kicks.

 

The giant whistled in mock appreciation.  "Now that is style."

 

Klaen, the Chusuk student, ran forward with a bloodcurdling yell, launching himself at the nearest of the two men holding cocked crossbows.  He held up the wooden blade to catch two crossbow quarrels and then slashed sideways, gouging out the eyes of an enemy who did not back away quickly enough; the blinded Grumman fell screaming to the deck.  Behind Klaen, a second student -- Hiddi Aran of Balut -- shadowed him, using the Chusuk man as a shield in a repeat of an exercise they had run a year before.  This time Klaen knew he would be sacrificed.

 

Both men with crossbows fired their quarrels over and over again.  Seven bolts skewered Klaen's shoulders, chest, stomach, and neck.  But still his momentum drove him forward, and as he collapsed, Hiddi Aran leaped over his falling comrade and slammed his body into the nearest crossbow archer.  With a speed that broke bones, he tore the crossbow out of the hands of his attacker.  One quarrel remained in the bow, and he spun in a fluid motion to shoot the second archer through the hollow of his throat.

 

He dropped the now-empty crossbow and snatched the second one out of the dying archer's hands before it could strike the deck -- only to face an explosion of fire as the big, bearded Grieu drew his second maula pistol and placed a projectile through the middle of the Balut student's forehead.

 

Gunfire erupted all around them, and Grieu bellowed in a voice like an avalanche, "Don't shoot each other, idiots!"  The command came too late:  one Grumman fell with a projectile in his chest.

 

Before Hiddi Aran had stopped moving, Duncan dove across the slippery deck to the Chusuk student's arrow-studded body, yanked one of the crossbow bolts out of the corpse's chest, and lunged toward the nearest Moritani.  The enemy swung a long sword at him, but in a fraction of a second, Duncan was through his guard, rising up to drive the already-bloody shaft under the enemy's chin and up through the soft palate.  Sensing movement, he grabbed the convulsing man around the chest and spun him so that his back absorbed the impact of three shots fired at Duncan.

 

With only his dull wooden sword, Hiih Resser yowled an intimidating scream and flailed with the blade.  Using wiry, powerful muscles, he smacked the nearest Grumman on the head so hard he heard the skull crack even as his wooden blade shivered into long, sharp splinters.  As the Grumman sagged, Resser spun about to jam the splintered end of the toy sword into the eye of another attacker, through the thin bone into the man's brain.

 

The remaining student -- Wod Sedir, nephew of the King of Niushe -- delivered a sharp kick to send a smoking maula pistol up into the air.  His opponent had fired it repeatedly, but missed his weaving target.  Wod Sedir followed through with his heel under the Grumman's jaw, shattering his neck, then grabbed the pistol as it fell and turned toward the other Grummans -- but the pistol clicked on an empty charge.  Within seconds, he became a pincushion of flechette needles.

 

"Goes to show you," Grieu Kronos said, "the gunman beats the swordsman every time."

 

After less than thirty seconds, Duncan and Resser found themselves side by side, at the edge of the boat.  The only ones left.

 

The Moritani murderers closed in on the survivors, brandishing an arsenal of weapons.  They hesitated, looked to their leader for direction.

 

"How well can you swim, Resser?"  Duncan asked, looking over his shoulder at the heaving swells of dark water.

 

"Better than I can drown," the redhead said.  He saw the men draw their projectile pistols, weighed the possibility of being able to grab one of the enemy and drag the man over the side of the boat.  But he dismissed it as impossible.

 

From a safe distance, the Grummans took aim.  With a sudden movement of his arm, Duncan knocked Resser back into the railing and lunged after him.  Both of them tumbled overboard into the churning sea, far from any visible land, just as the gunfire rang out.  Needle flechettes and blundering maula projectiles blasted the side of the boat, sending up a shower of splinters.  In the water, silver needles hissed and stung like a swarm of wasps, but both young men had already plunged deep, far out of sight.

 

The armed attackers rushed to the ruined side of the boat and stared over into the roiling sea.  But they spotted nothing.  The undertow must have been horrific.

 

"Those two are lost," Trin Kronos said with a scowl, nursing his wrist.

 

"Aye," the big, bearded Grieu answered.  "We'll have to dump the bodies of the others where they'll be found."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All technology is suspect, and must be considered potentially dangerous.

 

-BUTLERIAN JIHAD, Handbook for Our Grandchildren

 

 

WHEN THE TERRIBLE NEWS reached the smuggler base on Salusa Secundus, Gurney Halleck had spent the day alone outside the ruined prison city.  Working on a ballad about this desolate planet, he sat atop the remains of an ancient wall, strumming on his baliset.  Bricks around him had melted into glassy curves from an ancient wave of atomic heat.

 

He gazed across a rise, imagining the lavish Imperial structure that might have stood here long ago.  His rough but powerful voice drifted beyond the scrub brush and dry land to the accompaniment of the baliset.  He paused to shift to a minor key for the mood it imparted . . . and then tried again.

 

The sickly-colored clouds and the hazy air put him in the proper frame of mind.  For his melancholy music he'd actually been thankful for the weather, though the remaining men in the underground fortress grumbled about the capricious storms.

 

This hellhole was better than the slave pits of Giedi Prime any day.

 

A gray ornithopter approached from the south, an unmarked craft that belonged to the smugglers, beating its wings through the sluggish sky.  Gurney watched out of the corner of his eye as it landed on a salt pan beyond the ancient ruins.

 

He concentrated on the images he wanted to evoke in his ballad, the pomp and ceremony of the royal court, the exotic peoples who had journeyed here from distant planets, the finery of their raiment and manners.  All gone now.  Focusing his thoughts inward, he rubbed the inkvine scar on his jaw.  Echoes of bygone times began to tint the perpetual dreariness of Salusa with their glorious colors.

 

He heard distant shouts and saw a man running up the slope toward him. It was Bork Qazon, the camp cook, waving his arms and yelling.  Streaks of food covered the front of his apron.  "Gurney!  Dominic is dead!"

 

Stunned, he swung his baliset over his shoulder and dropped to the ground.  Gurney swayed on his feet as Qazon told him the tragic news that had been brought in by 'thopter -- that Dominic Vernius and all of their comrades had died in an atomic incident on Arrakis, apparently while under attack by Sardaukar.

 

Gurney couldn't believe it.  "The Sardaukar . . . used atomics?"

 

Once word got back to Kaitain, Imperial Couriers would spread the news as Shaddam wanted it remembered.  The Emperor would write his own distorted history, falsely painting Dominic as a heinous criminal who had been at large for decades.

 

The cook shook his head, his eyes red, his wide mouth slack.  "My guess is Dom did it himself.  He'd planned to use the family stockpile in a suicide attack on Kaitain."

 

"That's crazy."

 

"He was desperate."

 

"Atomics -- against the Emperor's Sardaukar."  Gurney shook his head, then knew he had decisions to make.  "I have a feeling this isn't over, Qazon.  We need to clear this camp out, fast.  We've got to disperse.  They'll be after all of us now, with a vengeance."

THE NEWS OF THEIR LEADER'S DEATH hit the men hard.  Just as this wounded world could never regain its past glory, neither could the remnants of the smuggler band.  The men could not continue without Dominic.  The renegade Earl had been their driving force.

 

As darkness fell, they sat around a strategy table discussing where they would go next.  Several suggested Gurney Halleck as their new leader, now that Dominic, Johdam, and Asuyo were all dead.

 

"It's not safe to remain here," said Qazon.  "We don't know what the Imperials have learned about our operations.  What if they took prisoners and interrogated them?"

 

"We've got to set up a new base to continue our work," another man said.

 

"What work?" asked one of the oldest veterans.  "We banded together because Dom called us.  We've lived together for him.  And he's not here anymore."

 

While the smugglers debated, Gurney's thoughts drifted to the children of their fallen leader, who lived as guests of House Atreides.  When he smiled, the inkvine scar wrinkled with a flare of residual pain.  He put it out of his mind and instead thought of the irony:  the Atreides Duke had also unknowingly rescued him from the Harkonnen slave pit, by ordering a shipment of blue obsidian at exactly the right time. . . .

 

He made up his mind.  "I'll not be joining any of you at a new base.  No, I'm bound for Caladan.  I intend to offer my services to Duke Leto Atreides.  That's where Rhombur and Kailea Vernius are."

 

"You're crazy, Halleck," slope-shouldered Scien Traf said, chewing on a splinter of resinous wood.  "Dom insisted that we stay away from his children, so as not to put them in danger."

 

"The danger died with him," Gurney said.  "It's been twenty years since the family went renegade."  He narrowed his blue eyes.  "Depending on how fast the Emperor moves, perhaps I can get to those two children before they hear the tainted version of events.  Dominic's heirs need to know what really happened to their father, not the garbage the official Couriers will report."

 

"They're not children," Bork Qazon pointed out.  "Rhombur's in his mid-thirties now."

 

"Aye," Pen Barlow agreed.  He took a deep puff on his cigar, exhaled dark smoke.  "I remember when they were knee-high to a chairdog, little urchins running around the Grand Palais."

 

Gurney stood up and rested his baliset on his shoulder.  "I'll go to Caladan and explain everything."  He nodded to all of them.  "Some of you will want to continue the trade, no doubt.  Take the remainder of the equipment with my blessing.  I . . . I don't want to be a smuggler any longer."

 

 

ARRIVING AT THE CALA MUNICIPAL SPACEPORT, Gurney Halleck carried only a single bag with a few changes of clothes, a wrapped bundle of Solari coins -- his share of the smuggling profits - and his beloved baliset.  He also brought news and remembrances of Dominic Vernius -- enough, he hoped, to gain entrance to the ducal Castle.

 

During the foldspace journey he'd drunk too much and gambled in the Heighliner casino decks, pampered by Wayku attendants.  He'd met an attractive woman from Poritrin, who thought Gurney's songs and good humor more than made up for his scarred face.  She stayed with him for several days until the Heighliner went into orbit over Caladan.  Finally, he had kissed her goodbye and marched off for the shuttle.

 

On cool, moist Caladan he spent his money quickly to make himself presentable.  Without land or family, he'd never had anything to save it for.  "Money was invented to spend," he always said.  It would have been a foreign concept to his parents.

 

After passing through a series of security checkpoints, Gurney at last stood in the Castle's reception hall, watching as a stocky man and a beautiful young woman with copper-dark hair approached him.  He could see traces of Dominic in their features.  "You are Rhombur and Kailea Vernius?"

 

"We are."  The man had tousled blond hair and a broad face.

 

"The guards said you know our father?" Kailea asked.  "Where has he been all these years?  Why didn't he ever send us a message?"

 

Gurney gripped his baliset, as if it gave him strength.  "He was killed on Arrakis in a Sardaukar attack.  Dominic ran a smuggler base there, and another on Salusa Secundus."  He fidgeted, accidentally strummed a single chord, then nervously thumbed another one.

 

Rhombur slumped into a chair, almost missed the seat, then caught his balance.  Staring straight ahead, blinking and blinking, he reached out with his hand, fumbling to find Kailea's.  She grasped his.

 

Uncomfortable, Gurney continued, "I worked for your father, and . . . and now I have no place else to go.  I thought I should come to you and explain where he's been these past two decades, what he's done -- and why he had to stay away.  He thought only of protecting you."

 

Tears streamed down the faces of the Vernius children.  After the murder of their mother, years ago, the news fit an all-too-familiar pattern.  Rhombur opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out, and he closed it again.

 

"I'll place my skills with a blade against any man in the Atreides House Guard," Gurney said.  "You have powerful enemies out there, but I won't let you come to harm.  It's what Dominic would have wanted."

 

"Please be more specific."  Another man emerged from a side entrance on Gurney's right, tall and lean, with dark hair and gray eyes.

 

He wore a black military jacket with a red hawk crest on the lapel.  "We want the full story, no matter how painful it is."

 

"Gurney Halleck, this is Duke Leto Atreides," Rhombur said dully, after wiping the tears from his eyes.  "He knew my father, too."

 

Leto received a hesitant handshake from the scarred, sullen-looking visitor.  "I'm sorry to bring such terrible tidings," Gurney said.  He gazed at Rhombur and Kailea.  "Recently, Dominic infiltrated Ix again, after receiving some disturbing news.  And what he witnessed there . . . horrified him so much that he came back a broken man."

 

"There were many ways to get back in," Rhombur said.  "Emergency access points that only the Vernius family knew.  I remember them myself."  He turned back to Gurney.  "But what was he trying to do?"

 

"As near as I can tell, he was making preparations to attack Kaitain with the Vernius family atomics.  But the Emperor's Sardaukar learned of the plan, and they ambushed our base first.  Dominic set off a stone burner and destroyed them all."

 

"Our father's been alive all this time," Rhombur said, then looked at Leto.  His gaze searched the arched entrances, the long Castle halls, as if he hoped to see Tessia.  "He's been alive, but he never told us.  I wish I could have fought at his side, just once.  I should have been there."

 

"Prince Rhombur -- if I may call you that," Gurney said, "everyone who was there is now dead."

 

 

THE SAME TRANSPORT that delivered Gurney Halleck also brought a formal diplomatic Courier from Archduke Armand Ecaz.  The woman had close-cropped maroon hair and wore the respected, age-old uniform trimmed with braids and decked with dozens of pockets.

 

She tracked down Leto where he stood in the banquet hall, chatting with some of the household staff who polished the expensive wall of blue obsidian to a warm luster.  Thanks to Gurney Halleck, Leto now knew the blue obsidian came not from Hagal, but from Harkonnen slave pits.  Even so, Gurney had asked him not to tear it down.

 

Leto turned and greeted the Courier, but in a brisk series of businesslike moves, she presented identification, delivered a sealed message cylinder, then waited while the Duke processed a thumbprint receipt.  She spoke very little.

 

Fearing more bad news -- when had a Courier brought anything else? -- both Thufir Hawat and Rhombur came into Leto's presence from opposite doorways.  Leto met their questioning looks with the unopened cylinder.

 

Duke Leto yanked out one of the heavy side chairs from the dining table, scraping the feet across the stone floor.  Workers continued to polish the obsidian wall.  With a sigh, Leto slumped into the seat and cracked open the cylinder.  His gray eyes scanned the words while the Prince and the Mentat waited in silence.

 

Finished, Leto looked up at the portrait of the Old Duke hanging on one wall, facing the stuffed head of the Salusan bull that had killed him in the Plaza de Toros.  "Well, this is something to consider."  He did not explain further, as if he'd rather have advice from long-dead Paulus.

 

Rhombur fidgeted.  "What is it, Leto?"  His eyes were still red around the edges.

 

Setting the cylinder on the table, the Duke caught it before it could roll off.  "House Ecaz has formally suggested a marriage alliance with Atreides.  Archduke Armand offers the hand of his second daughter Ilesa."  He tapped the cylinder with the finger that bore the ducal signet ring.  The Archduke's eldest daughter had been killed by Moritani's Grummans.  "He's also included a list of Ecazi assets and a suggested dowry."

 

"But no image of the daughter," Rhombur said.

 

"I've already seen her.  Ilesa is beautiful enough."  He spoke in a distracted tone, as if such matters would not affect his decision.

 

Two of the household servants paused in their polishing, astonished to hear the news, then returned to their labors with increased vigor.

 

Hawat's brow furrowed.  "No doubt the Archduke is also concerned about the renewed hostilities.  An Atreides alliance would make Ecaz far less vulnerable to Moritani aggression.  The Viscount would think twice about sending in Grumman troops."

 

Rhombur shook his head.  "Uh, I told you the Emperor's simple fix would never solve the problem between those two Houses."

 

Leto stared off into the distance, his thoughts spinning.  "Nobody ever disagreed with you, Rhombur.  At the moment, though, I think the Grummans are more upset with the Ginaz School.  Last I heard, the academy publicly provoked Viscount Moritani in the Landsraad by calling him a coward and a mad dog."

 

Hawat looked grave.  "My Duke, shouldn't we distance ourselves from this?  The dispute has gone on for years -- who knows what they will do next?"

 

"We're too far in it, Thufir, not just by our friendship with Ecaz, but now Ginaz as well.  I can no longer remain neutral.  Having examined records of the Grumman atrocities, I've added my voice to a Landsraad vote calling for censure."  He allowed himself a personal smile.  "Besides, I was thinking of Duncan at the time."

 

"We must study the marriage offer carefully," the Mentat said.

 

"My sister's not going to like this," Rhombur muttered.

 

Leto sighed.  "Kailea hasn't liked anything I've done for years.  I am Duke.  I must think about what's best for House Atreides."

 

 

LETO INVITED GURNEY HALLECK to dine with them that evening.

 

For hours in the afternoon, the brash smuggler refugee had challenged and brawled with several of the best Atreides fighters -- and had actually beaten most of them.

 

Now, in the quieter hours, Gurney proved to be a master storyteller, reciting tale after tale of Dominic Vernius's exploits to eager listeners.  At the long table in the banquet hall, he was seated between the mounted Salusan bull's-head and the painting of the Old Duke dressed as a matador.

 

In a somber voice, the scarred smuggler told of his bone-deep hatred of the Harkonnens.  He even talked again about the shipment of blue obsidian, some of which adorned the banquet hall, that had allowed him to escape from the slave pits.

 

Later, in another demonstration of his swordsmanship, Gurney used one of the Old Duke's swords against an imaginary opponent.  He had little finesse, but considerable energy and remarkable accuracy.

 

Nodding to himself, Leto glanced at Thufir Hawat, who pursed his lips in approval.  "Gurney Halleck," Leto said, "if you would like to remain here with the Atreides House Guard, I would be honored to have you."

 

"Pending a thorough background check, of course," Hawat added.

 

"Our weapons master, Duncan Idaho, is away at school on Ginaz, though we expect him back soon.  You can assist in some of his duties."

 

"Training to be a Swordmaster?  I wouldn't want to intrude on his job."  Gurney grinned, rippling the inkvine scar on his jaw.  He extended a beefy hand toward Leto.  "For the sake of my memories of Dominic, I would like to serve here, by the children of Vernius."

 

Rhombur and Leto each gripped his hand, welcoming Gurney Halleck to House Atreides.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The seats of power inevitably try to harness any new knowledge to their own desires.  But knowledge can have no fixed desires -- neither in the past nor in the future.

 

-DMITRI HARKONNEN, Lessons for My Sons

 

 

BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN had made a lifetime career of seeking new experiences.  He dabbled in hedonistic pleasures -- rich foods, exotic drugs, deviant sex -- discovering things he had never done before.

 

But a baby in Harkonnen Keep . . . how would he handle that?

 

Other Houses of the Landsraad adored children.  A generation ago, Count Ilban Richese had married an Imperial daughter and spawned eleven offspring.  Eleven!  The Baron had heard insipid songs and heartwarming tales that fostered a false impression of the joy of laughing children.  He had trouble understanding it, but out of duty for his House, for the future of all Harkonnen businesses, he vowed to do his best.  He would be a role model for young Feyd-Rautha.

 

Barely over a year old, the boy had grown too confident in his walking skills, stumbling across rooms, running long before he had total balance, resilient enough to keep going even when he bumped into something.  Bright-eyed Feyd had an insatiable curiosity, and he pried into every storage area, every cabinet.  He picked up any movable object and usually stuck it in his mouth.  The baby startled easily and cried incessantly.

 

Sometimes the Baron snapped at him, trying to get some sort of response other than gurgling nonsensical words.  It was no use.

 

After breakfast one day he took the child out onto the high balcony of a tall turret of Harkonnen Keep.  Little Feyd looked across the crowded industrial city to see the ruddy morning sun through a haze of smoke.  Beyond the boundaries of Harko City, mining and agricultural villages produced raw material to keep Giedi Prime functioning.  But the populace remained unruly, and the Baron had to exercise tight control, making examples, providing the necessary discipline to keep them in their place.

 

As the Baron let his thoughts ramble, his attention drifted from the child.  Surprisingly fast, Feyd charged with his tiptoe-stumble gait to the edge of the balcony, where he leaned between the rails.  The Baron, spluttering in indignant shock, lurched forward.  Light yet clumsy under the motivation of his suspensor belt, he snatched the child just before Feyd leaned too far over the deep, deep drop.

 

He snarled obscenities at the toddler, holding him at eye level.  "How can you do such a foolish thing, idiot child?  Don't you understand the consequences?  If you fall, you'd be nothing more than a smear on the streets below!"

 

All that carefully cultivated Harkonnen blood wasted . . .

 

Feyd-Rautha looked at him wide-eyed, then made a rude sound.

 

The Baron hustled the boy back inside.  As a safety measure, he removed one of the suspensor globes from his own belt and attached it to the child's back.  Though he now walked with a little more difficulty, feeling the strain on his degenerating muscles and heavy arms and legs, at least Feyd was under control.  Bobbing along half a meter in the air, the child seemed to find it amusing.

 

"Come with me, Feyd," the Baron said.  "I want to show you the animals.  You'll enjoy them."

 

Feyd drifted along in tow as his uncle plodded, panting and wheezing, through the corridors and down flights of stairs until he reached the arena level.  The baby giggled and laughed while he floated along.  The Baron nudged his shoulders every few minutes to keep him moving.  Feyd's pudgy little arms and legs waved about as if he were swimming in the air.

 

In the cage levels surrounding the gladiator arena, Baron Harkonnen lugged the child through low tunnels with sloping ceilings made out of wattle and daub, a primitive stick-and-mud construction that gave the place the feel of an animal's lair.  A rich, moist odor of wildness filled the enclosed tunnels.  Barred chambers held rotten hay and manure from creatures bred and trained to fight against the Baron's chosen victims.  The roars and snarls of tortured animals echoed off the walls.  Claws scraped on stone floors.  Enraged beasts crashed against the bars.

 

The Baron smiled.  It was good to keep predators on edge.

 

The beasts were a delight to watch; with their teeth, horns, and claws they could tear a man to bloody shreds.  Still, the most interesting battles took place between human opponents, professional soldiers against desperate slaves who had been promised freedom, though none ever received it.  Any slave who fought well enough to defeat a trained Harkonnen killer was worth keeping around to fight again and again.

 

As he continued through the dim tunnels, the Baron looked down at the fascinated face of little Feyd.  In the child he saw a future full of possibilities, another heir to House Harkonnen who might outperform his blockheaded brother Rabban.  That one, while strong and vicious, didn't have the devious mind the Baron preferred.

 

His burly nephew was still useful, though.  In fact, Rabban had performed many brutal tasks that even the Baron found distasteful.  Too often, though, he acted like little more than a . . . muscle-minded tank-brain.

 

The motley pair stopped at one cage, where a Laza tiger prowled back and forth, its feline pupils narrowed to slits, its triangular nose flaring as it smelled tender flesh and warm blood.  These hungry beasts had been favorites in gladiatorial combat for centuries.  The tiger was a mass of muscle, every fiber filled with killing energy.  Its keepers fed it just enough to maintain its peak strength . . . keeping the tiger ready to feast on the torn flesh of fresh victims.

 

Suddenly, the beast crashed into the bars of the cage, its dark lips curled and long fangs bared.  The abused tiger hurled itself at the barrier again, reaching out a paw filled with saber claws.

 

Startled, the Baron backed away and yanked Feyd with him.  The child, bobbing on his suspensor globe, continued to drift backward until he struck the wall, which startled him more than the roaring predator itself.  Feyd wailed with such exuberance that his face turned purple from the effort.

 

The Baron grasped the child's shoulders.  "There, there," he said in a brusque but soothing tone.  "Be quiet now.  It's all right."  But Feyd continued to shriek, enraging his uncle.  "Be quiet, I said!  There's nothing to cry about."

 

The baby felt otherwise and continued his loud crying.

 

The tiger roared and threw himself against the bars, slashing the air.

 

"Silence, I command!"  The Baron didn't know what to do.  He'd never been instructed in how to handle babies.  "Oh, stop it!"  But Feyd only cried louder.

 

Oddly, he thought of the two daughters he had sired with the Bene Gesserit witch Mohiam.  During his disastrous confrontation with the witches on Wallach IX, seven years ago now, he had demanded to have his children returned, but now he realized how much of a blessing it was that the Reverend Mothers had raised these . . . immature creatures themselves.

 

"Piter!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, then strode to a companel on the wall.  He hammered it with his bloated fist.  "Piter de Vries!  Where's my Mentat?"

 

He shouted until the thin nasal voice of the Mentat responded through the speaker.  "I am coming, my Baron."

 

Feyd continued to cry.  When the Baron grasped him again, he found that the baby had filled and soaked his diapers.  "Piter!"

 

Moments later the Mentat scuttled into the tunnels.  He must have been close, shadowing the Baron as he always did.  "Yes, my Baron?"

 

As the child wailed without pause for breath, the Baron thrust Feyd into the arms of de Vries.  "You take care of him.  Make him stop crying."

 

Taken completely unawares, the Mentat blinked his feral eyes at the littlest Harkonnen.  "But my Baron, I --"

 

"Do as I command!  You're my Mentat.  You're supposed to know anything I ask you to know."  The Baron clenched his jowly jaw and suppressed an amused smile at de Vries's discomfiture.

 

The Mentat held the smelly Feyd-Rautha at arm's length, grasping the squirming child as if he were some strange specimen.  The expression on the thin man's face was worth all of the distress he had just gone through.

 

"Don't fail me, Piter."  The Baron strode away, his gait dragging a bit from the loss of one suspensor globe.

 

Behind him in the animal tunnels, Piter de Vries held the howling infant with no clue as to how he should proceed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The haughty do but build castle walls behind which they try to hide their doubts and fears.

 

-Bene Gesserit Axiom

 

 

WITHIN HER PRIVATE CHAMBERS in Castle Caladan, out of Leto's view, Kailea mourned the death of her father.  Standing at a narrow turret window, she placed her fingers against the cold stone sill and stared out at the gray, churning sea.

 

Dominic Vernius had been an enigma to her, a brave and intelligent leader who had gone into hiding for twenty years.  Had he run from rebellion, left his wife to be killed by assassins, surrendered the birthright of his children?  Or had he been working behind the scenes all these years in a fruitless attempt to restore House Vernius to power?  And now he was dead.  Her father.  Such a vibrant, strong man.  So difficult to believe.  With a sinking feeling, Kailea knew she could never go back to Ix, never regain what was rightfully hers.

 

And in the midst of this, Leto was considering marriage to yet another Ecaz daughter, a younger sister of the one who'd been kidnapped and murdered by Grummans.  Leto wouldn't answer any questions Kailea put to him about this.  It was "a matter of state," he'd told her the night before in an arrogant tone -- not a matter to be discussed with a mere concubine.

 

I have been his lover for more than six years.  I am the mother of his son -- the only one who deserves to be his wife.

 

Her heart had become an empty place inside of her, a gnawing black cavity that left her with nothing but despair and shattered dreams.  Would it never end?  After the elder Ecaz daughter had been murdered, Kailea had hoped that Leto might turn to her at long last.  But he still harbored dreams of a marital alliance that would strengthen the political, military, and economic power of House Atreides.

 

Far below, the black cliffs were wet from mist hurled high by the breakers.  Seabirds soared, sweeping insects from the air and plunging in pursuit of fish just beneath the waves.  Green discolorations of algae and seaweed clung to notches in the rock; the broken reefs at the shore made the waters foam like a boiling cauldron.

 

My life is cursed, Kailea thought.  Everything that is mine has been stolen from me.

 

She turned as matronly Chiara entered her private apartments without knocking.  Kailea heard the rattle of cups and containers on an ornate tray, smelled the spice-laced coffee the old woman had brewed for her.  The lady-in-waiting still moved with a muscular speed and agility that belied her withered appearance.  Chiara set the tray down, trying to muffle the clatter, then picked up the fluted coffeepot and poured a rich brown stream into two cups.  She added sugar to her own, cream to Kailea's.

 

Her heart still heavy, the Ixian Princess took the proffered cup from the woman and drew a delicate sip, trying not to show too much enjoyment.  Chiara drank deeply and sat down in one of the chairs, as if she were the equal of the Duke's first concubine.

 

Kailea's nostrils flared.  "You take too many liberties, Chiara."

 

The lady-in-waiting looked across the edge of her cup at the young woman who should have been a prime marriage prospect to any Great House.  "Do you prefer a companion, Lady Kailea, or a mechanical servant?  I have always been your friend and confidante.  Perhaps you miss the self-motivated meks you once had at your disposal on Ix?"

 

"Don't presume to tell me my wishes," Kailea said in a bleak voice.  "I am grieving for a great man who has died by Imperial treachery."

 

Chiara's eyes glittered as she pounced.  "Yes, and your mother was slain by them as well.  You can't count on your brother to do anything but talk -- he'll never get back your birthright.  You, Kailea" -- the matronly woman pointed a big-knuckled finger -- "you are what remains of House Vernius, the heart and soul of your great family."

 

"Don't you think I know that?"  Kailea turned around again to look out the Castle window.  She could not face the old woman, could not face anyone or anything, not even her own fears.

 

If Leto marries that Archduke's daughter . . . Angrily, she shook her head.  It would be worse than having that whore Jessica in the Castle.

 

The Caladan sea stretched beyond the horizon, and the skies were veiled with clouds that portended only winter gloom.  She thought of her precarious position with Leto.  He had taken her under his wing when she was just a girl, protected her after her world was destroyed . . . but those times were gone.  Somehow the affection, even love, that had blossomed between them had withered and died.

 

"Naturally you fear that the Duke will accept the proposal and wed Ilesa Ecaz," Chiara added in a sweet voice, compassionate as a long, thin knife.  She knew exactly how to prod the sorest spot.

 

Although preoccupied with Jessica, Leto still came to Kailea's bed, though infrequently, as if out of obligation.  And she submitted to him, as if it were her own duty as well.  His Atreides honor would never allow him to cast her out entirely, no matter how his feelings had changed.  Instead, Leto chose a more subtle punishment by keeping her close to him, yet preventing her from achieving the glory that should have been hers.

 

Oh, how she wished for sojourns on Kaitain!  Kailea longed to wear fine gowns, intricate and precious jewelry; she wanted to be attended by dozens of maidservants -- not just one companion who concealed a sharp tongue with a honeyed voice.  Glancing over at Chiara, her attention was caught by the blurred reflection of the old woman's features, the carefully coiffed hair that enhanced her noble appearance.

 

Kailea's gleaming wall of blue obsidian -- purchased by Leto at grand expense from Hagal stone merchants -- had been a wonderful addition to Castle Caladan.  Leto called it her "contemplation surface," where Kailea could see dim shadows of the world around her and think about their implications.  Blue obsidian was so rare that few Houses in the Landsraad displayed even a single ornament -- and Leto had procured this entire reflecting wall for her, as well as the stones in the banquet hall.

 

But Kailea frowned.  Chiara said that Leto had merely intended to buy her complacency, to make her accept her situation and silence her complaints.

 

And now Gurney Halleck had told them that the rare substance actually came from Giedi Prime.  Ah, the irony!  She knew how the news must sting Leto's unfaithful heart.

 

Chiara watched her lady's expression, knew the often-voiced thoughts that must be passing through her mind . . . and the old woman saw the wedge she needed.  "Before Leto can marry this daughter of Archduke Ecaz, you must consider your own dynastic matters, my Lady."  She stood beside the blue obsidian wall, and her reflection was distorted, a twisted figure who seemed trapped within the blurred glow of volcanic glass.

 

"Forget about your father and your brother -- and even yourself.  You have a son by Duke Leto Atreides.  Your brother and Tessia have no children -- so Victor is the true heir of House Vernius . . . and potentially of House Atreides as well.  If anything were to happen to the Duke before he could take a wife and produce another son, Victor would become House Atreides.  And since the boy is only six, you would be regent for many years, my Lady.  It makes perfect sense."

 

"What do you mean, if anything 'were to happen' to Leto?"  Her heart clenched.  She knew exactly what the old woman was suggesting.

 

Coyly, Chiara finished her coffee, pouring herself a second cup without asking permission.  "Duke Paulus was slain in a bullfighting accident.  You were there yourself, were you not?"

 

Kailea recalled the frightful image of the Old Duke fighting a Salusan bull in the Plaza de Toros.  The tragic event had thrust Leto into the ducal seat years before his time.  She had been a teenager then.

 

Was Chiara hinting that it had not been an accident?  Kailea had heard rumors, quickly hushed -- but she'd considered it no more than jealous talk.  The old woman withdrew, skirting the issue.  "It is not an idea to be considered seriously, I know, my dear.  I raise it simply for the sake of argument."

 

Kailea, though, could not get the insidious thoughts out of her head.  She could imagine no other way for a child of her bloodline to lead a Great House of the Landsraad.  Otherwise, House Vernius would become extinct.  She squeezed her eyes shut.

 

"If Leto does agree to marry Ilesa Ecaz after all, you will have nothing."  Chiara picked up the tray and made as if to leave.  She had planted her seeds and done her work.  "Your Duke already spends most of his time with that Bene Gesserit whore.  Clearly, you mean nothing to him.  I doubt he remembers any promises he made to you in moments of passion."

 

Blinking in surprise at the old woman, Kailea wondered how Chiara could possibly know what bedroom secrets Leto had whispered in her ear.  But the thought of Duke Atreides caressing young, bronze-haired Jessica, with her generous mouth and smooth oval face, turned her annoyance with Chiara's impertinence into hatred toward Leto himself.

 

"You must ask yourself a difficult question, my Lady.  Where does your loyalty truly lie?  With Duke Leto, or with your family?  Since he has not seen fit to give you his name, you will always remain a Vernius."

 

The old woman removed the tray, leaving Kailea with her own lukewarm cup of coffee.  Chiara departed without saying farewell, without asking if her Lady needed anything else.

 

Kailea remained in her chamber, looking over trinkets and baubles that reminded her of the terrible losses she had sustained:  her noble House and the finery of the Grand Palais, her chances to join the Imperial Court.  With a pang in her heart, she saw one of the sketches she had drawn of her hearty father, bringing to mind Dominic's laughter, how the big bald man had trained her in business matters.  Then, with an equal sense of loss, she thought of her son Victor, and all the things he would never have.

 

For Kailea, the hardest part was coming to the horrible decision.  Once she had made up her mind, though, the rest was just . . . details.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The individual is the key, the final effective unit of all biological processes.

 

-PARDOT KYNES

 

 

FOR YEARS Liet-Kynes had yearned for beautiful, dark-haired Faroula with all his heart.  But when he finally faced the prospect of marrying her, he felt only emptiness and a sense of obligation.  To be entirely proper, he waited three months after Warrick's death, though both he and Faroula knew their betrothal was a foregone conclusion.

 

He had made a death vow to his friend.

 

According to Fremen custom, men took the wives and children of those they vanquished in knife fights or single-handed combat.  Faroula, however, was not a ghanima, a spoil of war.  Liet had spoken with Naib Heinar, professing his love and dedication, citing the solemn promises he'd made to Warrick that he would care for his wife as the most precious of women . . . and accept responsibility for her young son as his own.

 

Old Heinar had regarded him with his one-eyed gaze.  The Naib knew what had transpired, knew the sacrifice Warrick had made during the Coriolis storm.  As far as the elders of Red Wall Sietch were concerned, Warrick had perished out in the desert.  The visions he claimed to have received from God were obviously false, for he had failed in the testing.  Thus, Heinar gave his permission, and Liet-Kynes prepared to marry the Naib's daughter.

 

Sitting in his room behind the tapestry hangings of dyed spice fiber, Liet pondered his impending wedding.  Fremen superstition did not allow him to see Faroula for two days before the formal ceremony.  Both man and wife had to undergo mendi purification rituals.  The time was spent in beautification and in writing out statements of devotion, promises, and love poems that would later be shared with each other.

 

Now though, Liet wallowed in shameful thoughts, wondering if he had somehow caused this tragedy to happen.  Was it the fervent desire he'd voiced upon seeing the white Biyan?  There, he and Warrick had both wished to marry the young woman.  Liet had tried to accept his defeat graciously at the Cave of Birds, suppressing the selfish voice in the back of his mind that had never allowed him to forget how much he still wanted her.

 

Did my secret wishes cause this tragedy to happen?

 

Now Faroula would be his wife . . . but it was a union born of sadness.

 

"Ah, forgive me, Warrick, my friend."  He continued to sit in silence, waiting for time to tick away, until the hour was at hand and the sietch ceremony would begin.  He wasn't looking forward to it, not under these circumstances.

 

With a rustle of heavy cloth, the door hanging parted and Liet's mother entered.  Frieth smiled at him with sympathy and understanding.  She carried a stoppered flask that had been ornately embroidered, stitched together out of skins and then sealed with spice resin to keep it waterproof.  She held the flask as if it were a precious treasure, a gift of immeasurable price.  "I've brought you something, dearest, in preparation for your wedding."

 

Liet emerged from his troubled thoughts.  "I've never seen that before."

 

"It is said that when a woman feels a special destiny for her child, when she senses great things will come from him, she instructs the midwives to distill and retain the amniotic fluid from the birth.  A mother may give this to her son on his wedding day."  She extended the flask.  "Keep it well, Liet.  This is the last commingling of your essence and mine, from the time we shared one body.  Now you will commingle your life with another.  Two hearts, when joined, may yield the strength of more than two."

 

Trembling with emotion, he accepted the soft flask.

 

"It is the greatest gift I could give to you," Frieth said, "on this important . . . but difficult day."

 

Looking up at her, Liet met her dark eyes with an intent gaze.  The emotions she perceived in his face were enough to startle her.  "No, Mother -- you gave me life, and that is a far greater blessing."

 

 

WHEN THE BETROTHED COUPLE stood before the members of the sietch, Liet's mother and the younger women waited in designated spaces, while the elders stepped forward to speak for the young man.  The boy Liet-chih, son of Warrick, waited silently beside his mother.

 

Pardot Kynes, taking a break from his terraforming work, grinned as never before.  It surprised him how proud he felt to see his son getting married.

 

Kynes remembered his own wedding out on the dunes at night.  It had been so long ago, shortly after his arrival on Arrakis, and he had spent much of the time in distraction.  Unbetrothed Fremen girls had danced like dervishes on the sand, chanting.  The Sayyadina had pronounced the words of the ceremony.

 

His own marriage to Frieth had turned out well enough.  He had a fine son, whom he had groomed to take over his work one day.  Kynes smiled at Liet -- whose name came from, he suddenly remembered, the assassin Uliet, whom Heinar and the elders had sent to kill him, back when the Fremen had considered him an outsider, a stranger with frightful dreams and ways.

 

But that assassin had seen the grandeur of the Planetologist's vision and had fallen on his own crysknife.  The Fremen saw omens in everything, and ever since, Pardot Kynes had been provided with the resources of ten million Fremen at his beck and call.  Dune's reshaping -- the plantings and the reclamation of the desert -- had proceeded at a remarkable pace.

 

As the couple stood in front of the assemblage, with Liet gazing upon his bride longingly, Pardot felt disturbed at the fixity of his son's attention, the opening of the young man's already-wounded heart.  He loved his son in a different way, as an extension of himself.  Pardot Kynes wanted Liet to assume the mantle of Planetologist when it was time to pass it on.

 

Unlike his father, Liet seemed too vulnerable to emotions.  Pardot loved his wife well enough, as she performed her traditional role as a Fremen companion, but his work was more important than the marital relationship.  He had been captivated by dreams and ideas; he felt the passion for restoring this planet to a lush Eden.  But he had never been engulfed by a single person.

 

Naib Heinar performed the ceremony himself, since the old Sayyadina had been unable to travel across the sands.  As Kynes listened to the young couple speaking their vows to each other, he felt a strange pall settle over this wedding . . . a heavy worry about his son's mind-set.

 

Liet:  "Satisfy Me as to Thine eyes, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy heart."

 

Faroula's answer:  "Satisfy Me as to Thy feet, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy hands."

 

"Satisfy Me as to Thy sleeping, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy waking."

 

And she completed the spoken prayer.  "Satisfy Me as to Thy desire, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy need."

 

With two sinewy hands, Heinar grasped the palms of the bride and groom, holding them together and raising them up so the entire sietch could see.  "You are now united in the Water."

 

A subdued cheer rose, which grew in intensity until it became heartfelt, happy, and welcoming.  Both Liet and Faroula looked relieved. . . .

 

 

LATER, AFTER THE CELEBRATION, Pardot came to see his son alone in a passageway.  Awkwardly, he clasped Liet's shoulders in the semblance of a hug.  "I'm so happy for you, my son."  He struggled for the proper words.  "You must be filled with joy.  You have wanted that girl for a long time, haven't you?"

 

He grinned, but Liet's eyes flashed with anger, as if the elder Kynes had just struck him an unfair blow.  "Why do you torment me, Father?  Haven't you done enough already?"

 

Baffled, Pardot stepped back and released his son's shoulders.  "What do you mean?  I'm congratulating you on your wedding.  Is she not the woman you've always wanted to be with?  I thought --"

 

"Not like this!  How can I be happy with this shadow hanging over us?  Perhaps it will go away in a few years, but for now I feel too much pain."

 

"Liet, my son?"

 

Pardot's expression must have told Liet all he needed to know.  "You don't understand a thing, do you, Father?  The great Umma Kynes."  He laughed bitterly.  "With your plantings, and your dunes, and your weather stations, and your climate maps.  You are so blind, I pity you."

 

The Planetologist's mind reeled as he tried to place the angry words into some grid of meaning, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.  "Warrick . . . your friend."  Then he stopped.  "He died accidentally, didn't he, in the storm?"

 

"Father, you missed it all."  Liet hung his head.  "I am proud of your dreams for Dune.  But you see our entire world as an experiment, just a test bed where you play with theories, where you collect data.  Don't you see, these aren't experiments?  These aren't test subjects -- these are people.  These are the Fremen.  They have taken you in, given you a life, given you a son.  I am Fremen."

 

"Well, so am I."  Pardot's tone was indignant.

 

In a husky tone so low that no one else could hear, Liet said, "You're just using them!"

 

Pardot, startled, didn't respond.

 

Liet's voice rose in pitch and volume.  He knew the Fremen would hear portions of this argument and would be disturbed at the friction between their prophet and his heir.  "You've spoken to me all my life, Father.  When I recall our conversations, though, I only remember you reciting reports from botanical stations and discussing new phases of adapted plant life.  Have you ever said a thing about my mother?  Have you ever talked to me as a father rather than as a . . . colleague?"

 

Liet pounded his own chest.  "I do feel your dream.  I do see the wonders you've brought in hidden corners of the desert.  I do understand the potential that lies beneath the sands of Dune.  But even when you do accomplish everything you wish . . . will you bother to notice?  Try to put a human face on your plans and see who will reap the benefits of your efforts.  Look at the face of a child.  Look into the eyes of an old woman.  Live your life, Father!"

 

Helpless, Pardot sagged onto a bench against a curved rock wall.  "I . . . I've meant well," he said, his voice thick in his throat.  His eyes brimmed with tears of shame and confusion as he looked at his son.  "You are truly my successor.  At times I've wondered if you would ever learn enough about planetology . . . but now I see I was wrong.  You understand more things than I can ever know."

 

Liet sank onto the bench beside his father.  Hesitantly the Planetologist reached over and placed a hand on his son's shoulder, more meaningfully this time.  In turn, Liet reached up to touch the hand, and looked with Fremen amazement at the tears pouring down his father's cheeks.

 

"You are truly my successor as Imperial Planetologist," Pardot said.  "You understand my dream -- but with you, it will be even greater, because you have a heart as well as a vision."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good leadership is largely invisible.  When everything runs smoothly, no one notices a Duke's work.  That is why he must give the people something to cheer, something to talk about, something to remember.

 

-DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES

 

 

KAILEA SAW HER CHANCE during an interminable family dinner in the grand banquet hall of Castle Caladan.  Looking happy, black-haired Leto sat in the ducal chair at the head of the long table while household servants delivered tureens of a spicy fish stew commonly enjoyed by the lower classes of fishermen and villagers.

 

Leto ate with gusto, savoring the crude dish.  Perhaps it reminded him of his childhood running loose on the docks, jumping aboard fishing boats, and avoiding his studies on the leadership of a Great House.  As far as Kailea was concerned, Old Duke Paulus had allowed his only heir to spend too much time with commoners and their petty concerns, and not enough time learning political nuances.  It was clear to her that Duke Leto had never understood how to run his household and deal with the disparate forces of the Guild, CHOAM, the Emperor, and the Landsraad.

 

Beside his father, Victor sat on a thickly cushioned chair, raised so that he could eat at the same level.  The dark-haired boy slurped his soup, imitating his father while Leto did his best to outdo the six-year-old in making noise.  With her elegant background, it especially displeased Kailea how her son tried to copy his father's rough edges.  Someday, when the boy became the true Atreides heir and Kailea was regent, she would train him properly so that he might appreciate the obligations of his birthright.  Victor would have the best of both House Atreides and House Vernius.

 

Around the table, the others tore hunks from loaves of bread and drank bitter Caladan ale, though Kailea knew there were plenty of fine wines in the cellar.  Laughter and casual conversation drifted, but she didn't participate and instead picked at her food.  Several seats away, Gurney Halleck had brought his new baliset to the table and would entertain them during dessert.  Because this man had been close to the father neither Kailea nor her brother had known, she felt pleased to have him there . . . despite the fact that Gurney had not been overly friendly toward her.

 

Sitting across from her, Rhombur seemed perfectly content with his concubine Tessia, and with trying to best Leto in the quantity of fish stew he could consume.  In his own chair, Thufir Hawat sat deep in concentration, studying the people around the table, neglecting his meal.  The Mentat's gaze slid from face to face, and Kailea tried to avoid eye contact.

 

Halfway down the table sat Jessica, as if to demonstrate that they were equals in the ducal household.  The nerve of that woman!  Kailea wanted to strangle her.  The attractive Bene Gesserit ate with measured movements, so assured in her position that she exhibited no self-consciousness.  She saw Jessica pause and study Leto's face, as if able to read every nuance of expression as easily as words imprinted on a shigawire spool.

 

This evening Leto had called them all to eat together, though Kailea could think of no special occasion, anniversary, or holiday he meant to celebrate.  She suspected the Duke had thought up some wild and inadvisable scheme, one he'd insist upon completing no matter what advice she or anyone else gave him.

 

Glowglobes hovered above the table like decorations, surrounding the articulated arms of the poison snooper that drifted high above their food, like a hovering insect.  The snooper was a necessary device, given the twisted politics of Landsraad feuds.

 

Leto finished his large bowl of stew and dabbed his mouth with an embroidered linen napkin.  He leaned back in the hand-carved ducal chair with a contented sigh.  Victor did the same on the high cushions of his own seat; he had finished barely a third of the stew in his small bowl.  Having already decided what song to play after dinner, Gurney Halleck looked over at his nine-string baliset leaning against the wall.

 

Kailea watched Leto's gray eyes, how his gaze drifted from one end of the banquet hall to the other, from the portrait of Paulus Atreides to the mounted bull's-head, its rack of horns still stained with blood.  She didn't know what the Duke was thinking, but as she looked across the table, the witchling Jessica met her gaze with green eyes, as if she understood what Leto was about to do.  Kailea turned away, frowning.

 

When Leto stood up, Kailea drew a deep sigh.  He was about to engage in one of his interminable ducal speeches, trying to inspire them about all the good things in their lives.  But if life was so good, why had both of her parents been murdered?  Why did she and her brother, the heirs of a Great House, remain in exile, rather than enjoying what should have been theirs?

 

Two servants hurried forward to remove the soup dishes and leftover bread, but Leto waved them away so that he might speak uninterrupted.  "Next week is the twentieth anniversary of the bullfight in which my father was killed."  He looked up at the matador portrait.  "Consequently, I've been thinking of the grand entertainments Duke Paulus performed for his subjects.  They loved my father for that, and I think it's about time I created a worthy spectacle, as would be expected from a Duke of Caladan."

 

Instantly, Hawat raised his guard.  "What is it you intend, my Duke?"

 

"Nothing so dangerous as a bullfight, Thufir."  Leto grinned down at Victor, then over at Rhombur.  "But I want to do something the people will talk about for a long time to come.  I'm leaving soon for the Landsraad Council on Kaitain, to begin a new diplomatic mission in the Moritani-Ecazi conflict, especially now that we might be forming a much stronger alliance with Ecaz."

 

He paused for a moment, appearing embarrassed.  "As a grand sendoff, I'm going to take our largest skyclipper on a magnificent procession across the lowlands.  My people can look up and see the banners and the colorful airship -- and wish their Duke well in his mission.  We'll pass above the fishing flotillas, and then inland over the pundi rice farms."

 

Victor clapped his hands, while Gurney nodded in approval.  "Ho!  It will be a marvelous sight."

 

Leaning his elbows on the table, Rhombur rested his square chin in his hands.  "Uh, Leto, isn't Duncan Idaho returning soon from Ginaz?  Will you be away when he arrives?  Or can we combine his homecoming with the same celebration?"

 

Pondering this, Leto shook his head.  "I haven't heard anything in some time.  We don't expect him for a couple of months yet."

 

Gurney thumped a hand on the table.  "Gods below!  If he's coming to us as a Swordmaster of Ginaz after eight long years of training, the man deserves a reception of his own, don't you think?"

 

Leto laughed.  "Indeed, Gurney!  Plenty of time for that when I return.  With you, Thufir, and Duncan bearing swords for me, I need never fear a scratch from an enemy."

 

"There are other ways an enemy can strike, my Lord," Jessica said with a low warning in her voice.

 

Kailea stiffened, but Leto didn't notice.  Instead he looked at the witch.  "I'm fully aware of that."

 

Already, wheels were turning in Kailea's mind.  At the conclusion of the meal she excused herself and went to tell Chiara what Leto planned to do.

 

 

THAT NIGHT LETO SLEPT on a cot in a hangar of the Cala Municipal Spaceport, while his household staff went about making preparations for the gala event, delivering announcements and gathering supplies.  Within a few days the sail-enhanced skyclipper would begin its grand and colorful procession.

 

Left alone in her chambers, Kailea summoned Swain Goire and seduced him, as she had done many times in the past.  She made love to the guard captain with a feral passion that surprised and exhausted him.  He looked so much like Leto, but was such a different man.  Afterward, when he had fallen asleep beside her, she stole a tiny code-locked key from a concealed pocket in his thick leather belt, which was curled on the floor.  Only rarely used, it would be some time before Goire noticed the missing key.

 

The following morning, she pressed the small object into Chiara's leathery palm and squeezed the old woman's fingers over it.  "This will give you access to the Atreides armory.  Move with care."

 

Chiara's ravenlike eyes sparkled, and quickly she tucked the key into secret folds of her layered garments.  "I will handle the rest, my Lady."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

War, as the foremost ecological disaster of any age, merely reflects the larger state of human affairs in which the total organism called "humanity" finds its existence.

 

-PARDOT KYNES, Reflections on the Disaster at Salusa Secundus

 

 

 

 

 

ON THE ADMINISTRATION ISLAND of Ginaz, the five greatest living Swordmasters met and judged their remaining students in the oral examination phase of their curriculum, grilling them on history, philosophy, military tactics, haiku, music, and more -- all according to the exacting requirements and traditions of the school.

 

But this was a somber, tragic occasion.

 

The entire school archipelago remained in an uproar, outraged and grieving for the six slain students.  Flaunting their barbarity, the Grummans had dumped four of the bodies in the surf near the main training center, where they had washed up on shore.  The other two -- Duncan Idaho and Hiih Resser -- remained missing, likely lost at sea.

 

On the top floor of the central tower, the Swordmasters sat along the straight side of a semicircular table, their ceremonial swords extended point-outward on the surface in front of them, like the rays of a sun.  Each student who stood in front of the table would see the threatening points while he answered rigorous questions.

 

They had all passed.  Now Karsty Toper and the school administration would arrange travel for the successful students to return to their respective homes, where they would apply what they had learned.  Some had already gone to the nearby spaceport.

 

And the Swordmasters were left with the consequences.

 

Fat Rivvy Dinari sat in the center, drawing out the sword of Duke Paulus Atreides and a jeweled Moritani heirloom knife, found among the possessions of Idaho and Resser.  Beside him, Mord Cour hung his gray-maned head.  "We have had much experience sending back the keepsakes of fallen students, but never like this."

 

Sinewy master Jamo Reed, though hardened from overseeing his prison island for many years, could not stop weeping.  He shook his head.  "If Ginaz students die, it should be during difficult training -- not because they are murdered."

 

Ginaz had lodged formal protests, issuing culturally tailored insults and censures, none of which meant anything to Viscount Hundro Moritani.  He had never made satisfactory amends for his brutal attacks on Ecaz.  The Landsraad and the Emperor were now holding hearings on the best means of response, with the leaders of many Great Houses traveling to Kaitain in order to speak with the Council.  But they had never managed more than censures, fines, and slaps on the hand even for a "mad dog" like the Viscount.

 

The Grummans believed they could get away with anything.

 

"I feel . . . violated," Jeh-Wu said, his dreadlocks hanging in disarray.  "No one has ever dared to do this sort of thing to a Swordmaster."

 

Foppish Whitmore Bludd sat up straighter and fiddled with the ruffles on his shirt, the heavy cuffs at his wrists.  "I propose that we rename six of our islands after the murdered students.  History will remember the dastardly crime, and we will honor the Six."

 

"Honor?"  Rivvy Dinari slapped his fat palm on the tabletop, making the sword blades jangle.  "How can you use such a word in this context?  I spent three hours last night by Jool-Noret's burial vault, praying and asking what he would do in such a situation."

 

"And did he answer you?"  Scowling, Jeh-Wu stood up and went to look out the window, at the flat spaceport and the foamy reefs.  "Even in his own lifetime, Jool-Noret never taught anybody.  He drowned in a tidal wave, and his disciples tried to emulate him.  If Noret never helped his closest followers, he certainly won't help us."

 

Bludd sniffed, looking offended.  "The great man taught by example.  A perfectly valid technique, for those capable of learning."

 

"And he had honor, just like the ancient samurai," Dinari said.  "After tens of thousands of years, we have grown less civilized.  We have forgotten."

 

Frowning in contemplation, Mord Cour looked over at the obese Swordmaster.  "You are forgetting history, Dinari.  The samurai may have had honor, but once the British arrived in Japan with guns, the samurai vanished . . . within a generation."

 

Jamo Reed looked up, his lean face devastated beneath a snowy white cap of frizzy hair.  "Please, we must not fight among ourselves or else the Grummans will have beaten us."

 

Jeh-Wu snorted.  "They've already --"

 

A commotion at the doorway interrupted him.  He turned from the window as the other four Swordmasters rose to their feet in shock.

 

Dirty and disheveled, Duncan Idaho and Hiih Resser pushed past the objections of three uniformed school employees, knocking the men aside in the corridor.  The two young men strode into the room, battered and limping, but with a fire in their eyes.

 

"Are we too late?" Resser asked with a forced grin.

 

Jamo Reed ran around the table to embrace Duncan, then Resser.  "My boys, you are alive!"

 

Even Jeh-Wu had a relieved and astonished smile on his iguanalike face.  "A Swordmaster has no need to state the obvious," he said, but Jamo Reed didn't care.

 

Duncan's gaze lit on the Old Duke's sword lying on the semicircular table.  He took a step forward and looked down at the blood oozing from a gash on his left shin, soaking through the leg of his ill-fitting pants.  "Resser and I haven't actually been studying for the past several days . . . but we have been putting your training into practice."

 

Resser swayed a little, having trouble staying on his feet, but Duncan supported him.  After gulping cups of water that Mord Cour gave them, they explained how they had jumped overboard in the rough seas, swimming and helping each other to distance themselves from the large dark boat.  Straining their abilities to the limit, clinging to every scrap of knowledge they had learned during eight years of rigorous Swordmaster training, they had remained afloat for hours.  They did their best to navigate by the stars, until finally the tides and currents carried them to one of the numerous islands -- luckily a civilized one.  From there, they had secured minimal first aid and dry clothes, as well as immediate transportation.

 

Though his good humor had been damaged by the ordeal, Resser still managed to raise his chin.  "We would like to formally request a delay in our final examination, sirs --"

 

"Delay?"  Jamo Reed said, with tears in his eyes again.  "I suggest a dispensation.  Surely these two have proven themselves to our satisfaction?"

 

Indignant, Whitmore Bludd tugged at his ruffles.  "The forms must be obeyed."

 

Old Mord Cour looked at him skeptically.  "Haven't the Grummans just shown us the folly of too-blindly following the forms?"  The other four Masters turned to Rivvy Dinari for his assessment.

 

Finally, the huge Swordmaster levered his enormous body to his feet and gazed at the bedraggled students.  He indicated the Old Duke's sword and the ceremonial Moritani dagger.  "Idaho, Resser, draw your weapons."

 

With a clatter of steel, the Swordmasters took up their blades, arranged in a sunburst pattern on the semicircular table.  His heart pounding, Duncan picked up the Old Duke's sword from the table, and Resser took the dagger.  The five Swordmasters formed a circle, including the two students in the ring, and extended their blades toward the center, placing one atop the other.

 

"Lay your points on top of the rest," Mord Cour said.

 

"You are now Swordmasters," Dinari announced in his paradoxically small voice.  The huge man sheathed his sword, removed the red bandanna from his spiky mahogany hair, and tied it around Duncan's head.  Jamo Reed withdrew another bandanna and cinched it around Resser's red hair.

 

After eight years, the rush of triumph and relief brought Duncan to near collapse, but through sheer force of will he steadied his knees and remained standing.  He and Resser grasped each other's hands in celebration, albeit one tainted by tragedy.  Duncan couldn't wait to return to Caladan.

 

I have not failed you, Duke Leto.

 

Then a sound like ripping air tore overhead, a succession of sonic booms from descending atmospheric craft.  From the reefs that circled the central island, unexpected sirens went off.  Much closer, an explosion echoed from the walls of the administration buildings.

 

The senior Swordmasters sprinted to a balcony that overlooked the complex.  Across the channels of still water, two nearby islands glowed with smoky fires.

 

"Armored airships!" Jamo Reed said.  Duncan saw black predatory forms swoop out of the pillars of flame, in steep climbs as they dropped streams of explosives.

 

Jeh-Wu snarled, tossing his dark hair.  "Who would dare attack us?"

 

To Duncan, the answer seemed obvious.  "House Moritani isn't done with us yet."

 

"It flies in the face of all civilized warfare," Rivvy Dinari said.  "They have not declared kanly, have not followed the proper forms."

 

"After what he has done to us, to Ecaz, what does Viscount Moritani care about the forms?" Resser said in disgust.  "You don't understand how his mind works."

 

More bombs exploded.

 

"Where's our antiaircraft fire?"  Whitmore Bludd sounded more annoyed than outraged.  "Where are our 'thopters?"

 

"No one has ever attacked Ginaz before," Jamo Reed said.  "We are politically neutral.  Our school serves all Houses."

 

Duncan could see how these Masters had been blinded by their egos, their rules and forms and structures.  Hubris!  They had never conceived of their own vulnerabilities -- despite what they taught their students.

 

With a foul stream of expletives, Dinari pushed binoculars against the folds of fat on his face.  He flicked the oil-lens settings and, ignoring the oncoming armored craft, scanned the rugged edge of the administrative island.  "Enemy commandos are all over that shore, landing opposite the spaceport.  Approaching with shoulder-mounted artillery"

 

"Must have come in by submarine," Jeh-Wu said.  "This isn't an impromptu attack -- they've been planning it for quite some time."

 

"Waiting for an excuse," Reed added, a deep frown creasing his tanned face.  The attacking airships drew closer, thin black disks shimmering with defensive shields.

 

To Duncan, the Swordmasters appeared so helpless, almost pathetic, when faced with this unexpected situation.  Their hypothetical exercises were far different from reality.  Painfully so.  He gripped the Old Duke's sword.

 

"Those ships are unmanned flyovers, made to drop bombs and incendiaries," Duncan said with cool assessment, as a rain of bombs fell from the roaring disks.  Buildings blossomed into fire all along the shoreline.

 

Shouting, the proud Swordmasters ran from the balcony, with Resser and Duncan in their midst.  "We need to get to our stations, do what we can to guide the defense!"  Dinari's thin voice was sharpened with command.

 

"The rest of the new trainees are at the spaceport," Resser pointed out.  "They can grab equipment and fight back."

 

Off-balance but struggling to recover, especially in front of the even-more-panicked officials and administrators, Jamo Reed, Mord Cour, and Jeh-Wu charged along the main corridor, while Rivvy Dinari showed how fast he could move his bulk, vaulting down a stairway by holding handrails and leaping from landing to landing.  Whitmore Bludd scuttled behind him.

 

After exchanging quick glances, Duncan and Resser followed the two Swordmasters who'd gone down the stairway.  A nearby explosion rocked the administration building, and the young men stumbled.  Still, they kept going.  Outside, the full-scale attack continued.

 

The new Swordmasters surged through a door at ground level into the central lobby, joining Dinari and Bludd.  Through the armor-plaz windows, Duncan could see buildings burning outside.  "We've got to get to your command center," he said to his elders.  "We need the equipment to fight.  Are there attack 'thopters at the spaceport?"

 

Resser held his ceremonial Moritani dagger.  "I'll fight right here, if they dare send anyone in to face us."

 

Bludd looked agitated; he had dropped his colorful cloak somewhere on the stairs.  "Don't think small.  What is their goal?  Of course, they'll be after the vault!"  In dismay, he nodded toward an ornate black coffin on a dais that dominated the lobby.  "Jool-Noret's remains, the most sacred object on all of Ginaz.  Can you think of a greater insult to us?"  With a flushed face he turned toward his enormous companion.  "It would be just like the Grummans to hit us in the heart."

 

Perplexed, Duncan and Resser looked at each other.  They had been steeped in tales about the legendary fighter -- but in the face of this bloody attack, the exploding bombs, the screaming civilians rushing for shelter on the island streets, neither of them could care much about the old relic.

 

Dinari rushed across the floor like a battleship moving at full speed.  "To the vault!" he shouted.  Bludd and the others tried to keep up with him.

 

The famous burial vault was surrounded by clear armor-plaz and a shimmering Holtzman-generated shield.  Eschewing all arrogant pretenses, the two Swordmasters rushed up the steps and pressed their palms against a security panel.  The shield faded, and the armor-plaz barriers lifted.

 

"We'll carry the sarcophagus," Bludd shouted to Duncan and Resser.  "We must keep this safe.  It is the very soul of the Ginaz School."

 

Constantly looking around for attackers in Moritani uniforms, Duncan balanced the Old Duke's sword in his grip.  "Take the mummy if you have to, but be quick about it."

 

Resser stood at his side.  "Then we've got to get out of here, and find some ships so we can fight."  Duncan hoped that other Ginaz defenses were already rallying to strike back against the attackers.

 

While the senior Swordmasters, both strong men, lifted the ornate coffin and carried it toward the dubious safety outside, Duncan and Resser cleared the way.  Outside, the black disks continued their indiscriminate rain of bombs.

 

A gun 'thopter with school markings landed in the plaza in front of the administration building; it folded its wings while the engines continued to thrum.  Half a dozen Swordmasters leaped from the craft wearing singlesuits and red bandannas, with lasrifles slung over their shoulders.

 

"We've got Noret's body," Bludd called proudly, gesturing to the 'thopter for assistance.  "Come quickly."

 

Soldiers in yellow Moritani uniforms ran across the plaza.  Duncan shouted a warning, and the Swordmasters fired lasguns at the attackers.  The Grumman soldiers responded with their own weapons; two Swordmasters were hit, including Jamo Reed.  When an aerial bomb exploded, old Mord Cour sprawled down, injured in the arms and torso by flying stone splinters.  Duncan helped the shaggy-haired instructor to his feet and into the safety of the 'thopter.

 

Just as he got Cour inside, though, a charging attacker knocked Duncan's legs out from under him.  The young Swordmaster tumbled to the pavement, rolled, and sprang to his feet again.  Before he could extend his sword, a Grumman woman in a yellow martial-arts gi dove under his guard, slashing at him with claw-knives on her fingers.  With his sword useless at such close range, he grabbed the attacker's long hair and jerked back hard enough to hear her neck snap.  The assassin melted to the ground, limp and twitching.

 

More Grummans converged on the gun 'thopter.  Resser shouted, "Go!  Take the damned coffin with you!"  He and Duncan whirled to face another opponent.

 

A bearded man lunged with a sparking electrical spear, but Duncan ducked the blow and spun to one side.  His thoughts accelerated as he summoned the proper response from eight years of training.  Rage threatened to overtake him, rising in red waves as he remembered the captive students slaughtered on the dark boat.  His retinas burned with vivid images of the bombs and fire and the slain innocents.

 

But he remembered Dinari's admonition:  With anger comes error.  In an instant, he settled on a cold, almost instinctive response.  With sheer force of will, Duncan Idaho slammed steely fingertips under the lunging man's rib cage, breaking skin and piercing his heart.

 

Then a cagey young man stepped from the fray, lean and muscular, with his injured right wrist sealed in a padded cast.  Trin Kronos.  The surly young lordling grasped a sharp-bladed katana in his good hand.  "I thought you two would be feeding the fish, like the other four examples we made."  He looked up at the soaring bombers; another huge explosion took down a low building.

 

"Face me, Kronos," Resser said, drawing his ceremonial Moritani dagger.  "Or are you too much a coward without your father and a dozen guards armed with heavy weaponry?"

 

Trin Kronos held his katana, considered, then cast it aside. "Too good a weapon for a traitor.  I would have to throw it away after I soiled it with your blood."  He withdrew a dueling knife instead.  "A dagger is easier to replace."

 

Resser's cheeks flushed, and Duncan stepped back to watch the two confront each other.  "I would never have forsaken House Moritani," Resser said, "if they'd given me anything I could believe in."

 

"Believe in the cold steel of my blade," Kronos said, with a cruel sneer.  "It will feel real enough when it cuts out your heart."

 

With broken rubble underfoot, the two circled cautiously, not breaking each other's gaze.  Resser held up his dagger, maintaining a solid defensive posture, while Kronos jabbed and slashed, aggressive but ineffective.

 

Resser attacked, withdrew, then swept out his foot in a vicious kick that should have knocked Kronos to the ground, but the Grumman fighter bent backward like a snake, drawing himself away from the redhead's foot.  Resser spun all the way around and recovered his balance, deflecting a swift knife blow.

 

The area around the two combatants was clear.  In nearby streets, other Grumman attackers continued to raid, and projectile fire rang out from high windows.  At the 'thopter, the Swordmasters struggled with their relic, trying to lift the sarcophagus into their aircraft while fighting off attackers.

 

Kronos feinted, slashed at Resser's eyes with the tip of his dueling knife, then stabbed for the throat.  Resser threw himself to one side, neatly out of range, but his foot came down on a loose chunk of rock; his ankle twisted, and he stumbled.

 

Kronos was upon him like a lion, pouncing and bringing the knife down, but Resser slapped sideways with his own dagger, knocking the other blade aside with a clang.  Then he jabbed upward, sliding the point into his opponent's bicep and tracing a red cut down past the elbow to the forearm.

 

With a childish cry, Kronos staggered back, looking at the scarlet river pouring down to his uninjured wrist.  "Bastard traitor!"

 

Resser bounced to his feet and focused his stance again, ready to fight.  "I'm an orphan, not a bastard."  His lips curved in a quick, wan smile.

 

His arm slick with blood, his knife hand weak, Kronos could see that he had lost the knife fight.  His face hardened.  Upending his fighting dagger, he brought the pommel down on his thick wrist cast.  It split open along a planned seam, and a spring-loaded flechette pistol popped into his grip.  Kronos grinned, thrusting the weapon forward, preparing to fire a full load of the silver flechettes into Resser's chest.  "You still insist on following your absurd rules, don't you?"

 

"I don't," Duncan Idaho said from behind as he thrust mightily with the Old Duke's sword.  The point pierced between the shoulder blades of Trin Kronos and emerged from his chest, sliding all the way through his heart.  Kronos coughed blood and shivered, astonished at the sharp object that had sprouted from his sternum.

 

As Kronos slumped dead, he slid off the bloody blade.  Duncan stared at his victim and at the sword.  "Grummans aren't the only ones who can break the rules."

 

Resser's face had gone gray, having accepted the inevitability of his death as soon as he saw the pistol hidden in Kronos's cast.  "Duncan . . . you stabbed him in the back."

 

"I saved the life of my friend," Duncan replied.  "Given the same options, I would make that choice every time."

 

Dinari and Bludd finished tying down the sacred relic aboard the 'thopter.  Laser arcs filled the air as Ginaz defenders fired with deadly accuracy.  The two young men stood exhausted, but the Swordmasters pulled them aboard the 'thopter.

 

With a great thrust of jets, the gunship surged into the air.  The wings reached full extension, transporting the passengers and the body of Jool-Noret away from the main buildings.  As Duncan huddled on the metal deck, Rivvy Dinari leaned over to place a thick arm around his shoulders.  "You boys had to prove yourselves early."

 

"What's this attack all about?  Wounded pride?" Duncan asked, so angry he wanted to spit.  "A foolish reason to begin a war."

 

"There are rarely good reasons to begin wars," Mord Cour said, hanging his head.

 

Whitmore Bludd tapped the transparent plaz.  "Look out the window."

 

A swarm of Ginaz gunships fired laser blasts at the enemy aircraft and mowed down troops on the ground.  "Our new Swordmasters are at the controls -- your fellow students from the spaceport," Cour said.

 

After a direct hit, one of the unmanned flyovers exploded and plummeted. The Swordmasters raised their fists inside the cramped 'thopter.

 

The flyover hit the ground in a fireball, and a second vessel crashed into the ocean.  Lasbeams struck more of them out of the skies.  Duncan's 'thopter dove toward a squad of Grumman commandos rushing back over the water and blasted them, leaving bodies strewn on the ground.  The pilot went around for another pass.

 

"The Grummans expected easy pickings," Whitmore Bludd said.

 

"And damned if we didn't provide them," Jeh-Wu growled.

 

Duncan watched the mayhem and tried not to compare the rampant destruction and bloodshed with all the finesse he had learned in eight years at the Ginaz School.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beware the seeds you sow and the crops you reap.  Do not curse God for the punishment you inflict upon yourself.

 

-Orange Catholic Bible

 

 

 

 

EMPLOYING INDIGNANT PROPRIETY that would have made even the Lady Helena proud, Kailea convinced Leto not to include his son in the grand ducal procession.  "I do not want Victor exposed to any danger.  That skyclipper isn't safe for a six-year-old boy."

 

Thufir Hawat proved to be an unexpected ally, agreeing with Kailea's concerns, until finally Leto relented.  Exactly as she had hoped. . . .

 

After the Duke's capitulation, Kailea helped Rhombur to salvage the situation.  "You're Victor's uncle.  Why don't you two go on . . . a fishing expedition?  Take a wingboat along the coast -- as long as you're accompanied by enough guards.  I'm sure Captain Goire would be happy to join you.

 

Rhombur brightened.  "Maybe we'll go out and collect coral gems again."

 

"Not with my son," Kailea said sharply.

 

"Uh, all right.  I'll just take him out to the floating paradan melon farms, and maybe to some coves where we can look at the fish."

 

 

SWAIN GOIRE MET RHOMBUR down by the docks as they cleaned out the hold of the small, well-equipped motorboat Dominic.  Preparing to be gone for several days, they took bedrolls and food.  Behind the Castle, at the spaceport on the outskirts of Cala City, the Duke's crew labored to prepare the enormous skyclipper.  Anxious to be off, Leto was utterly absorbed with final arrangements.

 

As work continued at the boat, Victor became irritable and less than enthusiastic.  At first Rhombur thought the boy might still remember the elecran encounter, but instead he saw Victor glance repeatedly up at the plateau where his father was about to embark on his journey.  Atreides banners rippled in the air, reflective streamers of green and black.

 

"I'd rather be with my Daddy," Victor said.  "Fishing is fun, but riding on a skyclipper is better."

 

Rhombur leaned against the side of the boat.  "I agree, Victor.  I wish there was some way for us to join him."

 

Duke Leto intended to pilot the skyship himself, accompanied by an appropriate escort of five loyal soldiers.  With the limited amount of weight allowable in the lighter-than-air vessel, it was not wise to take joyriders.

 

Swain Goire dropped a crate of provisions outside the bridge house, then wiped sweat from his forehead and smiled at the boy.  Rhombur knew that the captain was more dedicated to the boy than to any law or other master.  Adoration for Leto's son flickered across Goire's handsome face.

 

"Uh, Captain, let me ask your opinion."  Rhombur looked at Victor, then back at the guard captain.  "You've been entrusted with the safety of this child, and you've never once been known to shirk your duties or give anything less than full attention to your assignment."

 

Goire flushed with embarrassment.

 

Rhombur continued, "Do you believe my sister's fears that Victor would actually be in danger if he accompanied Leto aboard the skyclipper?"

 

Laughing, Goire made a dismissive gesture.  "Of course not, my Lord Prince.  If there was any danger, Thufir Hawat would never allow our Duke to go -- and neither would I.  Hawat charged me to oversee the security of the clipper itself before it departs, while he and his men scour the flight path for any signs of ambush.  It is completely safe, I assure you.  I'd stake my life on it."

 

"My thoughts exactly."  Rhombur rubbed his palms together and grinned.  "So, is there a particular reason why Kailea should insist that we take a fishing trip rather than go along?"

 

Pursing his lips, Goire considered the question.  He wouldn't meet Rhombur's gaze.  "Lady Kailea is sometimes . . . excessive in her concern for the boy.  I believe she imagines threats where there are none."

 

Little Victor looked from one man to the other, not understanding the nuances of the discussion.

 

"Spoken with true candor, Captain.  I can't imagine why you haven't been promoted!"  Then Rhombur lowered his voice to a stage whisper.  "Uh, why don't we have Victor join his father, in secret?  He shouldn't miss this magnificent procession.  He is the Duke's son, after all.  He needs to take part in important events."

 

"I concur . . . but there is the issue of weight ratios.  The skyclipper has limited passenger capacity."

 

"Well, if there's truly no danger, why don't we remove two members of the honor guard so that my dear nephew" -- Rhombur squeezed Victor's shoulder -- "and I can join the Duke.  That still leaves three guards, and I can do my share of fighting to protect Leto, if it comes to that."

 

Though uneasy, Goire could voice no reasons to counter this suggestion, especially not after he saw the delight on Victor's face.  The boy made his resistance melt.  "Commander Hawat won't like any change of plans, and neither will Kailea."

 

"True, but you are in charge of security on the airship itself, correct?"  Rhombur brushed aside the concern.  "Besides, Victor can't possibly grow into a good leader if he is sheltered from every splinter and bruise.  He needs to get out and learn from life -- no matter what my sister says."

 

Goire bent in front of the delighted boy, treating him like a little man.  "Victor, tell me true.  Do you want to go fishing, or --"

 

"I want to go on the skyclipper.  I want to be with my father and see the world."  His eyes were filled with determination.

 

Goire stood up.  For a moment he held Victor's gaze, wanting to do anything in his power to make the boy happy.  "That's all the answer I needed.  It's decided, then."  He looked back toward the spaceport where the dirigible waited.  "I'll go make the arrangements."

 

 

AFRAID HER MANNERISMS might give something away, Kailea sequestered herself in one of the towers of Castle Caladan, feigning illness.  She'd already said her formal goodbye to a preoccupied Leto, then hurried away before he could look into her eyes . . . not that he paid much attention to her anyway.

 

A cheering crowd watched the ducal procession as it prepared to lift off into the blue Caladan sky.  The Atreides hawk was painted in brilliant red across the swollen side of the skyclipper, which would be followed by smaller but similarly designed airships, all colorfully decorated.  The skyclipper deployed sails to catch the winds, and strained against its tethers like a mammoth, turgid bee.  Atreides banners fluttered in a light breeze.

 

The bulk of the airship was empty space, enclosed pockets of buoyant gas, but the tiny passenger compartment in the belly had been filled with provisions.  Guiding sails flapped out like butterfly wings at the sides.  Thufir Hawat had checked the proposed route himself, trudging down roads and dispatching guards and inspectors to ensure that no assassins had secreted themselves along the way.

 

Biting her lip, Kailea watched from the high window that faced inland, where she could see the colorful aircraft.  Though she only faintly heard the fanfare playing to see Leto off, she saw figures standing on podiums, waving before they climbed aboard the skyclipper.

 

Her stomach knotted.

 

She admonished herself for not obtaining a pair of binoculars . . . but that might have raised suspicions.  A foolish worry; the household servants would simply have assumed that she wanted to watch her "beloved" Leto depart on his historic procession.  The people of Caladan knew nothing of the dark side of their relationship; in their naiveté, they imagined only romantic stories. . . .

 

With a pang in her heart and a sense of inevitability, Kailea watched the work crews release the tethers.  Raised by suspensor-assisted floats, the skyclipper drifted gracefully into the air currents.  The sluggish craft had propulsion systems that could be used in an emergency, but Leto preferred to let the giant vessel move with the winds, whenever possible.  Smaller companion ships followed.

 

Though alone, Kailea Vernius tried to clear all expression from her face, all emotion from her mind, not wanting to recall the good times she'd had with her noble lover.  She had waited long enough, and she knew in her soul that it would never happen the way she'd wanted it.

 

Rhombur, despite his dabbling with a few rebels, had accomplished nothing on Ix.  Nor had their father, in all his years of supposed underground struggle against House Corrino.  Dominic was dead, and Rhombur was content to be Leto's anonymous sidekick, enthralled with his plain Bene Gesserit woman.  He had no ambitions at all.

 

And Kailea couldn't accept that.

 

She gripped the stone windowsill, watching the glorious procession of airships drift over Cala City and away to the lowlands.  The commoners would stand knee-deep in their marshy fields and look up to see the Duke's passage.  Kailea's lips formed a firm, straight line.  Those pundi rice farmers would get much more of a sight than they expected. . . .

 

Chiara had told her the details of the plan only after it had already been initiated.  Having once been the mistress of a munitions expert, Chiara had personally set a trap, using linked explosives stolen from the Atreides armory.  There would be no chance of survival, no hope of rescue.

 

Feeling helpless dread, Kailea closed her eyes.  The wheels had been set in motion, and nothing she could do would prevent the disaster now.  Nothing.  Soon her son would be the new Duke, and she would be his regent mother.  Ah, Victor, I am doing this for you.

 

Hearing footsteps, she was surprised to see Jessica appear at the door to her room, already returned from the launching of the ducal ship.  Kailea stared at her rival with a stony expression.  Why couldn't she have accompanied Leto?  That would have solved even more of her problems.

 

"What is it you want?" Kailea said.

 

Jessica looked slender and delicate -- yet Kailea knew that no young woman with Bene Gesserit training could ever be helpless.  The witch could probably kill Kailea in an instant with her weirding ways.  She promised herself she would get rid of this seductress as soon as the weight and responsibility of House Atreides fell across her shoulders.

 

I will be regent for my son.

 

"Now that the Duke has gone and left us alone, it is time for us to talk."  Jessica watched Kailea's reaction.  "We've avoided it for too long, you and I."

 

Kailea felt as if every nerve on her face and in her fingers, every twitch and gesture were being dissected through this upstart's scrutiny.  It was said that a Bene Gesserit could read minds, though the witches themselves denied it.  Kailea shuddered, and Jessica took a step deeper into the room.

 

"I'm here because I want privacy," Kailea said.  "My Duke has departed, and I wish to be alone."

 

Jessica's brow furrowed.  Her green eyes stared intently, as if she had already detected something wrong.  Kailea turned away, feeling naked.  How could this young woman expose her so easily?

 

"I thought it would be better if we did not leave so much unspoken between us," Jessica continued.  "Leto may decide to marry soon.  And it won't be to either of us."

 

But Kailea did not want to hear any of it.  Does she wish to make peace with me?  To ask my permission to love Leto?  The thought brought a flickering smile to her face.

 

Before Kailea could respond, she heard footsteps again, booted feet.  Swain Goire lunged into the room.  He looked unsettled, his formal uniform disheveled.  He stopped for a moment upon seeing Jessica there in the chamber, as if she were the last person he had expected to encounter with Kailea.

 

"Yes, Captain, what is it?" Kailea snapped.

 

He fumbled for words, unconsciously touched his thick belt, then flickered to the tiny uniform pocket where he usually kept his coded armory key.  "I . . . I have misplaced something, I fear."

 

"Captain Goire, why aren't you with my son?"  Kailea vented anger toward him in hopes of distracting Jessica.  "You and Prince Rhombur were scheduled to depart on your fishing trip hours ago."

 

The handsome guard avoided her gaze, while Jessica stared at both of them, recording each movement.  Kailea's heart froze.  Does she suspect?  And if so, what will she do about it?

 

"I . . . seem to have lost an important piece of equipment, my Lady," he stammered, looking very embarrassed.  "I've been unable to find it, and now I am growing concerned.  I intend to search for it in every possible place."

 

Kailea stepped closer to him, her face flushed.  "You didn't answer my question, Captain.  You three should have gone fishing.  Did you delay my son's trip so he could watch his father depart?"  She touched a finger to her frowning lips.  "Yes, I can see how Victor would have enjoyed watching the airships.  But take him now.  I don't want him to miss the fishing trip with his uncle.  He was very excited about it."

 

"Your brother requested a slight change of plans, my Lady," Goire said, uncomfortable with Jessica's presence, and at being caught in his mistake.  "We'll schedule another fishing trip for next week, but Victor wanted so much to accompany Duke Leto.  This sort of procession is very rare.  I didn't have the heart to refuse him."

 

Kailea whirled, aghast.  "What do you mean?  Where is Victor?  Where's Rhombur?"

 

"Why, they're aboard the skyclipper, my Lady.  I will inform Thufir Hawat --"

 

Kailea rushed to the window, but the huge airship and its companions had already drifted far out of sight.  She battered her fist on the transparent plaz of the window, and let out a loud, keening wail of despair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every man dreams of the future, though not all of us will be there to see it.

 

-TIO HOLTZMAN, Speculations on Time and Space

 

 

ABOARD THE SKYCLIPPER, Leto relaxed in the command seat.  The ship rose high above the city and drifted over the surrounding agricultural areas.  So peaceful, gentle, quiet.  He moved the rudders, but allowed the winds their whim.  In utter silence and perfect grace, they cruised over lush terrain at the head of the procession of ships.  He looked down upon broad rivers, thick forests, and marshes where standing pools glittered.

 

Victor stared wide-eyed out the viewing windows, pointing at sights and asking a thousand questions.  Rhombur answered, but deferred to Leto when the name of a landform or clustered village exceeded his knowledge.

 

"I'm glad you're here, Victor."  Leto good-naturedly mussed the boy's hair.

 

Three guards were stationed aboard, one in the main cabin and the others at the fore and aft exits.  They wore black uniforms, with the red hawk epaulets of the Atreides honor guard.  Since he had replaced one of their members for this trip, Rhombur wore the same uniform; even Victor, who had also replaced a guard because of weight limitations on the skyclipper, wore the epaulets on his replica of the Duke's black jacket.  On the boy, the epaulets were oversized, but he insisted on wearing them.

 

Rhombur began to sing folk songs, rhymes he'd picked up from locals.  In recent months he and Gurney Halleck had shared baliset duets, playing tunes and singing ballads.  At the moment, Rhombur simply enjoyed singing in his rough voice, without any accompaniment.

 

Hearing a familiar chanty, one of the guards joined in.  The man had grown up on a pundi rice farm before joining the Atreides troops, and still remembered the songs his parents had taught him.  Victor tried to sing along, too, adding the intermittent but not always correct words of a chorus when he thought he remembered them.

 

Though large, the sail-driven skyclipper was an easy craft to handle, a vessel made for leisurely voyages.  Leto promised himself that he would do this more often.  Perhaps he'd take Jessica with him . . . or even Kailea.

 

Yes, Kailea.  Victor should see his mother and father spend more time together, regardless of their political or dynastic differences.  Leto still had feelings for her, though she had rebuffed him at every turn.  Remembering how cruel his own parents had been to one another, he did not want to leave such a legacy for Victor.

 

It had been an oversight at first, worsened by his stubbornness when Kailea began making unreasonable demands about marriage -- but he realized he should have at least made her his bound-concubine and given their son the Atreides name.  Leto had not yet decided to accept Archduke Ecaz's formal offer of marriage to Ilesa, but one day he would certainly find a politically acceptable match for himself among the Landsraad candidates.

 

Still, he loved Victor too much to deny the boy's status as firstborn.  If he designated the child as his official heir, perhaps Kailea would warm to him.

 

Eventually bored with the singing and the skyclipper's ponderous pace, Victor craned his neck upward to look at the rippling sails outside.  Leto let him handle the control grip for a few moments, turning the rudder.  The boy was thrilled to see the skyclipper's nose nudging in response to his commands.

 

Rhombur laughed.  "You'll be a great pilot someday, boy -- but don't let your father teach you.  I know more about piloting than he does."

 

Victor looked from his uncle to his father, and Leto laughed to see him ponder the comment with such seriousness.  "Victor, ask your uncle to tell you how he set our coracle on fire once, then crashed it into a reef."

 

"You told me to crash it into the reef," Rhombur said.

 

"I'm hungry," Victor said, not surprising Leto at all.  The boy had a hearty appetite, and was growing taller every day.

 

"Go look in the storage cabinets in the back of the bridge deck," Rhombur said.  "That's where we keep our snacks."  Anxious to explore, Victor ran to the rear of the deck.

 

The skyclipper passed over pundi rice paddies, soggy green fields separated by sluggish canals.  Barges drifted along below them, filled with sacks of the native grain.  The sky was clear, the winds gentle.  Leto could not imagine a better day for flying.

 

Victor stood on a ledge to reach the topmost cabinets, rummaging among the shelves.  He studied iconic images on the labels; he couldn't read all the Galach words, but recognized letters and understood the purposes of certain things.  He found dried meats, and uluus, wrapped berry pastries as a special dessert for the evening.  He gobbled one package of uluus, which satisfied his immediate hunger, but he continued to poke about.

 

With the curiosity of a child, Victor moved to a bank of storage pockets built into the gondola's lower wall against the dirigible sack that made up the bulk of the skyclipper.  Identifying the red symbol, he knew that these were emergency supplies, first-aid equipment, medicines.  He had seen such things before, watching in awe as House surgeons bandaged cuts and scrapes.

 

Opening the first-aid pocket, he withdrew medical supplies, scrutinized gauze wrappings and pill packets.  A loose cover plate on the back wall rattled intriguingly, so he popped it out to find another compartment even deeper within.  Inside a sheltered wall behind the emergency supplies, Victor found something with blinking lights, a glowing counter, impedance-transfer mechanisms connected to clusters of red energy-storage containers, all strung together.

 

Fascinated, he stared for a long time.  "Uncle Rhombur!  Come see what I found!"

 

Smiling tolerantly, Rhombur strode across the deck, ready to do his best to explain whatever the child had encountered.

 

"There, behind the doctor kits."  Victor pointed with a small finger.  "See, it's bright and pretty."

 

Rhombur stood behind the boy, bent over to squint. Proud and proprietary, Victor reached deeper inside.  "Look at how all the lights blink.  I'll get it so you can see better."

 

The boy grasped the device, and Rhombur suddenly sucked in a sharp breath.  "No, Victor!  That's a --"