Duke Leto's son jostled the impedance leads, and activated the tamper-lock timer.

 

The explosives detonated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Knowledge is pitiless.

 

-Orange Catholic Bible

 

 

WHEN FLAMES ERUPTED from the aft end of the skyclipper cockpit, the shock wave slammed into Leto like a meteor.

 

A burned and broken mass of flesh smashed into the front viewing wall beside him, then dropped to the floor.  Too large for a child, too small to be a man -- a whole man -- it left a smear of blackened bodily fluids.

 

Searing heat roared around him as the air crackled with flames.  The rear of the dirigible blazed, engulfed in orange fire.

 

Yelling uselessly in horrified confusion, Leto wrestled the rudder controls as the wounded skyclipper bucked and reared.  Out of the corner of his eye, he couldn't stop looking at the broken form beside him.

 

It twitched.  Who was it?  He didn't want to know.

 

A parade of awful images assaulted his retinas, one at a time, lasting the merest fraction of a second.  Behind him, he heard a screaming wail that changed abruptly, then dwindled as the flailing silhouette of a man was sucked through a gaping blast hole torn in the bottom of the cabin.  The man's entire body was in flames.  It had to be either Rhombur or one of the three guards.

 

Victor had been at the center of the explosion. . . .

 

Gone forever.

 

The crippled skyclipper began to plummet, losing buoyancy as the flammable gas was consumed inside the dirigible's body.  The fabric tore away, and yellow-white fire towered higher.  Smoke filled the cockpit.

 

Leto's flesh was hot, and he knew his fine black uniform would soon be in flames.  Beside him, the wreck of the unidentified body made a mewling sound of pain. . . .  He seemed to have the wrong number of arms and legs, and his face was a bloody mass of twisted, unrecognizable flesh.

 

The skyclipper was crashing.

 

Below, pundi rice paddies spread out in sinuous rivers, jewel-like ponds, and peaceful villages.  The people had gathered, waving pennants to greet his passage.  But now, seeing the fireball overhead like the hammer of God, they scrambled for shelter as the skyclipper died in the air.  The smaller escort craft flurried around the flaming vessel, but they could do nothing but follow.

 

Leto tore his mind from its stunned paralysis -- Rhombur!  Victor! -- when suddenly he saw that the airship was hurtling toward one of the farming villages.  He would crash in the midst of the gathered people.

 

Like an animal, he wrestled with the rudders to change the angle of descent, but the flames consumed the hydraulic systems, ate away the buoyant enclosure.  Most of the villagers scattered like a panicked herd; others stared helplessly, realizing they could never get away in time.

 

Knowing in his heart that Victor must be dead, Leto was tempted just to let himself vanish in the bright flames and the explosion.  He could close his eyes and lean back, allowing gravity and heat to crush and incinerate him.  How simple it would be just to give up. . . .

 

But when he saw all those people down there -- some of them children like Victor -- Leto forced back his despair, leaned forward, and fought the controls.  There had to be some way to alter course and avoid the village.

 

"No, no, no . . ." he moaned deep in his throat.

 

Leto felt no physical pain, only grief that ripped through his heart like a knife.  He could not bear to consider all he had lost, could not waste a moment of reflexes and skill.  He was fighting for the lives of the people who believed in him and relied on him.

 

At last one of the rudders turned, and the skyclipper's nose tipped upward the barest fraction of a degree.  Tearing open an emergency panel below his controls, Leto saw that his hands were red and blistered.  All around, the flames grew hotter and hotter.  But he reached inside and tugged on the curved red levers with all his strength, hoping the escape cables and controls remained active.

 

As the blaze in the rear of the skyclipper increased, metal clamps thumped open.  The tattered dirigible sack split free, disconnected from the cockpit cabin.  Guidance sails broke away and flew off in the winds, some singed, some already on fire, like flaming kites without strings.

 

The cockpit cabin dropped off, and the remainder of the dirigible sack -- suddenly freed of the weight of passengers and the thick-walled cabin -- rose like a comet blazing in the sky.  Correspondingly, the self-contained cabin dropped at a steeper angle.  Glider wings extended, snapping into place, braking the descent.  Damaged suspensor mechanisms struggled to function.

 

Leto pushed hard against the control grip.  The hot air seemed to be melting his lungs with every breath he gasped.  The tangled trees bordering soft islands in the rice marshes rose up at him.  Their thorns were stiff fingers with sharpened ends, a forest of claws.  He loosed a wordless howl. . . .

 

Even the Old Duke's end in the bullring would never be remembered as more spectacular than this final flash of glory. . . .

 

At the last possible instant, Leto added just a little lift and power, as much as he could wring from the damaged suspensors and engines.  He skimmed past the crowded village, singeing ramshackle roofs, and crashed into the rice marshes beyond.

 

The cockpit cabin hit the saturated ground like an ancient artillery shell.  Mud, water, and shattered trees sprayed up into the air.  The walls folded and collapsed.

 

The impact hurled Leto from his seat into the front bulkhead, and then dropped him back down to the floor.  Brownish water poured through ruptures in the cabin until finally, with a groan and a shriek, the wreckage came to a rest.

 

Leto slipped into peaceful darkness. . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The greatest and most important problems of life cannot be solved.  They can only be outgrown.

 

-SISTER JESSICA, private journal entry

 

 

IN A LIGHT TROPICAL RAIN, the survivors among the senior Swordmasters strode along the explosion-pocked pavement of what had formerly been the historic central plaza of the Ginaz School.

 

Duncan Idaho, already battle-proven, stood in their midst; he had discarded his torn tunic.  Beside him, Hiih Resser kept his shirt on, though it was drenched in blood -- mostly not his own.  Both of them were full-fledged Swordmasters now, but they had no desire to celebrate their triumph.

 

Duncan just wanted to go home, to Caladan.

 

Though it had been more than a day since the Grumman sneak attack, fire and rescue crews still worked in the rubble, using sleek dogs and trained ferrets to sniff for signs of life.  But buried survivors were few.

 

The central plaza's once-lovely fountain had been demolished by shrapnel.  Smoking debris lay all around.  The odor of death and fire lingered in the air, not dissipated by the sea breezes.

 

The Moritani soldiers had intended only a damaging hit-and-run strike; they had made no preparations -- and had no stomach -- for a prolonged battle.  Shortly after the Ginaz fighters rallied their weapons for defense, the Grummans left their fallen soldiers behind.  They abandoned their damaged aircraft and rushed back to waiting frigates.  No doubt, Viscount Moritani was already publicly justifying his heinous actions -- and privately celebrating his sneak attack, no matter how much blood it had cost his own men.

 

"We study and teach fighting, but Ginaz is not a military world," Whitmore Bludd said; his fine clothing looked all the worse now, soot-stained and bedraggled.  "We strive to remain independent of political matters."

 

"We made assumptions and got caught sleeping," Jeh-Wu said, turning his perpetual sarcasm on himself for once.  "We would have killed any new student for such blind arrogance.  And we are guilty of it ourselves."

 

Weary to the bone, Duncan looked at the men who had once been so proud, and saw how defeated they looked.

 

"Ginaz should never have been a target for aggression."  Rivvy Dinary bent over to pick up a mangled strip of metal, once part of an ornamental clockwork sculpture.  "We assumed --"

 

"You assumed," Duncan cut him off, and they had no answer.

 

 

DUNCAN AND HIS REDHEADED FRIEND took the body of Trin Kronos and dumped it out into the crashing surf near the main training center -- the same spot where the kidnappers had dropped the corpses of their other four victims.  The gesture seemed right, the appropriate symbolic response, but the pair took no satisfaction from it.

 

Now, the gathered fighting men shook their heads in dismay as they inspected the damaged administration building.  Duncan vowed to never forget the arrogance of the Swordmasters, how it had led to so much trouble.  Even the ancients understood the danger of hubris, of the pride before the fall; had men learned nothing in all these thousands of years?

 

Like his companions, Duncan now wore a Swordmaster's khaki uniform and red bandanna.  Black bands encircled their left arms, in honor of more than a hundred Swordmasters who had died in the Moritani assault.

 

"We relied on Imperial law to protect us," an injured Mord Cour said, sounding weak and small.  He seemed very different from the man who had taught the drama of epic poetry and made students weep as he recited legendary stories.  Both of his arms were bandaged.  "But the Grummans didn't care.  They have flouted our most sacred traditions, spat upon the very foundation of the Imperium."

 

"Not everyone plays by the rules," Duncan said, unable to suppress his bitterness.  "Trin Kronos told us himself.  We just didn't listen to him."  Rivvy Dinari's jowly face flushed.

 

"House Moritani will get a slap on the wrist," Jeh-Wu said, his lips puckered into a frown.  "They'll be fined, perhaps embargoed -- and they will continue to laugh at us."

 

"How can anyone respect the prowess of Ginaz now?" Bludd groaned.  "The school is disgraced.  The damage to our reputation is immense."

 

Mord Cour stared up at the hazy sky, and his long gray hair hung like a shroud around his head.  "We must remake the school.  Just like the followers of Jool-Noret did, after their Master drowned."

 

Duncan studied the grizzled old Swordmaster, remembered the man's tumultuous lifetime after his village had been wiped out, how he had lived a feral life in the mountainsides of Hagal, then returned to join -- and slay -- the bandits who had killed his neighbors and family.  If anyone could accomplish such a dramatic resurrection, Cour could.

 

"We will never be so helpless again," Rivvy Dinari promised, his voice filled with emotion.  "Our Premier has promised to station two full combat units here, and we are acquiring a squad of minisubs to patrol the waters.  We are Swordmasters, righteous in our prowess -- and this enemy caught us completely unprepared.  We are ashamed."  With a graceful move, he kicked a twisted scrap of metal, sending it clattering into the street.  "Honor is slipping away.  What is the Imperium coming to?"

 

Overwhelmed by his own thoughts, Duncan stepped around a splash of blood on the pavement, which glistened in the warm rain.  Resser bent to look at it, as if he could draw some information from the rusty puddle, some indication of whether the fallen victim was enemy, or ally, or bystander.

 

"A lot of questions need to be asked," Bludd said, his voice edged by suspicion.  "We must dig deeply enough to find out what really happened."  He puffed out his chest.  "And we will.  I'm a soldier first and an educator second."

 

His companions grunted in agreement.

 

Seeing something sparkle in a pile of rubble, Duncan stepped over debris to retrieve it.  He pulled out a silver bracelet, wiped it on his sleeve.  Tight clusters of charms hung from the band . . . tiny swords, Guild Heighliners, ornithopters.  Rejoining the others, Duncan handed it to Dinari.

 

"Let us hope it didn't belong to a child," the bulky man said.

 

Duncan had already seen four dead children dragged from the debris, the sons and daughters of school employees.  The final death toll would be in the thousands.  Could it all be traced back to the single insult of expelling Grumman students, which had been a justifiable act in response to House Moritani's outrageous attack on innocent Ecazi civilians . . . which had been caused by the assassination of an ambassador at a banquet on Arrakis . . . which in turn had been provoked by suspected crop sabotage?

 

But the Grumman students had made their own choices about staying or leaving.  It was all so senseless.  Trin Kronos had lost his life over it, and too many others with him.  When would it end?

 

Resser still intended to return to Grumman, though it seemed suicidal for him to do so.  He had his own demons to face there, but Duncan hoped he would survive them, and eventually make his way to Duke Leto.  After all, Resser was a Swordmaster.

 

A few of the Swordmasters halfheartedly suggested offering their services as mercenaries for Ecaz.  Some of the Masters insisted that they regain their honor first.  Skilled fighters were needed on Ginaz to rebuild the decimated school faculty.  The famed academy would be years recovering from this.

 

But, while Duncan felt a deep sense of loss and anger for what had happened here, his first allegiance was to Duke Leto Atreides.  For eight years Duncan had been forged in fire like the layered steel of a sword.  And that sword was sworn to House Atreides.He would return to Caladan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why look for meaning where there is none?  Would you follow a path you know leads nowhere?

 

-Query of the Mentat School

 

 

THE NIGHTMARES WERE BAD, but waking was infinitely worse.

 

When Leto returned to consciousness in the infirmary, the night nurse greeted him, telling him he was lucky to be alive.  Leto didn't feel so lucky.  Seeing his dismal expression, the male nurse with heavy spectacles said, "There is some good news.  Prince Rhombur survived."

 

Leto took a deep, agitated breath.  His lungs felt as if he had swallowed ground glass.  He tasted blood in his saliva.  "And Victor?"  He could hardly get the words out.

 

The nurse shook his head.  "I'm sorry."  After a somber pause, the man added, "You need more rest.  I don't want to trouble you with details about the bomb.  There is time enough for that later.  Thufir Hawat is investigating."  He reached into a pocket of his smock.  "Let me give you a sleeping capsule."

 

Leto shook his head vehemently, extended a warding hand.  "I'll go back to sleep on my own."  Victor is dead!

 

Not entirely satisfied, but deferring to the royal patient, the nurse told him not to get out of bed.  A voice-activated call-unit hovered in the air over the bed.  Leto just had to speak into it.

 

Victor is dead.  My son!  Leto had known it already . . . but now he had to face the terrible reality.  And a bomb.  Who could have done such a thing?

 

Despite the medical orders, the stubborn Duke watched the night nurse go into a room across the corridor to tend another patient.  Rhombur?  From his bed, Leto could just see one edge of an open doorway.

 

Ignoring the pain, Leto pulled himself to a sitting position on the infirmary bed.  Moving like a damaged Ixian mek, he levered himself up from crisp sheets that smelled of perspiration and bleach and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  His bare feet touched the floor.

 

Where was Rhombur?  Everything else could wait.  He needed to see his friend.  Someone has killed my son!  Leto felt a surge of anger, and a sharp pain across the top of his head.

 

His vision focused to a pinprick, and he concentrated on a tiny goal in front of him as he took one step, then a second. . . .  His ribs were bandaged, and his lungs burned.  Plaskin salve made his face feel stiff, like soft stone.  He had not looked in a mirror to see the extent of the damage.  He didn't worry about scars, didn't care at all.  Nothing could heal the deep, irreparable damage to his soul.  Victor was dead.  My son, my son!

 

Incredibly, Rhombur had survived, but where was he?

 

A bomb on the skyclipper . . .

 

Leto took one more step, then another away from the diagnostic apparatus beside the bed.  Outside, a cold storm blew, splattering raindrops like pellets against the sealed windows behind him.  The infirmary lights were dimmed in the gloomy night.  He staggered out of the room.

 

Reeling in the doorway of the room across the corridor, he grasped the jamb to maintain his balance, then blinked before he stumbled toward brighter light inside, where the glowglobes were whiter, colder.  The large room was divided by a dark curtain that waved slightly in the shadows.  Sharp odors assailed him from chemicals and cold air-purification systems.

 

Disoriented, he didn't consider consequences or implications.  He only knew for certain, like a tolling bell in his mind, that Victor was gone.  Killed in flames or sucked out with the explosion.  Was it a Harkonnen assassination plot against House Atreides?  A vengeful attack by the Tleilaxu against Rhombur?  Someone trying to eliminate Leto's heir?

 

It was difficult for the Duke to explore such matters through the fuzz of pain medications, through the stupor of grief.  He could barely maintain the mental energy to proceed from one moment to the next.  Despair was like a soaked blanket, smothering him.  Despite his determination, Leto was sorely tempted to fall into a deep, comforting well of surrender.

 

I must see Rhombur.

 

He slid the curtain open, passed through.  In low light, a coffin-shaped life-support pod was hooked up to tubes and pipes.  Leto focused his efforts and took laboring steps, cursing the pain that caused his movements to falter.  A mechanically operated bellows pumped oxygen into the sealed chamber.  Rhombur lay within.

 

"Duke Leto!"

 

Startled, he noticed the woman who stood beside the life-support pod, wrapped in Bene Gesserit robes, surrounding herself with dark colors like shadows.  Tessia's drawn face was leached of its sharp humor and quiet loveliness, drained of life.

 

He wondered how long Rhombur's concubine had maintained her vigil here.  Jessica had told him of Bene Gesserit techniques that allowed Sisters to remain awake for days.  Leto realized that he didn't even know how much time had passed since he'd been pulled from the smashed wreckage of the cockpit chamber.  From the haggard look on Tessia's face, he doubted she had rested a moment since the disaster.

 

"I . . . I came to see Rhombur," he said.

 

Tessia took a half step backward, and pointed toward the pod.  She did not assist Leto, and he finally made it on his own to the plazchrome side of the vessel.  He leaned heavily against the cool, polished metal seams.

 

Breathing hard, Leto bent his head but kept his eyes closed until the dizziness passed and the pain subsided . . . and until he built up his nerve to look upon what had happened to his friend.

 

He opened his eyes.  And recoiled in horror.

 

All that remained of Rhombur Vernius was a smashed head and most of a spinal column, part of a chest.  The rest -- limbs, skin, some organs -- had been ripped away by the force of the blast or crisped to cinders by engulfing flames.  Mercifully, he remained in a coma.  This was the torn mass of flesh he had seen on the deck of the skyclipper.

 

Leto tried to think of an appropriate prayer from the O.C. Bible.  His mother would have known exactly what to say -- though she had always resented the presence of the Vernius children.  Lady Helena would claim this was a righteous punishment from God, because Leto had dared to take in the refugees from a sacrilegious House.

 

Life-support systems and power packs kept Rhombur alive, trapping his tormented soul inside this scrap of body that still clung to his existence.

 

"Why?" Leto said to himself.  "Why did this happen?  Who did this to him?  To Victor?  To me?"

 

He looked up and saw Tessia's stony expression.  She must be using all of her Bene Gesserit training just to contain her own anguish.

 

Although she'd been an arranged concubine, Rhombur had genuinely loved her.  The two had allowed their match to blossom into what it could be -- unlike Leto's relationship with Kailea, and unlike his parents, whose marriage had never engendered true affection.

 

"Thufir Hawat and Gurney Halleck have been at the crash site for days," Tessia said. "They are investigating the wreckage to determine the responsible party.  You are aware of the bomb?"

 

Leto nodded.  "Thufir will find the answers.  He always does."  He forced the words from his mouth, driving himself to ask the question he dreaded most.  "And Victor's body -- ?"

 

Tessia looked away.  "Your son was . . . found.  The guard captain, Swain Goire, immediately preserved as much as possible . . . though I can't think what purpose that might serve.  Goire . . . loved the boy, too."

 

"I know he did," Leto said.

 

He stared down at the strange red-and-pink shape inside the life-support pod, unable to recognize his friend.  So closely did the chamber resemble a coffin that Leto could almost envision pulling away the wires, sealing the top, and burying it.  Maybe that would be best.

 

"Is there anything we can do for him -- or is this just a futile exercise?"

 

He could see the muscles bunch in Tessia's cheeks, and her sepia eyes hardened, blazing with cold fire.  Her voice dropped to a breathless whisper.  "I can never give up hope."

 

"My Lord Duke!"  The night nurse's alarmed voice carried a scolding tone as he entered the room.  "You must not be up, sir.  You must recover your strength.  You are grievously injured, and I cannot permit you --"

 

Leto lifted a hand.  "Don't speak to me of grievous injuries as I stand here beside the life-support pod of my friend."

 

The nurse's gaunt face flushed, and he nodded jerkily on a long thin neck, like a wading bird's.  But he touched Leto's sleeve with a delicate, scrubbed hand.  "Please, my Lord.  I am not here to compare wounds.  My aim is to see that the Duke of House Atreides heals as quickly as possible.  That is your duty, too."

 

Tessia touched the life-support pod, and her gaze met Leto's.  "Yes, Leto.  You have responsibilities still.  Rhombur would never permit you to throw everything away because of his condition."

 

Leto allowed himself to be guided out of the room, taking careful steps as the night nurse led him back to his bed.  He knew intellectually that he must regain his strength, if only to enable him to understand the disaster.

 

My son, my son!  Who has done this thing?

 

 

LOCKED IN HER CHAMBERS, Kailea wailed for hours.  Refusing to speak to anyone, she did not come out to see the Duke, her brother, or anyone else.  But in truth, she could not face herself, the monstrous guilt, the unredeemable shame.

 

It would be only a matter of time before Thufir Hawat and his relentless investigation uncovered her culpability.  For now, no one had expressed any suspicions against her . . . but soon the gossip would begin, whispered along the cool stone halls of Castle Caladan.  People would wonder why she was avoiding Duke Leto.

 

And so, after learning the schedule of medications -- and determining when Leto would be least likely to detect the murderous guilt in her eyes -- Kailea unbolted the door of her chambers and walked unsteadily toward the infirmary rooms.  At dusk, the light visible through stone-framed windows had turned the cloud banks coppery in the sky, like her hair.  But she saw no beauty in the sunset, only shadows inside the walls.

 

Medical technicians and the doctor bustled about, making way for her, backing out of the room to give her privacy with the Duke.  The sympathy on their faces tore at her heart.

 

"He has suffered a relapse, Lady Kailea," the doctor said.  "We've had to administer more drugs for his pain, and now he may be too sleepy to say much."

 

Kailea stood with forced hauteur.  Her puffy red eyes dried as she steeled herself.  "Nevertheless, I will see him.  I shall stand by Leto Atreides as long as I am able, trusting that he knows I am there."

 

The doctor courteously found something else to do outside the room.

 

Her footsteps leaden, one hesitant pace at a time, Kailea moved closer to the bedside.  The room smelled of injuries and pain, of medicines and despair.  She looked down at Leto's bruised, burned face and tried to recall her anger toward him.  She thought again of the terrible things Chiara had told her, the myriad ways Leto Atreides had betrayed all of her hopes, destroying her dreams.

 

Still, she remembered vividly the first time they had actually made love, practically by accident after the Duke had been drinking too much Caladan ale with Goire and the guards.  Laughing, Leto had spilled a mug on himself, and then ambled out into the hall.  There he encountered Kailea, who'd been unable to sleep and had been prowling the Castle.  Noting his condition, she'd scolded him gently and led him into his private chambers.

 

She had intended to help him into bed and then leave.  Nothing more, though she had fantasized about it many times.  His own attraction for her had been so plain, for so long. . . .

 

After all they'd been through, how could she possibly have convinced herself to hate him?

 

As she stared at him now, lying injured and motionless, she recalled how he had loved to play with his son.  She had refused to see how much he'd adored the boy, because she hadn't wanted to believe it.

 

Victor!  She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands against her face.  Tears flowed over her palms.

 

Leto stirred and half awoke, focusing on her with groggy, red-rimmed eyes.  It took him a long moment, but finally he recognized her.  His face seemed free of walls and the hardness of leadership, showing only naked emotion.  "Kailea?" he said in a drawn-out croak.

 

Not daring to respond, she bit her upper lip.  What could she possibly say?  He knew her too well . . . he would know!

 

"Kailea . . ." His voice filled with absolute anguish.  "Oh, Kailea, they've killed Victor!  Someone has killed our beautiful son.  Oh, Kailea . . . who could have done such a thing?  Why?"

 

He struggled to keep his gray eyes open, fighting the fog of drugs in his system.  Kailea jammed her fist into her mouth, biting on the knuckles until blood flowed.

 

Unable to face him any longer, she whirled and fled the room.

 

 

IN A RAGE, Swain Goire strode up the long steps to the isolated tower chambers.  Two Atreides House guards stood outside the entrance to Kailea's private rooms.

 

"Step aside," Goire commanded.

 

But the guards refused to move.  "The Lady Kailea has given us orders," said the Levenbrech-ranked officer on the left, flicking his gaze away, afraid to oppose his commanding officer.  "She wishes to be alone in her grief.  She has not eaten or accepted any visitors.  She --"

 

"Who gives you orders, Levenbrech?  A concubine, or the commander of our Lord Duke's troops?"

 

"You, sir," answered the soldier on the right, looking at his companion.  "But you put us in an awkward position."

 

"You're dismissed, both of you," Goire barked.  "Go now.  I will bear the responsibility."  Then he said in a softer voice, as if to himself, "Yes, I bear the responsibility."

 

He threw open the door, strode inside, and slammed it behind him.

 

Kailea wore a pale old sleeping garment.  Her coppery hair hung in disarray, and her eyes were red and puffy.  She knelt on the stone floor, forsaking the chairs, ignoring the cold wet draft from the open window.  The fireplace lay gray and dark in the palpable gloom of the chamber.

 

Red scratches etched parallel lines on her cheeks, as if she had tried to claw out her eyes but had lost the nerve.  With a shadowed gaze she looked up at him, her expression filled with pathetic hope as she saw someone who might offer sympathy.

 

Kailea raised herself from the floor, little more than a ghost of herself.  "My son is dead, my brother mangled beyond recognition."  Her face looked like a skull.  "Swain, my son is dead."  She took a step toward him and extended her hands, as if hoping for comfort.  Her expressive mouth twisted in a parody of a pleading smile, but he stood rigid.

 

"My armory key was stolen," he said.  "Taken from my uniform belt shortly after Leto announced his plans for a ducal procession."

 

She stopped barely a meter from her lover.  "How can you think of such things when --"

 

"Thufir Hawat will learn what has happened!" Goire roared.  "I know now who took the key, and I know what it means.  Your actions condemn you, Kailea."  He shuddered, wanting to tear her heart out with his bare hands.  "Your own son!  How could you do this?"

 

"Victor is dead," she wailed.  "How can you think I planned that?"

 

"You meant to kill the Duke alone, didn't you?  I saw your panic when you learned that Rhombur and Victor had joined him in the skyclipper.  Most of the household already suspects your hand in this."

 

His eyes blazed and his muscles tightened, but he remained immobile as a statue.  "And you have made me responsible, too.  Skyclipper security was my duty, but I was slow to realize the importance of the missing key.  I kept convincing myself I had only misplaced it, refused to consider other possibilities . . . I should have raised an alarm."

 

He hung his head, continued to speak while he stared at the floor.  "I should have confessed our affair to my Duke long before this, and now you have soaked my hands with blood, as well as your own."  His nostrils flared as he looked at her in revulsion, and his vision turned crimson.  The room spun around him.  "I betrayed my Duke many times, but this is the worst of all.  I could have prevented Victor's death if only . . . ah, poor, sweet child."

 

Kailea's clawlike hands darted forward and grasped the hilt of the dueling dagger at Goire's waist.  She snatched it out of its sheath and held it up, her eyes glazing.  "If you are so miserable in your guilt, Swain, then fall on your knife like a good warrior, like a loyal Atreides soldier.  Take it.  Thrust the blade into your heart so that you can no longer feel the pain."

 

Dully, he looked at the outstretched dagger, but refused to move toward it.  Instead, after a long intense moment, he turned away . . . as if taunting Kailea to plunge the blade into his back.  "Honor demands justice, my Lady.  True justice -- not an easy way out.  I will face my Duke with what I have done."  He looked over his shoulder as he strode toward the doorway.  "Worry about your own guilt."

 

She held the dagger in her hands as Goire left.  After he closed the door, he heard Kailea wailing, pleading for him to come back.  But the captain closed his ears to her cries and marched purposefully from the tower.

 

 

WHEN KAILEA DEMANDED to see her lady-in-waiting, Chiara scuttled into the room, terrified but not daring to tarry.  Wind whistled through the open tower window, along with the sounds of surf crashing against the rocks far below.  Kailea stared out into the distance, the breezes whipping her pale garment like a funeral shroud around her.

 

"You . . . summoned me, my Lady?"  The old woman hovered close to the doorway, allowing her shoulders to slump in an appearance of meek submission.  She wished she had thought to bring a tray of spice coffee or Kailea's favorite sweetmeats, a peace offering to calm the animal fires within the distraught woman.

 

"Shall we discuss your foolish plan, Chiara?"  Kailea's voice sounded hollow and frighteningly cold.  She turned, and her expression carried death.

 

The lady-in-waiting's instincts told her to flee the Castle, to disappear into Cala City and take a transport back to Giedi Prime.  She could throw herself upon the mercy of Baron Harkonnen and boast about how much anguish she had caused the Duke, albeit with only partial success.

 

But Kailea held her paralyzed, like a snake mesmerizing its prey.

 

"I . . . I am terribly sorry, my Lady."  Chiara bowed, then began to grovel.  "I mourn for the innocent blood that was shed.  No one could have foreseen that Victor and Rhombur would join the procession.  They were never supposed to --"

 

"Silence!  I want none of your excuses.  I know everything that happened, everything that went wrong."

 

Like a steel trap closing, Chiara clamped off further words.  She felt a deeper nervousness, sensing how alone they were in this chamber.  If only the guards had remained at their posts as she'd ordered, if only Chiara had thought to arm herself before coming here.

 

So many things had been unforeseen.

 

"As I think back over the years, Chiara, I recall so many comments you made, all those insidious suggestions.  Now their meaning grows clear, and the weight of evidence is an avalanche against you."

 

"What . . . what do you mean, my Lady?  I have done nothing but serve you since --"

 

Kailea cut her off.  "You were sent here to sow discord, weren't you?  You have been trying to turn me against Leto since the day we met.  Who do you work for?  The Harkonnens?  House Richese?  The Tleilaxu?"  Sunken eyes and scarred cheeks dominated her blank and emotionless face.  "No matter, the result is the same.  Leto has survived . . . and my son is dead."

 

She took a step toward the old woman, and Chiara used her most compassionate voice like a shield.  "Your grief is making you think and say terrible things, my dear.  This has all been a dreadful mistake."

 

Kailea stepped closer.  "Be thankful for one thing, Chiara.  For many years I considered you my friend.  Victor died swiftly and painlessly, unsuspecting.  For that, I grant you your own merciful death."

 

She yanked out the dueling dagger she had taken from Swain Goire.  Chiara lurched backward, raising her fingers in a warding gesture.  "No, my Lady!"

 

But Kailea did not hesitate.  She drove forward, plunging the blade deep into Chiara's chest.  She withdrew and struck again to be sure she had pierced the traitorous woman's heart.  Then she let the knife fall with a clatter to the floor as a gurgling Chiara sagged like a pile of rags onto the tiles.

 

Blood splashed the eerily beautiful blue obsidian wall, and Kailea straightened, looking at her own dim reflection there.  She stared for a long moment, not liking what she saw.

 

With ponderous steps, Kailea went to the open window. The biting cold numbed her skin, and yet all of her flesh felt wet, as if with blood.  Holding the stone edges of the windowsill, she stared out into the cloud-laden sky to the distant horizon made smooth by the seas of Caladan.  Below, the foaming infinity of waves snarled around the base of the tall cliff.

 

The marvelous stalactite city inside the crust of Ix shone in her memory.  It had been so long since she'd danced in the reflective halls of the Grand Palais, showing off her finest merh-silk dresses.  She had stood with her brother and the Pilru twins looking out upon the immense grotto where Heighliners were built.

 

Like a prayer, Kailea Vernius brought to mind everything she had read and all the images she had seen of the Imperial Court at Kaitain, the spectacular palace, the tiered gardens, the chime kites. She had longed to spend her life in the dazzling glamor that should have accompanied her station -- Princess of a Great House of the Landsraad.  But in all her life, Kailea had never achieved the heights or the wonders that she desired.

 

Finally, leaving only dark memories behind her, she climbed onto the windowsill and spread her wings to fly. . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Humans must never submit to animals.

 

-Bene Gesserit Teaching

 

 

THOUGH ABULURD FORMALLY RETAINED the title of subdistrict governor of Lankiveil, in name at least, Glossu Rabban controlled the planet and its economy.  It amused him to let his father keep the title, as that didn't change who was really in power.

 

What could the old fool do anyway, holed up in a cliffside monastery?

 

Rabban despised the planet's dreary skies, cold temperatures, and primitive people with their smelly fish.  He hated it because the Baron had forced him to spend years here after his botched mission on Wallach IX.  But mostly, he hated the place because his father loved it so much.

 

Secure on Lankiveil, Rabban finally decided to inspect the remote spice stockpile they'd hidden decades before.  He liked to check the hoards periodically, to be certain they were secure.  All records had been erased, all witnesses eliminated.  No proof existed that the Baron had secreted away so much melange during his early tenure on Arrakis.

 

Rabban mounted an expedition, coming out of orbit to set down on the northern landmass where he had spent two years in the industrial port cities and the whale fur-processing plants.  Now, with ten of his soldiers, he navigated the ice-choked northern seas in a boat commandeered from one of the fisheries.  His scanners and technicians knew where to search for the artificial iceberg.  Rabban let them do their work while he huddled in his cabin and drank too much kirana brandy.  He would come out on deck when the goal was sighted, but he had no interest in smelling the salty fog or freezing his fingertips until it was necessary.

 

The synthetic iceberg was perfection to the naked eye, exactly like any other floating arctic block.  When the boat anchored, Rabban shouldered his way to the front of his troops.  He stepped aboard the polymer-based iceberg, operated the hidden hatch, and entered the hollow blue tunnels.

 

Only to find the enormous storehouse completely empty.

 

When Rabban let out a deep bellow, the sound echoed through the cold tunnels.  "Who did this?"

 

Later, the boat roared off to the south, leaving the faux iceberg behind.  Rabban stood at the bow, so hot with anger that the wet and cold no longer affected him.  The craft raced down to the rocky fjords, where Harkonnen soldiers swarmed into pathetic little fishing villages.  The settlements looked much nicer than Rabban remembered them:  the houses new, the equipment shiny and functional.  The fishing boats and tackle, as well as the storehouses, were modern and well cared for, full of off-world imports.

 

The soldiers wasted no time in grabbing villagers and torturing one after another until the same answer surfaced again and again.  Rabban had suspected even before he heard the name uttered through bloody lips and broken teeth.

 

Abulurd.

 

He might have known.

 

 

 

 

IN THE CLIFF CITY OF VERITAS, a cold winter snap came on.  The Buddislamic monks used fresh water from deep mountain springs to enhance the structure and beauty of their remarkable monastery.

 

Abulurd's scarred heart had recovered as much as it ever would.  Wearing warm robes and thick gloves, he held a flexible hose and spigot that sprayed a sparkling mist onto the edge of the cave opening.

 

His breath gushed out in a cloud of steam, and the skin of his cheeks felt so cold it was bound to crack.  But he smiled as he sprayed the hose, adding to the prismatic sheetwall of ice.  The barricade built up slowly, like a curtain around the front of their overhanging grotto.  The translucent, milky-white barrier hung down, a dome that reflected and sparkled in sunlight, yet blocked the winds that whipped around the crags.  Chimes and weathervanes jangled outside the grotto and up along the cliffs, gathering power and making music at the same time.

 

Abulurd shut off the water flow and pulled back on the spigot so that monks could run forward with broken chunks of colored glass, which they positioned in the freezing water to create a kaleidoscope of brilliant hues.  They stepped back, and Abulurd sprayed water again, coating the colored glass chips.  As the frozen curtain grew, the studded jewels added rainbows to the city under the overhang.

 

After the ice barrier had been extended another half meter, the abbot of Veritas sounded a gong, calling a halt to the efforts.  Abulurd shut off the water and sat back, exhausted but proud of what he had accomplished.

 

He stripped off his thick gloves and slapped the padded jacket to break away the crusting of ice.  Then he opened his body covering to let out the warm steam-sweat and stepped into a portable dining enclosure with clearplaz windows.

 

When several monks arrived to feed the workers, Emmi came up to him carrying a stone bowl of hot soup.  Abulurd patted the bench beside him, and his wife sat to share lunch with her husband.  The broth was delicious.

 

Suddenly, through the dining enclosure he saw the ice curtain shatter inward with a blaze of lasgun fire.  Broken shards crunched to the grotto floor, then slid down the outer cliff.  After a second round of weapons fire, a Harkonnen attack craft became visible hovering in front of the overhang, weapons still smoking as it cleared away space so that it could drive under the shelf ceiling.

 

The monks scrambled about, yelling.  One dropped a hose, and fresh water gushed across the cold stone floor.

 

Abulurd felt sick with a horrible sense of deja vu.  He and Emmi had come to Veritas to lead a life of peace, in secret.  They wanted no contact with the outside world, especially not with the Harkonnens.  Especially not with their elder son.

 

The attack craft scraped across the rock floor as it landed.  The hatch hissed open, and Glossu Rabban was the first out, flanked by soldiers who bristled with weapons -- though none of the monks in Veritas would ever have resorted to violence, not even to defend one of their own.  Rabban wore his inkvine whip.

 

"Where is my father?" he demanded as he led his men toward the dining enclosure.  His voice sounded like two rocks crashing together.  The intruders ripped the thin plaz door open, allowing a cold wind inside.

 

Abulurd stood up, and Emmi grabbed him in a gesture so abrupt that she upended the bowl of hot soup.  It tumbled to the polished floor and shattered.  Steam rose from the spilled broth into the cold air.

 

"I'm here, Son," Abulurd said, standing tall.  "There's no need to break anything else."  His mouth was dry with fear, his throat constricted.  The monks backed away, and he was glad the others did not try to speak, because Glossu Rabban -- his demonic son -- had no qualms about opening fire on innocents.

 

The burly man swiveled as if his waist were on ball bearings.  His heavy eyebrows furrowed, forming a hood that shadowed his face.  He marched forward, fists coiled.  "The spice stockpile -- what have you done with it?  We tortured the people in your fishing village."  His eyes danced with pleasure.  "Everyone gave your name.  And then we tortured some more, just to be sure of the matter."

 

Abulurd stepped forward, putting distance between himself and Emmi and the other monks.  His gray-blond hair hung limp over his ears with sweat from his labors.  "I used the stockpile to help the people of Lankiveil.  After all the hurt you've caused, you owe it to them."  He had intended to prepare for this eventuality, to set up an effective passive defense system that would protect them from Harkonnen rage.  He'd hoped Rabban wouldn't notice the missing spice until he'd had a chance to prepare the monks.  But he hadn't gotten around to it soon enough.

 

Emmi hurried across the floor, her face flushed, her straight black hair thrown back.  "Stop this!  Leave your father alone."

 

Rabban didn't even turn his head, didn't take his eyes from Abulurd's.  Instead, he lashed out with one muscular arm and struck his mother squarely in the center of her face.  She staggered back, clutching her nose as blood poured between her fingers and down her cheeks.

 

"How dare you strike your mother!"

 

"I'll strike whomever I please.  You don't seem to understand who has the power here.  You don't know how pathetically weak you are."

 

"I'm ashamed of what you've become."  Abulurd spat on the floor in disgust.

 

Rabban was unimpressed.  "What have you done with our spice stockpile?  Where have you taken it?"

 

Abulurd's eyes flashed fire.  "For once, Harkonnen money has done some good, and you'll never get it back."

 

Moving with the speed of a viper, Rabban grabbed Abulurd's long-fingered hand and yanked it toward him.  "I'm not going to waste time with you," he said, his voice deep and threatening.  With a vicious twist, he snapped Abulurd's index finger, breaking it like a dry stick.  Then he broke the thumb.

 

Abulurd reeled with the pain.  Emmi staggered to her feet and screamed.  Blood streamed down her mouth and chin.

 

"What have you done with the spice?"  Quickly, efficiently, Rabban broke two fingers on his father's other hand for good measure.

 

Abulurd looked at his son, his gaze steady, thrusting away the pain that howled through his broken hands.  "I distributed all the money through dozens of intermediaries.  We spent the credits here on Lankiveil.  We built new buildings, bought new equipment, purchased food and medical supplies from off-world merchants.  We've taken some of our people off-planet to better places."

 

Rabban was incredulous.  "You spent all of it?"  There had been enough melange hidden away to finance several large-scale wars.

 

Abulurd's laugh was a thin, slightly hysterical sound.  "A hundred solaris here, a thousand there."

 

Now the steam seemed to boil out of Rabban, deflating him -- because he understood that his father undoubtedly could have done exactly as he claimed.  If so, the Harkonnen spice hoard was truly gone.  Rabban could never retrieve it.  Oh, he might squeeze a bit of repayment here and there from the villagers, but he would never reclaim everything they had lost.

 

The tides of rage threatened to burst a blood vessel in Rabban's brain.  "I'll kill you for this."  His voice held a cold tone of absolute certainty.

 

Abulurd stared into the wide, hate-filled face of his son -- a complete stranger.  Despite all Rabban had done, after all the corruption and evil, Abulurd still remembered him as a mischievous boy, still remembered when Emmi had held him as a baby.

 

"You will not kill me."  Abulurd's voice was stronger than he imagined it could be.  "No matter how vile you are or how many twisted things the Baron has taught you, you cannot commit such a heinous act.  I am your own father.  You are a human being -- not a beast."

 

This triggered the last avalanche of uncontrolled emotions.  With both hands, Rabban grasped his father around the throat.  Emmi screamed and threw herself at their deranged son, but she might have been a blown leaf.  Rabban's powerful hands squeezed and squeezed.

 

Abulurd's eyes bulged, and he reached up to fight back with his broken fingers.

 

Rabban's thick lips curved upward in a smile.  He crushed Abulurd's larynx and snapped his neck.  With a frown of disgust, he released his grip and let his father's corpse tumble to the rock floor as the monks and his own mother gasped and screamed.

 

"From now on I shall be called Beast."  Pleased with the new name he had chosen, Rabban signaled for his men to accompany him.  Then he strode back to the ships.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To keep from dying is not the same as "to live."

 

-Bene Gesserit Saying

 

 

EVEN THE DREARIEST ROOM in Castle Caladan was an improvement over the infirmary, and Leto had been moved to the exquisitely appointed Paulus Suite.  The change of location, despite its landmines of memory, was meant to help him recover.

 

But every day seemed the same, gray and endless and hopeless.

 

"Thousands of messages have come in, my Duke," Jessica said with forced cheer, though her heart ached for him.  She used just the slightest hint of manipulative Voice.  She pointed to cards, letters, and message cubes on a nearby table.  Bouquets of fragrant flowers adorned the room, battling the antiseptic odors of medicinals.  Some children had drawn pictures for their Duke.  "Your people grieve with you."

 

Leto didn't respond.  He stared ahead, his gray eyes without luster.  A white newskin wrap was secured to his forehead, a second application to repair scar tissue.  Quicknit amplifier packs were attached to one shoulder and both of his legs, and an intravenous line dangled from one arm.  He noticed none of it.

 

The burned and mangled body of Rhombur remained connected to a life-support pod back in the hospital.  The Prince still clung to life, though he might have been better off in the morgue.  Survival like this was worse than death.

 

At least Victor is at peace.  And Kailea, too.  He felt only pity for her, sickened at what she had been driven to do.

 

Leto turned his head slightly in Jessica's direction.  His face bore an overwhelming sadness.  "The medics have done as I commanded?  You're certain?"  Under Leto's strict orders, his son's recovered corpse had been placed in cryogenic suspension in the morgue.  It was a question he asked each day:  he seemed to forget the answer.

 

"Yes, my Duke -- it has been done."  Jessica held up one of the packages from well-wishers, trying to take his mind from the unbearable pain.  "This is from a widow on the Eastern Continent, who writes that her husband was a civil servant in your employ.  Look closely at the holophoto -- she is holding a plaque you gave her, in honor of her husband's lifelong service to House Atreides.  Now her young sons are eager to work for you."  Jessica stroked his shoulder, then touched the sensor to shut off the holophoto.  "Everyone wants you to get well."

 

Outside, on the steep paths and roads leading to Castle Caladan, citizens had come to place candles and flowers along the entire walkway.  Mountains of blossoms were piled beneath his windows, so that the heady, sweet perfume rose with the sea breezes.  People sang where he could hear them; some played the harp or baliset.

 

Jessica wished Leto could go out and face the well-meaning crowd.  She wanted him to sit in his tall ducal chair in the courtyard and hear the people's petitions, their complaints, their praises.  He could wear the garments of his duties, looking larger than any normal human, as the Old Duke had taught him.  Leto needed to distract himself enough to move forward in life again, and perhaps the momentum of day-to-day existence would even begin to heal his shattered heart.  The business of leadership.

 

His people needed him.

 

Hearing a shrill cry outside the window, Jessica saw a large sea hawk, with tethers dangling from its clawed feet as it spread its red-tinged wings.  Below stood a teenage boy holding the tether, looking hopefully up at the tiny Castle window.  Jessica had seen Leto talking with the young man on occasion, one of the villagers the Duke had befriended.  The sea hawk flew past Leto's room again, peering inside, as if the bird could serve as eyes for all the concerned people gathered below.

 

The Duke's face sank into deepest melancholy, and Jessica gazed upon him with love.  I can't shelter you from the world, Leto.  She had always marveled at his strength of character:  Now she worried about the fragility of his spirit.  Though stubborn and grim, Duke Leto Atreides no longer had the will to live.  This man she admired so much was effectively dead, despite the healing of his body.

 

She couldn't bear to let him give up and die -- not only because of her Bene Gesserit mandate to conceive his daughter, but because she longed to see Leto whole and happy again.  Silently, she promised to do everything in her power for him.  She murmured a Bene Gesserit prayer, "Great Mother, watch over those who are worthy."

 

 

IN THE DAYS AFTERWARD, she sat and talked with Leto constantly.  He responded to Jessica's quiet, undemanding attentions and slowly, gradually, began to improve.  Color returned to the Duke's narrow, handsome face.  His voice grew stronger, and he began to carry on longer conversations with her.

 

Still, his heart was dead.  He knew about Kailea's treachery, the murder of her lady-in-waiting, and how the woman he'd once loved had thrown herself out of a high window.  But he could feel no rage toward her, no obsession for revenge . . . only a sick sadness.  The spark of life and passion had gone from his eyes.

 

But Jessica wouldn't give up, and she wouldn't let him do so, either.

 

She set up a bird feeder on the balcony outside his window, and Leto often watched the wrens, rock sparrows, and finches.  He even named certain birds that came back again and again; for a man who had no Bene Gesserit training, the Duke's ability to distinguish among similar creatures impressed her.

 

One morning, almost a month after the skyclipper explosion, he said to Jessica, "I want to see Victor."  His voice sounded peculiar, low but emotionally charged.  "I can face it now.  Take me to him, please."

 

They locked gazes.  In the woodsmoke-gray of his eyes, Jessica saw that nothing could dissuade him.

 

Jessica touched his arm.  "He is . . . much worse than Rhombur.  You don't have to do this, Leto."

 

"Yes, Jessica . . . yes, I do."

 

 

DOWN IN THE VAULT Jessica thought the boy's crushed body looked almost peaceful, preserved in its cryogenic case.  Perhaps it was because Victor, unlike Rhombur, was safe in a realm where pain could no longer reach him.

 

Leto opened the doorseals and shivered as he reached through the frosty mist.  He placed his strong right hand on the boy's wrapped chest.  Whatever he said to his dead son, he did so privately, because no words came forth.  His lips barely moved.

 

Jessica saw Leto's sorrow.  He and Victor could spend no more time together; he would never have a chance to be the father the boy deserved.

 

She placed an arm on Leto's shoulder to comfort him.  Her heart raced and she fought to calm herself, using Bene Gesserit techniques.  She was unsuccessful, though; she heard a murmuring and agitation deep within her psyche, in the most distant reaches of her mind.  What was it?  It couldn't be the echoes of Other Memory, for she was not yet a Reverend Mother.  But she sensed that the ancient Sisters were troubled by something of such grave concern that it transcended normal bounds.  What is happening here?

 

"There can be no doubt now," Leto said, as if in a trance.  "House Atreides is cursed . . . and has been since the days of Agamemnon."

 

As she drew Leto reluctantly from the morgue, Jessica needed to reassure him, to tell him he was mistaken.  She wanted to remind the Duke of how much his family had accomplished, how greatly he was respected throughout the Imperium.

 

But the words wouldn't come.  She had known Rhombur, Victor, and Kailea.  She could not argue with Leto's fears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We are always human and carry the whole burden of being human.

 

-DUKE LETO ATREIDES

 

 

WINDBLOWN RAIN PELTED the windows of Leto's room, as thoughts battered his mind.  A downpour slashed the stone walls, and wind whistled through a poorly sealed window frame.  The storm echoed his mood.

 

Alone in the suite, Leto sat shivering in a tall chair that seemed to overwhelm him.  Behind closed eyelids, he pictured Victor's face, the boy's black hair and brows, the insatiable curiosity, the quick and generous laughter . . . the child-sized ducal jacket and overlarge epaulets he'd been wearing at the time of his death.

 

Leto's eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he imagined shadow-shapes around the room.  Why couldn't I have helped my son?

 

He hung his head and spoke aloud now, conversing with ghosts.  "If there was the slightest thing I could do for Victor, I would sell every Atreides holding."  His grief threatened to overwhelm him.

 

Noises intruded, a pounding at his sealed chamber door that was so loud and heavy, he knew it must be Thufir Hawat.  Leto moved slowly, his body aching, without energy.  His eyes were red and scratchy; at any other time he could have summoned enough courtesy to greet his Master of Assassins . . . but not now, not so late at night.

 

Hawat opened the door.  "My Duke," he said, crossing the room and extending a silvery message cylinder.  "This document just arrived at the spaceport."

 

"More condolences?  I thought we'd already heard from every House in the Landsraad."  Leto could not focus his eyes.  "I don't dare hope that this could be good news?"

 

"No, my Duke."  Hawat's leathery face seemed to sag in on itself.  "It is from the Bene Tleilax."  He placed the cylinder into Leto's trembling hands.

 

Scowling, Leto broke the seal, then stared at the brief message, wicked in its simplicity, awful in its promises.  He had heard of such possibilities, sinister practices that brought a shudder of revulsion to any moral man.  If only it could be true.  He had avoided even considering the Tleilaxu -- but now the vile little gnome-men had made their offer directly.

 

Hawat waited, ready to serve his Duke, barely concealing his dread.

 

"Thufir . . . they have offered to grow a ghola of Victor, bring him back from his dead cells, so that . . . so that he can be alive again."

 

Even the Mentat could not hide his astonishment.  "My Lord!  You must not consider --"

 

"The Tleilaxu could do it, Thufir.  I could have my son back."

 

"At what cost?  Do they even name their price?  This bears an ill stamp upon it, sir, mark my words.  Those loathsome men destroyed Ix.  They threatened to kill you during the Trial by Forfeiture.  They have made no secret of their hatred for House Atreides."

 

Leto stared at the message cylinder.  "They still believe I fired upon their ships inside the Heighliner.  Now, thanks to the Bene Gesserit, we know the true perpetrator.  We could tell the Tleilaxu about the Harkonnens and their invisible attack ship --"

 

The Mentat stiffened.  "My Lord, the Bene Gesserit have refused to give us proof.  The Tleilaxu will never believe you without evidence."

 

Leto's voice sounded small, and desperate.  "But Victor has no other chance.  When it comes to my son, I will deal with anyone, pay any price."  He longed to hear the boy's voice again, to see his smile, to feel the touch of the small hand in his own.

 

"I must remind you that while a ghola may be an exact copy in all respects, the new child would have none of Victor's memories, none of his personality."

 

"Even so, would that not be better than having only memories and a corpse?  And this time, I will legitimize him and make him my rightful heir."

 

The thought filled him with sorrow beyond measure.  Would a ghola Victor grow up normally, or would he be tainted by the knowledge of what he was?  What if the Bene Tleilax -- so skilled in creating twisted Mentats -- did something to the boy's genetic makeup?  A hidden plot to strike back at Duke Atreides through the person he loved most.

 

But Leto would risk even damnation . . . for Victor.  He was helpless in the face of the decision.  He had no choice.

 

Hawat's voice was gruff and strained.  "My Lord, as your Mentat -- and as your friend -- I advise you against this rash course of action.  It is a trap.  You know the Tleilaxu mean to bind you in their poisonous web."

 

Flinching from residual twinges of pain, Leto stepped closer to the old Master of Assassins.  Hawat backed away when he saw the mad fury in the Duke's reddened eyes.  He seemed not to have heard any of the objections.

 

"Thufir, I can entrust this mission to no one but you."  He drew a deep breath; desperation coursed like flame through his bloodstream.  "Contact the Tleilaxu.  Inform them I wish . . ."  He could hardly say it.  ". . . I wish to learn their terms."  His thin smile sent a shudder down Hawat's back.  "Think of it, Thufir.  I'll have my son again!"

 

The old warrior placed a sinewy hand on Leto's shoulder.  "Rest, my Duke, and consider the implications of what you suggest.  We dare not bare our throats in such a way to the Bene Tleilax.  Imagine the cost.  What will they demand in return?  I advise against this.  Such an idea is not possible."

 

Refusing to be swayed, Leto shouted at him.  "I am the Duke of House Atreides.  I alone determine what is possible here."

 

The torment of his shattered life made his mind reel, blurring his concentration.  There were dark circles under his eyes.  "We are talking about my son -- my dead son! -- and I command you to do as I say.  Make the request of the Tleilaxu."

 

 

THE DAY OF DUNCAN IDAHO'S RETURN should have been a cause for great celebration, but the skyclipper tragedy had cast a pall of sorrow over all of Caladan.

 

At the Cala Municipal Spaceport, a greatly changed Duncan disembarked and breathed deeply of the salty air.  He gazed around with sparkling eyes and an eager expression.  At the head of an Atreides honor guard, he saw Thufir Hawat in a black uniform coat adorned with military medals, a dressy ambassadorial outfit.  Such formality!  Red-uniformed attendants moved to the ramp door escorting the passengers to processing stations.

 

As Hawat stood at the ramp's edge, he hardly recognized the new arrival.  Duncan's youthful black curls had grown thick and coarse, and his smooth complexion was ruddy and tanned.  Far more muscular than he had been, the young man moved with athletic grace, and wariness mixed with confidence.  Proudly, he wore Ginaz khakis and a red bandanna; the Old Duke's sword hung smartly at his side, a bit more battered but newly polished and sharpened.

 

"Thufir Hawat, you haven't changed at all, you old Mentat!"  Duncan hurried forward to clasp the warrior's hand.

 

"You, on the other hand, have changed a great deal, young Idaho.  Or should I call you Swordmaster Idaho?  I remember the streetwise scamp who threw himself on the mercy of Duke Paulus.  I do believe you're a little taller."

 

"And wiser, too, I pray."

 

The Mentat bowed.  "I am afraid that events here have forced us to defer a welcoming celebration for you.  Allow one of my men to accompany you back to the Castle.  Leto will be cheered to see your face right now.  Sergeant Vitt, would you please escort Duncan to the Duke?"

 

Hawat marched past the Swordmaster up the ramp and boarded the shuttle himself, ready to depart for the Heighliner in orbit.  Seeing the young man's perplexed expression, Hawat realized that Duncan knew nothing about the tragedy yet.  He had never met Leto's son, either, though undoubtedly he had learned of the boy through correspondence.

 

The Mentat added in the bleakest of tones, "Sergeant Vitt will explain everything."

 

The sergeant, a powerfully built man with a chestnut goatee, gave a formal nod.  "I'm afraid this will be the saddest story I have ever told."  Without further explanation, Hawat boarded the shuttle, carrying a satchel of documents from the Duke to the Tleilaxu Masters.

 

Sliding his tongue along the inside of his mouth, the Mentat felt a sore area where a minuscule injector had been implanted; the device would emit a tiny but powerful spray burst of antiseptics, antitoxins, and antibiotics with each bite of food he took.  He had been ordered to meet face-to-face with the Tleilaxu, and not even a Master of Assassins could imagine what sorts of diseases and poisons the hated people might attempt to use on him.

 

Hawat was determined not to let them take advantage of the situation, despite the Duke's rigorous instructions.  He disagreed vehemently with Leto's desperate, unwise course of action, but he was honor-bound to do his best.

 

 

BEHIND A CONFINEMENT FIELD in the dungeons of Castle Caladan, Swain Goire stared into darkness, thinking of other times, other places.  Wearing only a thin prison uniform, he shivered in the dank air.

 

Where had his life gone so drastically wrong?  He'd struggled so hard to better himself; he'd sworn loyalty to the Duke; he'd loved Victor so much. . . .

 

Seated on his cot he cradled the hypo-injector in his hand, rubbing a thumb along the cool plaz surface of the handle.  The scarred smuggler Gurney Halleck had slipped it to him, providing the disgraced guard captain with an easy way out.  At any moment Goire could inject poison into his bloodstream.  If only he had the courage . . . or the cowardice.

 

In his mind's eye, years melted away as if cut by a lasbeam.  Goire remembered growing up in poverty on Cala Bay, earning money for his mother and two younger sisters by crewing on fishing boats; he had never even known his father.  By the age of thirteen, Goire had obtained work as a cook's assistant in Castle Caladan, cleaning stoves and storage chambers, mopping floors, scrubbing grease from the oven walls.  The chef had been stern but good-hearted, and had helped the young man.

 

When Goire turned sixteen, shortly after the Old Duke's death, he'd begun training in the House Guard and rose through the ranks until he became one of Duke Leto's most trusted men.  He and Leto were within months of the same age . . . and through different paths they'd come to love the same woman:  Kailea Vernius.

 

And Kailea had ruined them both before plunging to her own death.

 

During Thufir Hawat's deep interrogation, Goire had offered no excuses.  He'd confessed everything, had even searched for additional crimes to increase his own culpability.  He'd hammered himself with guilt, hoping either to survive the worst of the pain . . . or die from it at last.  Because of his foolishness, he allowed Kailea access to his armory key, enabling Chiara to obtain the explosives.  He never plotted to kill the Duke, for he loved him and still did.

 

Then Gurney Halleck had brought him the poison, saying with no sympathy whatsoever, "Take the only course open to you, the course of honor."  He left the hypo-injector in Goire's cell, then departed.

 

Goire ran a finger along the shaft of the deadly needle.  He could prick his finger and end his ruined life.  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes.  Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he tasted their saltiness.

 

"Swain, wait."  Glowstrips brightened along the ceiling.  Opening his eyes, he saw the sharp needle.  His hands were shaking.  Slowly, he turned toward the voice.

 

The containment field faded, and Duke Leto Atreides stepped forward, with Halleck close behind, looking unsettled.  Goire froze, holding the injector in front of him.  The very sight of his Duke -- still bandaged, barely recovered from his worst injuries -- was nearly enough to strike him dead.  Goire sat helpless, ready to accept any punishment Leto decreed.

 

The Duke did the most terrible thing imaginable.  He took the injector away.

 

"Swain Goire, you are the most pitiable of men," Leto said in a low voice, as if his own soul had been swept away.  "You loved my son and were sworn to protect him, and yet you contributed to Victor's death.  You loved Kailea, and thus betrayed me with my own concubine even as you claimed to love me.  Now Kailea is dead, and you can never hope to regain my faith."

 

"Nor do I deserve to."  Goire looked into Leto's gray eyes, already feeling the anguish of the deepest hells.

 

"Gurney wants you put to death -- but I'm not going to allow that," Leto said, each word like a physical blow.  "Swain Goire, I sentence you to live . . . to live with what you have done."

 

Stunned, the man said nothing for a long moment.  Tears poured from his eyes.  "No, my Duke.  Please, no."

 

Gurney Halleck glared at Goire ferociously, dangerously, as Leto spoke.  "Swain, I do not believe you will ever betray House Atreides again -- but your life in Castle Caladan is over.  I will send you into exile.  You'll depart with nothing, carrying only your crimes."

 

Spluttering, Halleck could contain himself no longer.  "But, Sire!  You can't let this traitor live, after what he has done!  Is that justice?"

 

Leto gave him a hard, cold look.  "Gurney, this is justice in the purest possible sense . . . and one day my people will realize it, that there was no more fitting punishment."

 

Stricken, Goire slumped back against the cold wall.  He drew in a long breath, stifling a moan.  "One day, my Lord, they will call you Leto the Just."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No one person can ever know everything that is in the heart of another.  We are all Face Dancers in our souls.

 

-Tleilaxu Secret Handbook

 

 

UNDER THE SUN OF THALIM, the Bene Tleilax closed off their worlds to outsiders, but allowed select representatives to land in specific quarantined areas, which had been swept clean of sacred objects.  As soon as Thufir Hawat departed, the Tleilaxu would disinfect every surface he had touched.

 

The main city of Bandalong was fifty kilometers from the spaceport complex, across a plain that showed no roads or rail lines.  As the shuttle descended through the carnelian daytime sky, Hawat studied the huge sprawl and guessed that Bandalong contained millions of people.  But the Mentat, an outsider, could never go there.  He would attend to his business in one of the approved buildings at the spaceport proper.  And then he would return to Caladan.

 

Hawat was one of a dozen passengers aboard the descending craft, half of whom were Tleilaxu; the others appeared to be businessmen coming to purchase biological products such as new eyes, healthy organs, twisted Mentats, or even a ghola, as Hawat had been commanded to do.

 

When he stepped out onto the platform, a gray-skinned man hurried to intercept him.  "Thufir Hawat, Mentat to the Atreides?"  The gnomish man flashed sharp teeth when he smiled.  "I am Wykk.  Come this way."

 

Without offering a handshake or awaiting a response, Wykk curtly led Hawat down a spiraling walkway to a subterranean watercourse, where they boarded an automated boat.  Standing on deck, they grasped handrails as the craft sped across the muddy water, leaving a considerable wake behind them.

 

After disembarking, Hawat ducked to follow his guide into a seedy lobby in one of the spaceport's perimeter buildings.  Three Tleilaxu men stood talking; others hurried across the lobby.  He saw no women anywhere.

 

A robo delivery machine -- of Ixian manufacture? -- clanked across the worn and scratched floor, came to a stop in front of Wykk.  The Tleilaxu man removed a metal cylinder from a tray, handed it to the Mentat.  "This is your room key.  You must remain in the hotel."  Hawat noted hieroglyphics on the cylinder that he didn't recognize, and a number in Imperial Galach.

 

"In one hour you will meet the Master here."  Wykk designated one of the doorways, through which an array of tables could be seen.  "If you do not arrive for the meeting, we will send hunters to find you."

 

Hawat stood stiff and formal, resplendent in his Atreides military regalia.  "I will be punctual."

 

His assigned quarters featured a sagging bed, stained sheets, and vermin droppings on the windowsills.  With a handheld apparatus, Thufir scanned the room for bugging devices, but found none -- which probably only meant they were too subtle for his scanner to detect, or of an esoteric construction.

 

He reported for his meeting ten minutes early and found the restaurant even filthier than the room:  soiled tablecloths, dirty place settings, streaked glasses.  A din of conversation filled the air in a language he didn't understand.  Every aspect of this place had been designed to make visitors feel unwelcome, to encourage them to leave as soon as possible.

 

Hawat intended to do just that.

 

Wykk emerged from behind a counter and led him to a table beside a wide plaz window.  Another diminutive man already sat there, spooning lumpy soup into his mouth.  Wearing a red jacket with billowing black pants and sandals, the man looked up without bothering to wipe away the food that dripped from his chin.

 

"Master Zaaf," Wykk said, indicating a chair across the small table, "this is Thufir Hawat, a representative from the Atreides.  Regarding our proposal."

 

Hawat brushed crumbs from the chair before he sat at a table built too small for a man of his size.  He did not allow himself to express any revulsion.

 

"Especially for our off-world guests, we have prepared a delicious slig chowder," Zaaf said.

 

A mute serving slave arrived with a tureen, and ladled soup into a bowl.  Another slave slopped bloody slabs onto plates in front of both men.  No one bothered to identify the meat.

 

Always security-conscious, Hawat glanced around, saw no poison snoopers.  His own defenses would have to be sufficient.  "I am not particularly hungry, considering the difficult message I carry from my Duke."

 

With powerful little hands, Master Zaaf set to work on a chunk of the rare steak, stuffing it into his mouth.  He made rude noises as he ate, as if trying to offend Hawat.

 

Zaaf wiped a sleeve across his chin.  With glittering black eyes, he glowered up at the much taller Mentat.  "It is customary to share meals during such negotiations."  He traded his own plate and soup bowl for Hawat's, and began again.  "Eat, eat!"

 

Hawat used a knife to cut off a small piece of meat.  He ate only as much as politeness required, and felt the implanted mist injector in his mouth doing its work with each bite.  He swallowed, with difficulty.

 

"Trading plates is an old tradition," Zaaf said, "our way of checking for poison.  In this case you -- as the guest -- should have insisted on it, not me."

 

"I will keep that in mind," Hawat responded, then pressed on with his instructions.  "We recently received an offer from the Tleilaxu to grow a ghola of my Duke's son, who was killed in a terrible accident."  Hawat removed a folded document from his jacket pocket, passed it across the table, where it became stained with grease and blood.  "Duke Atreides has asked me to inquire as to your terms in the matter."

 

Zaaf only half glanced at the document, then set it aside to concentrate on his steak.  He finished as much of the meal as he wanted to eat, then washed it all down with murky liquid from a cup.  Grabbing the Atreides document, he rose to his feet.  "Now that we have ascertained your interest, we will determine what we believe will be an acceptable price.  Remain in your room, Thufir Hawat, and await our answer."

 

He leaned close to the still-seated Mentat, and Hawat saw the purest hatred for the Atreides boiling behind the pupils.  "Our services will not come cheap."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We as humans tend to make pointless demands of our universe, asking meaningless questions.  Too often we make such queries after developing an expertise within a frame of reference which has little or no relationship to the context in which the question is asked.

 

-Zensunni Observation

 

 

IN A RARE AFTERNOON OF RELAXATION, while sunning himself on the patio of his Richesian estate, Dr. Wellington Yueh's mind remained preoccupied with thoughts of nerve patterns and circuit diagrams.  Overhead, the artificial laboratory moon of Korona glided along in low orbit, a bright ornament that crossed the sky twice daily.

 

After the passage of eight years, Yueh had nearly forgotten his unpleasant experiences diagnosing Baron Vladimir Harkonnen.  The Suk doctor had accomplished so much in the meantime, and his own researches were far more interesting than a mere disease.

 

Investing the Baron's extravagant payment in laboratory facilities around his new estate on Richese, Yueh had made great advances in cyborg development.  As soon as he had solved the biological-nerve/electronic-receptor problem, the next steps followed in rapid succession.  New techniques, new technologies, and -- to the Richesians' delight -- new commercial opportunities.

 

Already Premier Ein Calimar had begun to make tidy profits from the cyborg endeavor, quietly selling Yueh's designs for bionic limbs, hands, feet, ears, even optical-sensor eyes.  It was exactly the boost the failing Richesian economy needed.

 

The grateful Premier had bestowed upon the doctor a stately villa and vast acreage on the lovely Manha Peninsula, along with a full complement of servants.  Yueh's wife Wanna enjoyed the home, especially the library and meditation pools, while the doctor himself spent most of his time in the research facilities.

 

After taking a sip of a sweet blossom tea, the mustachioed doctor watched a white-and-gold ornithopter land on a wide expanse of lawn by the water's edge.  A man in a trim white suit stepped out and walked up a gentle slope toward him, moving at a good pace despite his advanced years.  Sunlight gleamed from golden lapels.

 

Yueh rose from his sunning chair and bowed.  "To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Premier Calimar?"  Yueh's aged body was lean and wiry, his long dark hair bound in a ponytail by a single silver ring.

 

Calimar took a seat at a nearby shaded table.  Listening to recorded birdsong from speakers in the bushes, he waved away a servant who arrived with a tray of drinks.  "Dr. Yueh, I would like you to consider the Atreides matter, and the grievously injured Rhombur Vernius."

 

Yueh stroked his long mustaches.  "It is an unfortunate case.  Most sad, from what my wife tells me.  Prince Rhombur's concubine is also a Bene Gesserit, like my Wanna, and her message sounded quite desperate."

 

"Yes, and perhaps you could help him."  Calimar's eyes sparkled behind his spectacles.  "I'm certain it would fetch an extravagant price."

 

Yueh resented the request, feeling languid here on his estate but remembering how much he still wanted to research, how much he had to do.  He did not want to move his facilities, especially not to watery Caladan.  But he had begun to grow bored in this business park of a planet, with few challenges beyond refining the original work he had commenced years ago.

 

He considered Rhombur's injuries.  "I have never done such a complete replacement on a human body."  He ran a thin finger along his purplish lips.  "It will be a formidable task, requiring a good deal of my time.  Perhaps even a permanent assignment to Caladan."

 

"Yes, and Duke Atreides will pay for everything."  Behind his thin spectacles, Calimar's eyes continued to shine.  "We cannot pass up an opportunity like this."

 

 

THE MAIN HALL of Castle Caladan seemed too large, as did the ancient ducal chair, from which Paulus Atreides had spent so many years ministering to his people.  Leto seemed unable to fill the vast spaces around him, or in his heart.  But still, he had ventured out of his room.  That much, at least, was progress.

 

"Duncan Idaho has brought a most disturbing matter to my attention, Tessia."  Leto stared at the slender woman who stood before him, her mousy brown hair cut boyishly short.  "Did you make arrangements for a Suk doctor to come here?  A cyborg specialist?"

 

Wearing a velglow robe, Tessia shifted on her feet and nodded.  She did not take her sepia eyes from him, showing a strength like steel that skirted the edges of defiance.

 

"You told me to find any way to help him, if I could.  I have done so.  This is Rhombur's only chance."  Her face flushed.  "Would you deny it to him?"

 

Dressed in a black-and-red Atreides uniform, the new Swordmaster Duncan Idaho stood at one side, scowling.  "Did you speak on the Duke's behalf, and make promises without discussing them?  You're just a concubine --"

 

"My Duke gave me permission to take any necessary steps."  Tessia turned to Leto.  "Would you rather we left Rhombur as he is now?  Or would you prefer we asked the Tleilaxu to grow replacement body parts for him?  My Prince would choose to die, if that were the only other option.  Dr. Yueh's new cyborg work offers us another chance."

 

While Duncan continued to scowl, Leto found himself nodding.  He shuddered at the thought of how much of his friend's body would be replaced with synthetic parts.  "When is this Suk doctor scheduled to arrive?"

 

"In a month.  Rhombur can stay on life support that long, and Dr. Yueh requires the time to build components to match Rhombur's . . . losses."

 

Leto took a deep breath.  As his father had instructed him so many times, a leader must always remain in control -- or give the impression that he is.  Tessia had acted ambitiously, spoken in his name, and Duncan Idaho was right to be upset.  But there had never been any question as to whether Leto would spend every Solari in the House Atreides coffers to help Rhombur.

 

Tessia straightened, and the fierce love in her eyes was genuine.  Duncan cautioned, though, "There are political complexities you must remember, Sire.  Vernius and Richese have been rivals for generations.  There may be a plot afoot."

 

My mother was born a Richese," Leto pointed out, "and therefore so am I, by distaff lineage.  Count Ilban, a mere figurehead on Richese, wouldn't dare strike against my House."

 

Duncan's forehead wrinkled in thought. "Cyborgs are composite living forms, with machine-body interfaces."

 

Tessia remained stony. "So long as none of the parts simulate the workings of the human mind, we have nothing to fear."

 

"There is always something to fear," Duncan said, thinking of the unexpected ambush and slaughter on Ginaz.  Gruff and stern, he sounded like Thufir Hawat now, who had not yet returned from his negotiations with the Tleilaxu.  "Fanatics do not examine evidence rationally."

 

Leto was not entirely recovered from his injuries.  He heaved a tired sigh and raised a hand to silence the young man before he could make another argument.  "Enough, Duncan, Tessia.  Of course we'll pay.  If there's a chance to save Rhombur, we must do it."

 

 

ON AN OVERCAST AFTERNOON, Leto sat in his study trying to concentrate on the business of Caladan.  For years, even when their relationship had soured, Kailea had done more work than Leto had ever realized.  He sighed and went over the numbers again.

 

Thufir Hawat strode in, fresh from the spaceport.  Deeply troubled, the Mentat thumped a sealed message cylinder on the desk and stepped back, as if in disgust.  "From the Tleilaxu, Sire.  These are their terms.

 

Duke Leto lifted the cylinder, looked pensively at Hawat, searching for any hint, any reaction.  Suddenly apprehensive, he pried off the cap.  A sheet of tan paper fell out as supple as if it had been made from human skin.  He scanned the words quickly; his pulse quickened.

 

"To the Atreides:  After your unprovoked attack on our transport ships and your devious escape from true justice, the Bene Tleilax have awaited an opportunity such as this."

 

The palms of his hands were moist and clammy as he continued.  Leto knew Hawat disagreed with his idea to offer the Tleilaxu information about the invisible Harkonnen attack ship.  If too many people learned about the dangerous technology, it could fall into the wrong hands.  For the time being, the wreckage seemed safe enough with the Bene Gesserit, who had no military aspirations of their own.

 

One thing was certain, though:  The Tleilaxu would never believe him without proof.

 

"We can return your son to you, but you must pay a price.  Not in solaris, spice, or other valuables.  Instead, we demand that you surrender Prince Rhombur Vernius to us -- the last of the Vernius bloodline and the only person who continues to threaten our possession of Xuttuh."

 

"No. . ."  Leto whispered.  Hawat stared at him like a grim statue.

 

He continued to read.  "We give our guarantees and assurances that Rhombur will not be physically harmed, but you must make a choice.  Only this way can you have your son back."

 

Hawat seethed with anger as Leto finished reading.  "We should have expected this.  I should have predicted it."

 

Leto spread the parchment out in front of him and spoke in a small voice, "Leave me to consider this, Thufir."

 

"Consider it?"  Hawat looked at him in surprise.  "My Duke, you cannot possibly entertain --" Seeing Leto's glare, the Mentat fell silent.  With a brief bow, he departed from the study.

 

Leto stared at the terrible terms until his eyes burned.  For generations, House Atreides had stood for honor, for the course of righteousness and integrity.  He felt a deep obligation to the exiled Prince.

 

But for Victor . . . Victor.

 

Wouldn't Rhombur be better off dead, anyway?  Better off without inhuman cyborg replacements?  As Leto considered this, he felt a dark stillness in his soul.  Would history judge him severely for selling Rhombur to his sworn enemies?  Would he become known as Leto the Betrayer instead of Leto the Just?  It was an impossible conundrum.

 

The intense loneliness of leadership enveloped him.

 

In his soul of souls, at the deepest core where only he could look and find absolute truth, Duke Leto Atreides wavered.

 

Which is more important, my closest friend or my son?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ego is only a bit of consciousness swimming upon the ocean of dark things.  We are an enigma unto ourselves.

 

-The Mentat Handbook

 

 

IN HER OWN APARTMENT, Jessica lay beside Duke Leto on the wide bed, trying to soothe his nightmares.  A number of scars on his chest and legs required additional newskin wraps to repair them completely.  Much of Leto's body had healed, though the tragedy festered in him, along with the terrible decision he had to make.

 

His friend or his son?

 

Jessica was sure that seeing a ghola of Victor each day would only worsen his pain, but she had been unable to say this to him.  She searched for the right words, the right moment.

 

"Duncan is upset with me," Leto said, pushing away from her to gaze into her clear green eyes.  "So is Thufir, and probably Gurney, too.  Everyone challenges my decisions."

 

"They are your advisors, my Lord," she said, treading cautiously.  "They are required to counsel you."

 

"In this matter, I've had to tell them to keep their opinions to themselves.  This is my decision to make, Jessica -- but what am I to do?"  The Duke's face darkened with anger, and his eyes misted over.  "I have no other options, and only the Tleilaxu can do it.  I . . . I miss my son too much."  His eyes begged for her understanding, her support.  "How can I choose -- how can I say no?  The Tleilaxu will bring Victor back."

 

"At the cost of Rhombur . . . and perhaps the price of your soul," she said.  "To sacrifice your friend for a false hope -- I fear that will be your downfall.  Please don't do this, Leto."

 

"Rhombur should have died in the crash."

 

"Perhaps.  But that was in God's hands, not yours.  He still lives.  Despite everything, he still has the will to live."

 

Leto shook his head.  "Rhombur will never recover from his injuries.  Never."

 

"Dr. Yueh's cyborg work will give him a chance."

 

He glowered at her, suddenly defensive.  "What if the robotic enhancements don't work?  What if Rhombur doesn't want them?  Maybe he's better off dead."

 

"If you give him to the Tleilaxu, they will never allow him a simple death."  She paused, and in a gentle tone suggested, "Perhaps you should go see him again.  Look down at your friend and listen to what your heart tells you.  Look at Tessia, look into her eyes.  Then talk to Thufir and Duncan."

 

"I don't need to explain myself to them, or to anyone else.  I am Duke Leto Atreides!"

 

"Yes, you are.  And you are a man, too."  Jessica fought to control her emotions.  She stroked his dark hair.  "Leto, I know you're only acting out of love, but sometimes love can guide a person in the wrong direction.  Love can blind us to the truth.  You're on the wrong path, my Duke, and you know it in your heart."

 

Although he turned away from her, she did not relent.  "You must never love the dead more than the living."

 

 

THUFIR HAWAT, concerned as always, accompanied the Duke to the infirmary, where Rhombur's life-support pod bristled with fittings for intravenous tubes, catheters, and scanners.  The whir and hum of machinery filled the room, stirring the smell of chemicals.

 

Hawat lowered his voice.  "This can only lead to your ruin, my Duke.  Accepting the Tleilaxu offer would be a betrayal, a dishonorable course of action."

 

Leto folded his arms across his chest.  "You have served House Atreides for three generations, Thufir Hawat, and you dare to question my honor?"

 

The Mentat pressed ahead.  "The medical attendants are attempting to establish a means of communicating with Rhombur's brain while he remains in the life-support pod.  Soon he will be able to speak again, and tell you in his own words --"

 

"The decision is mine to make, Thufir."  Leto's eyes seemed darker than usual, like thunderheads.  "Will you do as I ask, or must I obtain a more obedient Mentat?"

 

"As you command, my Duke."  Hawat bowed.  "However, it would be better to let Rhombur die now, rather than permit him to fall into the hands of the Tleilaxu."

 

By prior arrangement, Yueh's cyborg team was scheduled to arrive soon to begin the complex process of rebuilding Rhombur part by part, establishing proper machine-body interfaces.  In an amalgamation of engineering and medical technology, the Suk doctor would weave machine into tissue, and tissue into machine.  New and old, hard and soft, lost abilities restored.  If Leto permitted it to proceed, Dr. Yueh and his team would be playing God.

 

Playing God.

 

The Bene Tleilax did that, too.  Using other techniques, they could bring back what had been lost, what had died.  They required only a few cells, carefully preserved. . . .

 

Taking a deep breath, Leto stepped to the life-support pod, where he looked down at the bandaged horror, the burned remnants of his longtime friend.  He reached for the curved glass that showed the unrecognizable man inside.  His fingers touched the slick surface, trembling with a strange mixture of fear and fascination.  Tears streamed down his cheeks.

 

A cyborg.  Would Rhombur hate Leto for that, or thank him?  At least he would still be alive.  In a manner of speaking.

 

Rhombur's body was so twisted and mangled that it no longer seemed human.  Fittings had been customized for the mass of flesh and bone; narrow fragments of raw tissue lay exposed around the edges of tubings and covers.  One side of the face and brain had been crushed, and only a single bloodshot eye remained . . . unfocused.  The eyebrow was blond, the only suggestion that this was truly Prince Vernius.

 

Never love the dead more than the living.

 

Leto placed a hand on the clearplaz barrier; he saw Rhombur's finger stubs and a heat-fusion of metal and flesh where his fire-jewel ring had once been.

 

"I won't let you down, friend," Leto promised in a whisper.  "You can count on me to do the right thing."

 

 

IN THE BARRACKS of the Atreides House Guard, two men sat at a rough wooden table, passing a bottle of pundi rice wine between them.  Though initially strangers, Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho already conversed like lifelong friends.  They had a great deal in common, especially an intense hatred of the Harkonnens . . . and an unbridled love for Duke Leto.

 

"I'm deeply concerned about him.  This ghola matter . . ."  Duncan shook his head.  "I do not trust gholas."

 

"Nor do I, lad."

 

"That creature would be a pale reminder of the saddest time Leto has ever experienced, without memories of its former life."

 

Gurney tilted his cup for a long, thoughtful swig of wine, then lifted his baliset from beside the table and began to strum.  "And the cost -- to sacrifice Rhombur!  But Leto would not listen to me."

 

"Leto is not the same person I knew before."

 

Gurney stopped strumming.  "And who would be . . . after all that pain?"

 

 

THE TLEILAXU MASTER ZAAF arrived on Caladan, accompanied by two bodyguards and hidden weapons.  Haughty and self-confident, he strode up to Thufir Hawat in the main hall of Castle Caladan and looked up at the much taller Mentat.

 

"I have come for the body of the boy, so that we can prepare it for our axlotl tank."  Zaaf narrowed his eyes, utterly confident that Leto would bow to their demands.  "I have also made arrangements to transport the life-support pod of Rhombur Vernius back to the medical and experimental facilities on Tleilax."

 

Noting the sly upward curl of the mouth, Hawat knew that these fiends would commit atrocities upon Rhombur's ragged body.  They would experiment, grow clones from the living cells, then perhaps torture the clones as well.  Eventually this terrible decision would come back to haunt Leto.  Death for his friend would be preferable to that.

 

The Tleilaxu representative twisted the knife deeper.  "My people can do much with the genetics of both the Atreides and Vernius families.  We are looking forward to many . . . options."

 

"I have advised the Duke against this course of action."  Hawat knew he must face Leto's wrath, but old Paulus had often said, "Any man -- even the Duke himself -- must choose the welfare of House Atreides over his own."

 

Hawat would offer his resignation from service, if necessary.

 

At that moment Leto walked into the room, looking more self-confident than the Mentat had seen him for many weeks.  Gurney Halleck and Jessica followed him.  With an inexplicable strength showing on his face, the Duke looked at Hawat, then bowed slightly in formal diplomatic greeting to the Tleilaxu Ambassador.

 

"Duke Atreides," Zaaf said, "it is possible this business arrangement can bridge the gulf between your House and my people."

 

Leto looked down his hawkish nose at the little man.  "Unfortunately, that bridge will never be built."

 

Hawat readied himself as the Duke stepped forward, close to Zaaf.  Gurney Halleck also looked ready for murder.  He exchanged uneasy glances with Hawat and Jessica.  When the Tleilaxu bodyguards tensed, the warrior Mentat made ready for a quick, bloody battle in the large echoing chamber.

 

With a scowl, the Tleilaxu representative said, "Are you reneging on our agreement?"

 

"I made no agreement to break.  I have decided that your price is too high, for Rhombur, for Victor, and for my own soul.  Your trip here has been in vain."  The Duke's voice remained strong and firm.  "There will be no ghola made of my firstborn son, and you will not have my friend, Prince Vernius."

 

Stunned, Thufir, Gurney, and Jessica looked on.

 

Leto's face had an impenetrable hardness, and a new resolve.  "I understand your continued, petty desire for revenge against me, even though the Trial by Forfeiture exonerated me of all charges.  I have sworn that I did not attack your ships inside the Heighliner, and the word of an Atreides is worth more than all the laws in the Imperium.  Your refusal to believe me shows your own foolishness."

 

The Tleilaxu man appeared outraged, but Leto continued with a sharp, cold voice that stopped Zaaf before he could utter a sound.  "I have learned the explanation behind the attack.  I know who did it, and how.  But since I have no tangible proof, informing you would accomplish nothing.  The Bene Tleilax have no interest in the truth, anyway -- only in the price you can extract from me.  And I will not pay it."

 

At a whistle from Hawat, the ever-alert Atreides House Guard rushed in and took control of the Tleilaxu bodyguards, while Gurney and Hawat stepped forward on either side of a spluttering Master Zaaf.

 

"I'm afraid we do not require the services of the Tleilaxu.  Not today, not ever," Leto said, and then turned, dismissing him rudely.  "Go home."

 

Hawat took great pleasure in escorting the indignant man out of the Castle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The individual is shocked by the overwhelming discovery of his own mortality.  The species, however, is different.  It need not die.

 

-PARDOT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer

 

 

OF ALL THE ECOLOGICAL demonstration projects Pardot Kynes had established, the sheltered greenhouse cave at Plaster Basin was his favorite.  With his lieutenant Ommun and fifteen hard-working Fremen followers, Kynes summoned an expedition to visit the site.

 

Though it wasn't on his regular schedule of plantings or inspections, Pardot simply wanted to see the cave with the running water, hummingbirds, moisture dripping from ceiling rock, fresh fruit, and bright flowers.  It all represented his vision of Dune's future.

 

The group of Fremen took a worm east across the sixty-degree line that surrounded the northern inhabited areas.  In his long years here, Kynes had never learned to become a sandrider, so Ommun rigged up a palanquin for him.  The Planetologist rode like an old woman but without embarrassment; he had nothing to prove.

 

Once, long ago, when Liet had been only a year old, Pardot had taken his wife Frieth and their child to Plaster Basin.  A woman who rarely displayed amazement or outright wonder, Frieth had been dumbstruck when she first saw the greenhouse cave, the thick foliage, the flowers and birds.  Just before that, though, on the way up the rugged mountainside to the hidden cavern, they had been attacked by a Harkonnen patrol.  Frieth, thinking fast and using her Fremen training, had saved the lives of her husband and son.

 

Kynes paused in his plodding procession of thoughts and scratched his beard, wondering if he had ever thanked her for that. . . .

 

Since the day of his son's wedding to Faroula, when Liet had chastised him for his distraction and unintentional coldness, Kynes had done a great deal of thinking, assessing what he had accomplished in his life:  his years on Salusa Secundus and Bela Tegeuse, his astonishing summons to Elrood's Court at Kaitain, his two decades here as Imperial Planetologist. . . .

 

He had spent his career delving into explanations, seeing the convoluted tapestry of the environment.  He understood the ingredients, from the power of water and sun and weather to organisms in the soil, plankton, lichens, insects . . . how it was all connected to human society.  Kynes understood how the pieces fit, at least in general terms, and he was among the best Planetologists in the Imperium.  He'd been called a "world reader," selected for this most important assignment by the Emperor himself.

 

And yet how could he consider himself a detached observer?  How could he stand apart from the complex web of interactions that ran each planet, each society?  He was himself a piece of the grand scheme, not an impartial experimenter.  There could be no "outside" to the universe.  Scientists had known for thousands of years that an observer affects the outcome of an experiment . . . and Pardot Kynes himself had certainly affected the changes on Dune.

 

How could he have forgotten that?

 

After Ommun helped him to dismount from the worm within walking distance of Plaster Basin, they led him to the black-and-greenish ridge that enclosed the cave.  Kynes imitated their random-walk motions until his legs ached.  He would never truly be a Fremen, unlike his son.  Liet had all the knowledge of planetology his father had given him, but the young man also understood Fremen society.  Liet was the best of both worlds.  Pardot only wished the two of them got along better.

 

Taking broad strides, Ommun led the way up the rugged slope.  Kynes had never been able to see the actual trail in the rocks, but tried to place his boots in the same crannies, on the same flat stones, as his lieutenant did.

 

"Quickly, Umma Kynes."  Ommun reached down with his hand.  "We must not tarry here in the open."

 

The day was hot, the sun blistering the Cliffside -- and he remembered running for shelter from a Harkonnen patrol with Frieth, long ago.  How many years had it been?

 

Kynes stepped up onto a broad ledge and then around an elbow of brown rock until he saw the camouflaged entrance seal that prevented moisture loss from the cave.  They stepped through.

 

Kynes, Ommun, and the fifteen Fremen stood inside, stomping their temag boots and shaking off windblown dust from their days of travel across the desert.  Automatically, Kynes yanked the nose plugs from his nostrils; the other Fremen did the same, inhaling extravagant breaths of the moisture and plants.  He let his eyes fall half-closed, smelled the ambrosia of blooming flowers and fruits and fertilizers, of thick green leaves and dispersed pollens.

 

Four of the Fremen helpers had never been there before, and they rushed forward like pilgrims reaching a long-sought shrine.  Ommun looked around, sniffing deeply, proud to have been part of this sacred project from the beginning.  He tended Kynes like an old mother, making certain the Planetologist had everything he needed.

 

"These workers will replace the team already here," Ommun said.  "We have smaller shifts now, because this place has survived -- as you said it would.  Plaster Basin is an ecosystem of its own.  Now we are required to do less work to keep it healthy."

 

Kynes smiled proudly.  "As it should be.  One day all of Dune will be like this, self-sustaining and self-renewing."  He laughed, a short burst of sound.  "Then what will you Fremen do to keep yourselves busy?"

 

Ommun's nostrils flared, callused from perpetually wearing nose plugs.  "This is not yet our world, Umma Kynes.  Not until we rid it of the hated Harkonnens."

 

Kynes blinked and nodded.  He'd given little thought to the political aspect of the process.  He had seen this only as an ecological problem, not a human one.  Yet another thing he had missed.  His son was right.  The great Pardot Kynes had tunnel vision, seeing far into the future along a certain path . . . but missing all the hazards and distractions along the way.

 

He had done the important ecological work, though.  He had been the prime mover, starting what he hoped would be a planetwide avalanche of change.  "I'd like to see this entire world caught up in a net of plants," he said.  Ommun made a wordless sound of agreement:  Anything the prophet Kynes said was important and worth remembering.  They strolled deeper into the moist cavern to view the gardens.

 

The Fremen knew their duties, and they would continue the plantings, even if it took centuries.  Through the geriatric qualities of their melange-filled diet, some of the younger ones might actually see the grand plan come to fruition; Kynes was satisfied just to observe the indications of change.

 

The Plaster Basin project was a metaphor for all of Dune.  His plan was now so firmly established in the Fremen psyche that it would continue even without his guidance.  These hardy people had been infected by the dream, and the dream would not die.

 

From now on, Kynes would be little more than a figurehead, the prophet of ecological transformation.  He smiled softly to himself.  Perhaps now he could make time to see the people around him, get to know his wife of twenty years, and spend more time guiding his son. . . .

 

Deep inside the cave, he examined dwarf trees laden with lemons, limes, and the sweet round oranges known as portyguls.  Ommun walked beside him, looking over the irrigation systems, the fertilizers, the progress of the plantings.

 

Kynes remembered showing Frieth the portyguls when he'd first brought her here, and the look of pleasure on her face when she tasted the honey-sweet orange flesh.  It had been one of the most marvelous experiences in her entire life.  Now Kynes stared at the fruit and knew he would have to take some of them back for her.

 

When was the last time I brought her a gift?  He couldn't remember.

 

Ommun went over to the limestone walls, touching them with his fingers.  The chalky rock was soft and wet, unaccustomed to so much dampness.  With his keen eyes, he followed disturbing traceries along the wall and ceiling, fracture lines that should not have been there.

 

"Umma Kynes," he said.  "These cracks concern me.  The integrity of this cave is . . . suspect, I believe."

 

As the two of them watched, one of the cracks grew visibly, jagging left and then right in a fine black lightning bolt.

 

"You're right.  The water is probably making the rock expand and settle over . . . how many years now?"  The Planetologist raised his eyebrows.

 

Ommun calculated.  "Twenty, Umma Kynes."

 

With a popping, shattering sound, a crack spread across the ceiling . . . and then others, in a chain reaction.  The Fremen workers looked up in fear, then glanced over at Kynes, as if the great man could somehow avert disaster.

 

"I believe we should get everyone out of the cave.  Now."  Ommun took the Planetologist's arm.  "We must evacuate until we are sure this is safe."

 

Another loud boom sounded deep within the mountain, a grinding of rock as broken slabs shifted and tried to find a new stable point.  Ommun tugged at the Planetologist, while the other Fremen scurried toward the exit.

 

But Kynes hesitated, pulling his arm free of his lieutenant's grasp.  He had promised himself to give Frieth some of the ripe portyguls, to show her that he did indeed love and appreciate her . . . despite his inattentiveness for many years.

 

He hurried to the small tree, and plucked some of the orange fruit.  Ommun rushed back to take him away.  Kynes cradled the portyguls against his chest, very glad that he had remembered to do this one important thing.

 

 

STILGAR BROUGHT THE NEWS TO LIET-KYNES.

 

In her sietch quarters, Faroula was sitting at a table with her young son Liet-chih, cataloging the jars of herbs she had gathered over the years, sealing the pots with resin and verifying the potency of the substances.  On a bench near his new wife and adopted child, Liet-Kynes read through a purloined document that detailed the location of Harkonnen spice and military stockpiles.

 

Stilgar held back the privacy curtain, waited like a statue.  He stared at the far wall, not blinking his deep blue eyes.

 

Immediately, Liet sensed something was wrong.  He had fought beside this man, raided Harkonnen supplies, killed enemies.  When the Fremen commando did not speak, Liet stood.  "What is it, Stil?  What's happened?"

 

"Terrible news," the man finally answered, his words like cold lead dropping heavily onto the ground.  "Your father, Umma Kynes, has been killed in a cave-in at Plaster Basin.  He and Ommun and most of the work crew were trapped when the ceiling collapsed.  The mountain fell on them."

 

Faroula gasped.  Liet found that all words had been stolen from him.  "But that can't be," he finally said.  "He had more work left to do.  He had --"

 

She dropped one of her small jars.  It shattered, spilling powdered green leaves in a pungent splash pattern across the worn floor.  "Umma Kynes has died among the plants that were his dream," she said.

 

"A fitting end," Stilgar said.

 

For some time, Liet was speechless.  Thoughts whirled in his head, memories and wishes as he listened to his wife and Stilgar, and knew that the labors of Pardot Kynes must continue.

 

The Umma had trained his disciples well.  Liet-Kynes himself would proceed with the vision.  From what Faroula had just said, he could already see how the story of the prophet's tragic death, his martyrdom, would be passed from Fremen to Fremen.  And it would grow with each retelling.

 

A fitting end, indeed.

 

He remembered something his father had told him, "The symbolism of a belief can survive far longer than the belief itself."

 

Stilgar said, "We could not collect the water of the dead for our tribe.  Too much dirt and rock covered the bodies.  We must leave them in their tomb."

 

"As it should be," Faroula said.  "Plaster Basin shall be a shrine.  Umma Kynes died with his lieutenant and his followers, giving his body's water to the planet he loved."

 

Stilgar narrowed his eyes and looked down his chiseled nose at Liet.  "We will not let the Umma's vision die with him.  You must continue his work, Liet.  The Fremen will listen to the Umma's son.  They will follow your commands."

 

In a daze, Liet-Kynes nodded, wondering if his mother had already been told the news.  Trying to be brave, he straightened his shoulders as the deeper implications penetrated his mind.  Not only would he continue to be the emissary for the Fremen in the terraforming project . . . now he had an even greater, more far-reaching responsibility.  His father had filed the appropriate documents long ago, and Shaddam IV had approved them without comment.

 

"I am the Imperial Planetologist now," he announced.  "By my vow, the transformation of Dune will continue."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The man faced with a life-and-death decision must commit himself, or he will remain caught in the pendulum.

 

-From "In My Father's House," by the Princess Irulan

 

 

THE STATUE of Leto's paternal great-grandfather, Duke Miklos Atreides, stood tall in the courtyard of the Cala City Hospital, stained by time and moss and guano.  As Leto passed the serene visage of an ancestor he had never known, he nodded in habitual respect, then hurried up a set of wide marblecrete stairs.

 

Though he limped slightly, Leto was substantially recovered from his physical injuries.  Once again, he was able to face each day without the smothering blackness of despair.  By the time he reached the uppermost floor of the medical building, he was hardly winded at all.

 

Rhombur was awake.

 

The Duke's personal physician, who had continued to treat Rhombur until the impending arrival of the cyborg team, greeted him.  "We have begun to communicate with the Prince, my Lord Duke."

 

White-coated medical attendants stood around the life-support pod and its elaborate tubes, injection bags, and blood-purification pumps.  Machinery hummed and whirred, as it had for months.  But it was different now.

 

Stopping Leto before he could rush forward, the doctor said, "There was, as you know, severe trauma to the right side of the Prince's head, but the human brain is a remarkable instrument.  Already Rhombur's cerebellum has shifted control functions to new regions.  Information is flowing through the neural pathways.  I believe this will make the work of the cyborg team considerably easier."

 

Tessia leaned over the coffin-shaped pod, stared inside.  "I love you, Rhombur -- you never needed to worry about that."

 

In response, synthesized, humming words droned from a speakerbox.  "I . . . love . . . you . . . too . . . And . . . always . . . will."  The words were distinct and precise, unmistakable but with a pause between each, as if Rhombur still hadn't accustomed himself to the speech process.

 

The Duke stared, transfixed.  How could I have even considered giving you over to the Tleilaxu?

 

The sleek pod lay open, revealing Rhombur's scarred lump of skin and bone, bristling with tubes, wires, and connections.  The doctor said, "At first we could only speak to him by using an Ixian code . . . pulses and taps.  But now, we've managed to link the voice synthesizer up to his speech center."

 

The Prince's remaining eye was open, showing life and awareness.  For long moments Leto stared into Rhombur's nearly unrecognizable face, and he could think of nothing to say.

 

What is he thinking?  How long has he known what happened to him?

 

Synthesized words poured out of the speaker beside the pod.  "Leto . . . friend . . . How . . . are . . . coral . . . gem . . . beds . . . this . . . year?  Have . . . you . . . been . . . diving . . . lately?"

 

Almost giddy with relief, Leto chuckled.  "Better than ever, Prince -- we'll go out again together . . . soon."  Suddenly a wash of tears stung his eyes.  "I'm sorry, Rhombur -- you don't deserve anything but the truth."

 

The lump of Rhombur's body didn't move, and Leto saw only a few spasmodic muscle twitches beneath his skin.  The artificial voice from the speaker conveyed no emotions, no inflections.

 

"When . . . I . . . am . . . a . . . cyborg . . . we . . . can . . . build . . . a . . . special . . . suit.  We'll . . . go . . . diving . . . again.  Wait . . . and . . . see."

 

Somehow, the exiled Prince had accepted the dramatic changes to his body, even the prospect of cyborg replacements.  His good heart and infectious optimism had helped Leto through the darkest times after the Old Duke's death.  Now Leto would be there for Rhombur.

 

"Remarkable," the doctor said.

 

Rhombur's eye did not waver from Leto.  "I . . . want . . . a . . . Harkonnen . . . beer."

 

Leto laughed.  On his left, Tessia clutched his arm.  The hideously inured Prince would still go through oceans of pain, both physical and mental.

 

Rhombur seemed to sense Leto's gloom, and his speech improved, a little.  "Don't . . . be . . . sad . . . for me.  Be happy.  I . . . look . . . forward to . . . my . . . cyborg parts."  Leto leaned closer.  "I . . . am Ixian . . . No . . . stranger. . . to machines!"

 

It all seemed so unreal to Leto, so impossible.  And yet, it was happening.  Over the centuries, cyborg attempts had always failed when the body rejected its synthetic parts.  Psychologists claimed the human mind refused to accept such a drastic intrusion by mechanicals.  The deep-seated fear dated back to the machine-induced horrors of pre-Butlerian days.  Supposedly, this Suk doctor Yueh, with his intensive research program on Richese, had solved such problems.  Only time would tell.

 

But even if the components worked as promised, Rhombur would function little better than the stiff old Ixian meks.  The adjustment would not be easy, and delicate control would never be possible.  In the face of his injuries and disabilities, would Tessia abandon him and return to the Sisterhood?

 

In his youth, Leto had listened with rapt attention as Paulus and his veteran soldiers told of severely injured men performing incredible feats of bravery.  The triumph of the human spirit over insurmountable odds.  Leto had never seen anything like that firsthand.

 

Rhombur Vernius was the bravest man Leto had ever met.

 

 

TWO WEEKS LATER, Dr. Wellington Yueh arrived from Richese, accompanied by his cyborg-development team of twenty-four men and women, and two shuttle loads of medical equipment and supplies.

 

Duke Leto Atreides personally supervised as his men helped the party disembark.  Fussy about details, the stylus-thin Yueh barely took time to introduce himself before he scurried about the spaceport, attending to the arriving cargo cases of instruments and the prosthetic parts that would ultimately be fitted onto Rhombur's salvageable flesh and bones.

 

Groundtrucks transported personnel and cargo to the infirmary center, where Yueh insisted upon seeing the patient immediately.  The Suk doctor looked over at Leto as they entered the hospital.  "I will make him whole again, sir, though it will take some time for him to get used to his new body."

 

"Rhombur will do everything you ask."

 

Inside the room, Tessia still had not left Rhombur's side.  Yueh moved smoothly over to the life-support pod, studied connections, diagnostic readings.  Then he looked down at the injured Prince, who regarded him with his bizarre single eye, set in grossly wounded flesh.

 

"Prepare yourself, Rhombur Vernius," Yueh said, stroking his long mustaches.  "I intend to begin the first surgical procedure tomorrow."

 

Rhombur's synthetic voice floated across the room, smoother now that he had practiced using it.  "I look forward . . . to shaking . . . your hand."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love is an ancient force, one that served its purpose in its day but is no longer essential for the survival of the species.

 

-Bene Gesserit Axiom

 

 

LOOKING DOWN FROM THE SEA CLIFF, Leto saw the House Guard arrayed on the beach where he had ordered them to take up positions.  He had given them no reason.  Concerned about the Duke's mental state, Gurney, Thufir, and Duncan had been watching him like Atreides hawks, but Leto knew how to sidetrack them.

 

The golden sun rode high overhead in a clear blue sky, yet still a shadow hung over him.  The Duke wore a short-sleeved white tunic and blue dungarees, comfortable clothes with no trappings of his office.  He drew a deep breath and stared.  Maybe he could just be a man for a short while.

 

Jessica hurried up behind him, wearing a low-cut aqua singlesuit.  "What are you thinking, my Lord?"  Her face showed deep concern, as if she feared he might jump to his death, as Kailea had done.  Perhaps Hawat had sent her up here to check on him.

 

Seeing the grouped men on the beach, Leto gave a wan smile.  No doubt they would try to catch him in their own arms if he tumbled off the cliff.

 

"I am distracting the men, so I can get away."  He looked at her oval face.  With her Bene Gesserit training, Jessica would not be so easily fooled -- and he knew better than to try.  "I've had enough talk, advice, and pressure . . . I need to escape to where I can have peace."

 

She touched his arm.

 

"If I don't preoccupy them," he said, "they will insist upon sending a retinue of guards to accompany me."  Below, Duncan Idaho began to drill the troops in techniques he had learned at the Ginaz School.  Leto turned from the view.  "Now, perhaps, I can get away."

 

"Oh?  Where are we going?"  Jessica asked, fully confident.  Leto frowned at her, but she cut him off before he could object to her presence.  "My Lord, I will not allow you to go alone.  Would you rather have the full complement of guards, or just me?"

 

He considered her words and, with a sigh, gestured toward the green-roofed 'thopter hangars at the edge of the nearby landing fields.  "I suppose you're less objectionable than an entire army."

 

Jessica followed as he crossed the dry grasses.  Grief still radiated from him in waves.  That he'd even considered the foul price demanded by the Tleilaxu in exchange for a ghola of Victor showed her how close to the edge of madness he had gone.  But in the end, Leto had made the right decision.

 

She hoped it was his first step toward healing.

 

Inside the hangar building were a number of ornithopters, some with engine covers open; mechanics stood on suspensor platforms, working on them.  Leto walked purposefully to an emerald-hulled 'thopter with red Atreides hawks on the undersides of the wings.  Built low to the ground, it had a two-seat cockpit in a front-back arrangement instead of the standard face-front or side-by-side configurations.

 

A man in gray coveralls had his head inside the engine compartment, but emerged when the Duke approached.  "Just a couple of final adjustments, my Lord."  He had a shaved upper lip, and a silver-flecked beard encircled his face, giving him a simian appearance.

 

"Thank you, Keno."  Distracted, Leto stroked the side of the sleek vessel.  "My father's racing 'thopter," he said to Jessica.  "He called it Greenhawk.  I trained on her, went out with him and did loops, dives, and rolls."  He allowed himself a bittersweet smile.  "Used to drive Thufir crazy, seeing the Duke and his only heir taking such risks.  I think my father did it just to irritate him."

 

Jessica examined the unusual craft.  Its wings were narrow and upswept, with the nose split into two aerodynamic sections.  The mechanic finished his adjustments and closed the engine cover.  "All ready to go, sir."

 

After helping Jessica into the rear-facing seat, Duke Leto climbed into the front.  A safety harness snicked into place over her lap, another over his own.  Turbines hissed on, and he taxied the sleek aircraft out of the hangar onto a broad ocher tarmac.  Keno waved after them.  Warm wind whipped through Jessica's hair until the plexplaz cockpit cover slid shut.

 

Leto touched the controls, working busily, expertly-intent on prepping the 'thopter, ignoring Jessica.  The green wings shortened for jet-boost takeoff, their delicate interleavings meshing together.  The turbines roared, and the craft launched straight up.Extending the wings to beetle stubs, Leto banked sharply to the left, then low over the beach, where his soldiers waited in formation.  With startled faces they looked up as the Duke flew by, dipping the wings.

 

"They'll see us flying north along the coastline," Leto shouted back to Jessica, "but after we're out of sight, we'll go west.  They won't . . . they won't be able to follow us."

 

"We'll be alone."  Jessica hoped the Duke's mood would improve with this sojourn into the wilderness, but she would stay by him regardless.

 

"I always feel alone," Leto answered.

 

The ornithopter turned, crossed over pundi rice lowlands and small farm buildings.  The wings extended to full soaring length and began to beat like the appendages of a great bird.  Below them were river orchards, the narrow Syubi River, and a modest mountain of the same name -- the highest point on the plain.

 

They flew west all afternoon without seeing another aircraft.  The landscape changed, becoming more rugged and mountainous.  After sighting a village by an alpine lake, Leto studied the instruments and changed his heading.  Soon the mountains gave way to grassy plains and sheer canyons.  Presently, Leto stubbed the wings and banked hard right to descend into a deep river gorge.

 

"Agamemnon Canyon," Leto said.  "See the terraces?"  He pointed to one side.  "They were built by ancient Caladanian primitives, whose descendants still live here.  They're rarely seen by outsiders."  Observing intently, Jessica spotted a brown-skinned man with a narrow, dark face before he ducked out of sight into a rock hollow.

 

Leto steered away from the cliff face and continued down, toward a broad river with surging white water.  In the waning daylight, they flew low over the rushing current, through the narrow winding gorge.  "It's beautiful," Jessica said.

 

In an offshoot canyon, the river dwindled, leaving creamy sand beaches.  Wings fully tucked, the ornithopter set down on a bank of sand with a soft lurch.  "My father and I used to come fishing here."  Leto opened a hatch on the side of the 'thopter and brought out a spacious autotent, which set itself up and shot stabilizing stakes into the sand.  They set up an airpad and a double sleeping envelope and brought their luggage and foodpaks in.

 

For a while they sat together on the riverbank and talked, while the shadows of late afternoon settled over the gorge and the temperature dropped.  They snuggled closer, and Jessica leaned her bronze hair into the side of his neck.  Large fish jumped while swimming upstream, against the current.

 

Leto maintained his somber silence, causing her to pull back and look into his smoky gray eyes.  Feeling the muscles in his hand tighten up, she leaned close, gave him a long kiss.

 

Against her explicit training in the Sisterhood, all the lectures Mohiam had given her, Jessica found herself breaking one of the primary rules of the Bene Gesserit.  Despite her intentions, despite her loyalty to the Sisterhood, Jessica had actually allowed herself to fall in love with this man.

 

They held each other, and for a long while Leto gazed out onto the river.  "I still have nightmares," he said.  "I see Victor, Rhombur . . . the flames."  He pressed his face into his hands.  "I thought I could escape the ghosts by coming way out here."  He looked at her, his expression bleak.  "I shouldn't have allowed you to come with me."

 

Wind gusts began to whip through the narrow canyon, snapping the tent fabric, and knotted clouds crawled overhead.  "We'd better get inside before the storm comes."  He hurried over to close the 'thopter hatch, and just as he returned a hard rain began to fall.  He barely escaped getting drenched.

 

They shared a warm foodpak inside the tent, and later, when Leto lay back on the double sleeping pad, still troubled, Jessica moved close and began kissing his neck.  Outside, the storm grew louder, more demanding of their attention.  The tent flapped and rattled, but Jessica felt safe and warm.

 

As they made love that stormy night, Leto clung to her like a drowning man grasping a life raft, hoping to find some island of safety in a hurricane.  Jessica responded to his desperation, afraid of his intensity, hardly able to cope with his outpouring of love.  He was like a storm himself, uncontrolled and elemental.

 

The Sisterhood had never taught her about anything like this.

 

Emotionally torn, but determined, Jessica finally gave Leto the most precious gift she had left to offer.  Manipulating her own body chemistry in the Bene Gesserit way, she envisioned his sperm and her egg merging . . . and allowed herself to conceive a child.

 

Though she had been given explicit instructions from the Sisterhood to produce only a daughter, Jessica had delayed and reconsidered, spending month after month contemplating this most important of decisions.  Through it all she came to the realization that she could no longer bear to watch Leto's anguish.  She had to do this one thing for him.

 

Duke Leto Atreides would have another son.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How will I be remembered by my children?  This is the true measure of a man.

 

-ABULURD HARKONNEN

 

 

 

 

 

WITHIN SIGHT of the Baron's square-walled Keep, the industrial floatcraft rose high in the gloomy sky.

 

Inside the floatcraft's large cargo hold, directly over its gaping, open hatch, Glossu Rabban hung spread-eagled.  Shackles secured his wrists and ankles, but little else kept him from falling into the open sore of Harko City.  His blue uniform was torn, his face bruised and bloodied from the scuffle with Captain Kryubi's troopers when they'd subdued him, pursuant to the Baron's orders.  It had taken six or seven of the burliest guards to control the "Beast," and they had not been gentle.  Now, on chains, the brutish man thrashed from side to side, looking for something to bite, something to spit at.

 

Steadying himself against a rail while the wind whipped up through the yawning hatch, Baron Harkonnen gazed dispassionately down at his nephew.  The obese Baron's spider-black eyes were like deep holes.  "Did I give you permission to kill my brother, Rabban?"

 

"He was only your half-brother, Uncle.  He was a fool!  I thought we would be better off --"

 

"Don't try to do any thinking, Glossu.  You aren't good at it.  Answer my question.  Did I give you permission to kill a member of the Harkonnen family?"

 

When the response didn't come quickly enough, the Baron moved a lever on a control panel.  The shackle on Rabban's left ankle sprang open, leaving the leg to dangle out over open space.  Rabban writhed and screamed, unable to do anything.  The Baron found the technique a primitive but effective method of increasing fear.

 

"No, Uncle, I did not have your permission!"

 

"No, what?"

 

"No, Uncle . . . I mean no, my Lord!" The blocky man grimaced in pain while he struggled for the correct words, trying to understand what his uncle wanted.

 

The Baron spoke into a com-unit to the floatcraft operator.  "Take us over my Keep and hover fifty meters above the terrace.  I think the cactus garden there could use some fertilizer."

 

Looking up with a pitiful expression, Rabban declared, "I killed my father because he was a weakling.  All his life, his actions brought dishonor on House Harkonnen."

 

"Abulurd wasn't strong, you mean . . . not like you and me?"

 

"No, my Lord Baron.  He didn't measure up to our standards."

 

"So now you have decided to call yourself Beast.  Is that correct?"

 

"Yes, Un -- I mean, yes, my Lord."

 

Through the open hatch, Baron Harkonnen could see the Keep's spires.  Directly below them was a garden terrace where he sometimes liked to sit and eat sumptuous meals in privacy, in the midst of the spiny desert growths.  "If you look below, Rabban -- yes, I believe you have a good view now -- you can see a certain modification I made to the garden earlier today."

 

As he spoke, the metal tips of army lances emerged from the dirt beside thorn-saguaro and chocatilla. "See what I planted for you?"

 

Dangling from the three remaining shackles, Rabban twisted to look.  His face filled with terror.

 

"Note the bull's-eye arrangement of the tips.  If I drop you just right, you will be impaled in the exact center.  If I miss by a little, we can still earn points for the hit, since every lance has a scoring number written on it."  He stroked his upper lip.  "Hmm, perhaps we can even introduce slave-dropping as an event for our arena crowds.  Quite an exciting concept, don't you think?"

 

"My Lord, please don't do this.  You need me!"

 

With emotionless eyes, the Baron looked down at him.  "Why?  I have your little brother Feyd-Rautha.  Perhaps I'll make him my heir-designate.  By the time he's your age, he certainly won't make as many mistakes as you have."

 

"Uncle, please!"

 

"You must learn to pay close attention to what I say, at all times, Beast.  I never make idle chatter."

 

Rabban squirmed, and the chains jingled.  Cold, smoky air drifted into the floatcraft as he tried desperately to think of what to say.  "You want to know if it's a good game?  Yes, uh, my Lord, it's most ingenious."

 

"So I'm a smart man to devise it?  Much smarter than you, correct?"

 

"Infinitely smarter."

 

"Then don't ever try to oppose me.  Is that understood?  I'll always be ten steps ahead of you, ready with surprises that you could never imagine."

 

"I understand, my Lord."

 

Relishing the abject terror he saw in his nephew's face, the Baron said, "Very well.  I shall release you now."

 

"Wait, Uncle!"

 

The Baron touched a button on the control panel, and both arm shackles opened, so that Rabban dropped upside down into open air, held by only the right ankle band.  "Ooops.  Do you think I hit the wrong button?"

 

Screaming:  "No!  You're teaching me a lesson!"

 

"And have you learned that lesson?"

 

"Yes, Uncle!  Let me come back.  I will always do what you say."

 

Into the com-unit, the Baron said, "Take us to my private lake."

 

The floatcraft glided over the estate until it was directly over the grimy waters of a man-made pond.  Following previous orders, the operator descended to ten meters over the water.

 

Seeing what lay in store for him, Rabban tried to pull himself up by the single shackle.  "This isn't necessary, Uncle!  I've learned --"

 

The rest of Rabban's words were lost in a clatter of chain as the remaining shackle was released.  The burly man fell, flailing and screaming, a long way down into the water.

 

"I don't think I've ever had the opportunity to ask," the Baron shouted through the opening as Rabban went under.  "Can you swim?"

 

Kryubi's men were stationed around the lake with rescue equipment, just in case.  After all, the Baron couldn't risk the life of his only trained heir.  Though he would never admit it to Rabban, he was actually pleased at the loss of bleeding-heart Abulurd.  It took guts to do what he had done to his own father -- guts and ruthlessness.  Good Harkonnen traits.

 

But I'm even more ruthless, the Baron thought as the floatcraft glided back to its landing field.  I've just demonstrated that, to keep him from trying to kill me.  "Beast" Rabban must prey only on the weak.  And only when I say so.

 

Still, the Baron faced a much greater challenge; his body continued to decline each day.  He'd been taking imported energy supplements, and they helped to keep the weakness and bloating in check -- but it was becoming necessary to consume more and more pills to achieve the same benefit, with unknown side effects.

 

The Baron sighed.  It was so difficult to medicate himself, when there weren't any good doctors around.  How many had he killed now for their incompetence?  He'd lost count.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some say that the anticipation of a thing is better than the thing itself.  In my view, this is utter nonsense.  Any fool can imagine a prize.  I desire the tangible.

 

-HASIMIR FENRING, Letters from Arrakis

 

 

 

 

 

THE CONFIDENTIAL MESSAGE came to the Residency at Arrakeen via a tortuous route from one Courier to another, Heighliner to Heighliner -- as if Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica wanted to delay delivering the news to Hasimir Fenring.

 

Very odd, since the Tleilaxu had already delayed for twenty years.

 

Eager to read the contents of the cylinder, already planning a series of punishments if Ajidica dared to make more excuses, Fenring scuttled to his private study dome on the rooftop level of the mansion.

 

What whining lies will that little gnome tell now?

 

Behind shimmering shield windows that dulled the harsh edges of sunlight, Fenring went through the tedious process of decoding the message, humming to himself all the while.  The Courier cylinder had been genetically keyed to his touch alone, such a sophisticated technique that he wondered if the Tleilaxu were showing off their abilities for him.  The little men were not incompetent . . . merely annoying.  He expected the letter to be filled with further requests for laboratory materials, more empty promises.Even decoded, the words made no sense -- and Fenring saw that they were masked by a secondary encryption.  He felt a flash of impatience, then spent ten more minutes stroking the words again.

 

As the true text finally emerged, Fenring stared with his overlarge eyes.  He blinked twice, then read Ajidica's note again.  Astounding.

 

His guard chief Willowbrook appeared at the doorway, curious about the important delivery.  He was aware of the Count's frequent plots and secret work for Shaddam IV, but knew not to ask too many questions.  "Would you like me to summon a light lunch, Master Fenring?"

 

"Go away," Fenring said without looking over his shoulder, "or I will have you assigned to the Harkonnen headquarters in Carthag."

 

Willowbrook left promptly.

 

Fenring sat back with the message in his hands, flash-memorized every word, and then destroyed the tough paper.  He would very much enjoy relaying the news to the Emperor.  At last.  His thin lips curled in a smile.

 

Even before the death of Shaddam's father, this plan had been set in motion.  Now, after decades, that work had finally come to fruition.

 

"Count Fenring, we are pleased to report that the final sequence of development appears to meet our expectations.  We are confident that Project Amal has succeeded, and the next round of rigorous tests will prove it.  We expect to go into full-scale production within a few months.

 

"Soon, the Emperor will have his own inexpensive and inexhaustible supply of melange -- a new monopoly that will place the great powers of the Imperium at his feet.  All spice-harvesting operations on Arrakis will become irrelevant."

 

Trying to suppress his satisfied grin, Fenring stepped to the window and gazed out onto the dusty streets of Arrakeen, at the impossible aridity and heat.  In the masses of people, he picked out blue-uniformed Harkonnen troops, brightly-attired water merchants and grimy spice crews, haughty preachers and ragged beggars, an economy based solely on one commodity.  Spice.

 

Soon, none of that would matter to anyone.  Arrakis, and natural melange, would become an obsolete historical curiosity.  No one would care about this desert planet anymore . . . and he could move on to other, more important things.

 

Fenring drew a long, deep breath.  It would be good to get off this rock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Though death will cancel it, life in this world is a glorious thing.

 

-DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES

 

 

A MAN SHOULD NOT have to attend the funeral of his own child.

 

Standing erect on the bow of the Atreides funeral barge, Duke Leto wore a formal white uniform, stripped of all insignia to symbolize the loss of his only son.  At his side, Jessica had draped herself in a black Bene Gesserit robe, but it could not hide her beauty.

 

Behind them a cortege of boats followed the funeral barge, all of them decked in colorful flowers and ribbons to celebrate the life of a boy whose days had been cut tragically short.  Atreides soldiers lined the decks of the escort boats, holding ceremonial metal shields that flashed when the sun broke through the cloud-scudded sky.

 

Sadly, Leto gazed past the gilded hawk prow, shading his eyes to look across the waters of Caladan.  Victor had loved the oceans.  In the distance, where the sea faded into the curved horizon, Leto saw flickering storms and bright sky-sparkles, perhaps a congregation of elecrans come to usher the lad's soul to a new place beneath the waves. . . .

 

For generations of Atreides, life itself had been revered as the ultimate blessing.  The Atreides counted what a man did when he was alive -- events he could experience with clarity and enjoy with all of his senses.  A person's accomplishments held far more significance than any shadowy afterlife.  The tangible was more important than the intangible.

 

Oh, how I miss you, my son.

 

In the brief years he had shared with Victor, he'd tried to instill strength in the boy, just as his own father had done for him.  Each person must have the ability to rely on himself, to help his comrades but never to lean on them too much.

 

I need all my strength today.

 

A man should not have to attend the funeral of his own child.  The natural order had been disrupted.  Though Kailea had not been his wife, and Victor had not been the official ducal heir, Leto could not think of a more terrible thing to befall a person.  Why had he been the one to survive, the one to endure the knowing, the awful sense of loss?

 

The cortege of boats set course for the coral gem beds far offshore, where Leto and Rhombur had gone diving years ago, where Leto would have taken his own son one day.  But Victor hadn't been given enough time; Leto could never fulfill all the promises he'd made to the boy, both in words and in his heart. . . .

 

The Atreides funeral barge rose several tiers high, an impressive floating monument.  On the top level, giant kabuzu shell cressets, fifteen meters tall, burned whale oil.  Up there Victor's body lay in a golden coffin surrounded by his favorite things -- a stuffed Salusan bull toy, a feathered vara lance with a rubber tip, filmbooks, games, seashells he had collected from the shore.  Representatives of many Great Houses had also sent wrapped gifts.  The baubles and keepsakes nearly engulfed the child's tiny, preserved body.

 

Bright flowers, green-and-black pennants, and long ribbons decorated the gilded tiers.  Donated paintings and artists' renderings depicted a proud Duke Leto holding his newborn son high overhead, then later teaching the boy how to bullfight . . . fishing with him on one of the docks . . . protecting him from the attack of the elecran.  Other images showed Victor on his mother's lap, doing school lessons, or running while holding a whistle-kite by its string.  And then, poignantly, several empty panels, left blank to represent what Victor had not done in his life and never would.

 

Reaching the reefs, crewmen set anchors to keep the barge in place.  The boats took up positions encircling the funeral barge; Duncan Idaho piloted a small motorboat around to the bow and tied up alongside.

 

Atreides soldiers began clanging their ceremonial shields in a mounting crescendo that carried across the waves.  Duke Atreides and Jessica stood together with their heads bowed.  The brisk wind blew in their faces, stinging Leto's eyes, ruffling Jessica's dark robe.

 

After a long moment the Duke straightened and drew a deep breath of sea air to drive back a tide of tears.  He looked up at the top level of the barge, where his son lay.  A shaft of bright sunlight flashed on the golden coffin.

 

Slowly, Leto raised his hands to the heavens.

 

The clashing of shields ceased, and a hush fell over the assemblage.  Waves lapped against the boats, and far overhead a lone seabird called.  The engine of Duncan Idaho's motorboat purred steadily.

 

In one of the Duke's hands he held a transmitter, which he activated.  The flaming cressets tipped in toward Victor and poured burning oil over his coffin.  Within seconds the top level of the wooden barge caught on fire.

 

Duncan helped Jessica into the motorboat, then Leto joined them.  They untied from the funeral barge and drifted away as the roaring fire grew brighter and hotter.

 

"It is done," Leto said, not taking his eyes from the flames while Duncan maneuvered the boat into position in the circle of larger boats.

 

As the Duke watched his son's funeral pyre consume the entire barge in a splash of yellow-and-orange light, he murmured to Jessica, "I can never again think fondly of Kailea.  Now you alone provide the strength I need to survive."  He had already sent his regrets to Archduke Armand Ecaz declining the offer of marriage to his daughter Mesa -- at least for the time being -- and the Archduke had quietly withdrawn the offer.

 

Deeply touched by his words, Jessica promised herself that she would never press Leto for a commitment that he was not willing to offer.  It was enough that she had the trust of the Duke she loved.  And you are my only man, she thought to herself.

 

She dared not let the Sisterhood know about the baby boy she carried in her womb, not until it was too late for them to interfere.  Mohiam had given her explicit instructions, without explaining the Bene Gesserit's grand plans for the daughter Jessica had been ordered to bear.

 

But Leto wanted another son so badly . . . . After the funeral she would tell him she was pregnant -- and no more.  He deserved to at least know that, so that he could hope for another son.

 

As they drifted away from the rising flames on the funeral barge, Duke Leto felt determination strengthen his heart.  Though he believed in Jessica, trusted and deeply loved her, he had too many scars from the tragedies, and knew he must always maintain a dignified distance.

 

His father had taught him this, that an Atreides Duke always lived in a different world from his women.  As the leader of a Great House, Leto's primary obligation was to his people, and he could not allow himself to get too close to anyone.

 

I am an island, he thought.