"Your assignment as Imperial Observer is hardly exile.  You are a Count, and you are my Spice Minister."  Distracted, Shaddam thought about ordering something to drink, perhaps with music, exotic dancers, even a military parade outside.  He had only to command it.  But such things did not interest him at the moment.  "Do you desire an additional title, Hasimir?"

 

Averting his overlarge eyes, Fenring said, "That would only call more attention to me.  Already it is difficult to conceal from the Guild how often I journey to Xuttuh.  Besides, trivial titles mean nothing to me."

 

The Emperor tossed the pit of his fruit into the bowl, frowning.  Next time he would order the preparers to cut out the seeds before serving them.  "Is 'Padishah Emperor' a trivial title?"

 

At the sound of three beeps, the men looked up at the ceiling, from which a clearplaz tube spiraled down to a receptacle on the Emperor's chusuk wood desk.  An urgent message cylinder streaked through the tube and thunked into place.  Fenring retrieved the cylinder, cut off a Courier's seal, and removed two sheets of rolled instroy paper, which he passed to the Emperor, restraining himself from examining them first.  Shaddam unrolled them, scanned the pages with an expression of growing distress.

 

"Hmmmm?"  Fenring asked, in his impatient manner.

 

"Another formal letter of complaint from Archduke Ecaz, and a declaration of kanly against House Moritani on Grumman.  Most serious, indeed."  He wiped red juice from his fingertips onto his scarlet robe, then read further.  His face flushed.  "Wait a minute.  Duke Leto Atreides has already offered his services to the Landsraad as a mediator, but the Ecazis are taking the matter into their own hands."

 

"Interesting," the Count said.

 

Angrily, Shaddam thrust the letter into Fenring's hands.  "Duke Leto found out before I did?  How is this possible?  I'm the Emperor!"

 

"Sire, the flare-up is not surprising, considering the disgraceful behavior at my formal banquet."  Seeing the blank look, he continued.  "The Grumman ambassador assassinating his rival right at the dinner table?  You remember my report?  It came to you months ago, hmmmm?"

 

As Shaddam struggled to put the pieces together in his mind, he waved dismissively at a blackplaz shelf beside his desk.  "Maybe it's over there.  I haven't read them all."

 

Fenring's dark eyes flashed with annoyance.  "You have time to read esoteric reports from a Planetologist, but not from me?  You would have been prepared for this feud if you'd paid attention to my communique.  I warned you the Grummans are dangerous and bear watching."

 

"I see.  Just tell me what the report says, Hasimir.  I'm a busy man."

 

Fenring recounted how he'd had to release the arrogant Lupino Ord, owing to diplomatic immunity.  With a sigh, the Emperor summoned attendants and called an emergency meeting of his advisors.

 

 

IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM adjoining Shaddam's Imperial office, a team of Mentat legal advisors, Landsraad spokesmen, and Guild observers reviewed the technicalities of kanly, the careful ballet of warfare designed to harm only actual combatants, with minimal collateral damage to civilians.

 

The Great Convention prohibited the use of atomic and biological weapons and required that disputing Houses fight a controlled feud through accepted direct and indirect methods.  For millennia, the rigid rules had formed the framework of the Imperium.  Advisors recounted the background of the current conflict, how Ecaz had accused Moritani of biological sabotage in their delicate fogtree forests, how the Grumman ambassador had murdered his Ecazi counterpart at Fenring's banquet, how Archduke Ecaz had formally declared kanly against Viscount Moritani.

 

"Another item of note," said the Imperial Trade Chief, waving one knobby finger like a rapier in the air, "I have learned that an entire shipment of commemorative coins -- minted, if you recall, Sire, to celebrate your tenth anniversary on the Golden Lion Throne -- has been stolen in an audacious raid on a commercial frigate.  By self-styled space pirates, if reports are to be believed."

 

Shaddam glowered, impatient.  "How is a petty theft relevant to the situation here?"

 

"That shipment was bound for Ecaz, Sire."

 

Fenring perked up.  "Hmmmm, was anything else stolen?  War materiel, weapons of any kind?"

 

The Trade Chief checked his notes.  "No -- the so-called raiders commandeered only the Imperial commemorative coins, leaving other valuables behind."  He lowered his voice and mumbled, as if to himself, "However, since we used inferior materials in minting those coins, the financial losses are not significant. . . ."

 

"I recommend that we dispatch Imperial Observers to Ecaz and to Grumman," Court Chamberlain Ridondo said, "in order to enforce the forms.  House Moritani has been known to . . . ah, stretch their interpretation of formal rules."  Ridondo was a skeletally gaunt man with yellowish skin and a slippery way of accomplishing tasks while allowing Shaddam to take the credit; he had fared well in his position as Chamberlain.

 

Before Ridondo's suggestion could be discussed, though, another message cylinder thumped into the receptacle beside the Emperor's chair.  After scanning the message, Shaddam slammed it onto the conference table.  "Viscount Hundro Moritani has responded to the diplomatic insult by carpet-bombing the Ecazi Palace and its surrounding peninsula!  The Mahogany Throne is physically destroyed.  A hundred thousand noncombatants dead, and several forests are on fire.  Archduke Ecaz barely escaped with his three daughters."  He squinted down at the curling instroy paper again, then looked quickly at Fenring but refused to ask for advice.

 

"He disregarded the strictures of kanly?" the Trade Chief said in shock.  "How can they do that?"

 

The sallow skin on Chamberlain Ridondo's towering forehead wrinkled with concern.  "Viscount Moritani does not have the honor of his grandfather, who was a friend of the Hunter.  What is to be done with wild dogs such as these?"

 

"Grumman has always hated being part of the Imperium, Sire," Fenring pointed out.  "They constantly seek opportunities to spit in our faces."

 

The discussion around the table took on a more frenetic tone.  As Shaddam listened to the talk, trying to look regal, he reflected on how different it was to be Emperor from how he'd imagined.  Reality was exceedingly complicated, with too many competing forces.

 

He recalled playing war games with young Hasimir, and realized how much he missed his boyhood friend's companionship and advice.  But an Emperor could not reverse important decisions lightly -- Fenring would remain in his Arrakis assignment and in the allied duty of overseeing the artificial spice program.  It was better if spies believed the stories of friction between them, though perhaps Shaddam could schedule more frequent visits with his childhood companion. . . .

 

"The forms must be obeyed, Sire," Ridondo said.  "Law and tradition bind the Imperium.  We cannot allow one noble house to ignore the strictures as they choose.  Clearly, Moritani sees you as weak and unwilling to intervene in this squabble.  He's taunting you."

 

The Imperium will not slip through my fingers, Shaddam vowed.  He decided to set an example.  "Let it be known throughout the Imperium, that a legion of Sardaukar troops is to be stationed on Grumman for a period of two years.  We'll put a leash on this Viscount."  He turned to the Spacing Guild observer at the far end of the table.  "Furthermore, I want the Guild to levy a heavy tariff on all goods delivered to and from Grumman.  Such income to be used for reparations to Ecaz."

 

The Guild representative sat in silence for a long, cold moment, as if pondering the "decision," which was in reality only a request.  The Guild was beyond the control of the Padishah Emperor.  Finally, he nodded.  "It will be done."

 

One of the court Mentats sat rigidly in his chair.  "They will appeal, Sire."

 

Shaddam sniffed.  "If Moritani has a case, let him make it."

 

Fenring tapped his fingers on the table, considering consequences.  Shaddam had already dispatched two legions of Sardaukar to oversee the Tleilaxu on Ix, and now he was sending more to Grumman.  In other trouble spots around the Imperium he had increased the visible presence of his crack military troops, hoping to smother any thoughts of rebellion.  He had increased the ranks of the Bursegs throughout the military, adding more mid-level commanders to be dispatched with troops, as needed.

 

Even so, small and annoying instances of sabotage or defacement continued to occur in random places, such as the theft of commemorative coins bound for Ecaz, the balloon effigy of Shaddam floating over the Harmonthep stadium, the insulting words painted on the cliffs of Monument Canyon. . . .

 

As a result, the loyal Sardaukar were spread too thinly, and because of the costly Project Amal, the Imperial treasury had insufficient funds to train and supply new troops.  Thus, the military reserves were being depleted, and Fenring saw troubled times ahead.  As House Moritani's actions proved, some forces in the Landsraad sensed weakness, smelled blood. . . .

 

Fenring considered reminding Shaddam of all this, but instead he held his own counsel as the meeting continued.  His old friend seemed to think he could handle things without him -- so let the man prove it.

 

The Emperor would get himself deeper and deeper into trouble, and finally he would have to call his exiled "Spice Minister" back to Kaitain.  When that occurred, Fenring would make him grovel . . . before finally assenting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Organizational structure is crucial to the success of a movement.  It is, as well, a prime target for attack.

 

-CAMMAR PILRU, Ixian Ambassador in Exile:  Treatise on the Downfall of Unjust Governments

 

 

BEFORE THE NEXT MEETING of the resistance group, C'tair disguised himself as an introverted suboid worker.  Under the guise, he spent days of reconnaissance in the underground warrens where the rebels planned to gather.

 

Interspersed with islands of stalactite buildings, the holoprojected sky looked wrong, mimicking light from a sun that did not belong to Ix.  C'tair's arms ached from placing heavy crates on self-motivated pallets that delivered supplies, equipment, and raw materials into the sealed-off research pavilion.

 

The invaders had commandeered a cluster of industrial facilities and modified the construction, building over rooftops and connecting side passages.  Under House Vernius, the facilities had been masterfully designed to be both beautiful and functional.  Now they resembled rodent nests, all sloping barricades and armored gables that shimmered beneath defensive fields.  Their covered windows looked like blind eyes.

 

What are the Tleilaxu doing in there?

 

C'tair wore drab clothes, let his face hang slack and his eyes grow dull.  He focused on the tedious monotony of his tasks.  When dust or dirt smudged his cheeks, when grease smeared his fingers, he did nothing to clean himself, just plodded like clockwork.

 

Although the Tleilaxu did not consider suboids worthy of attention, the invaders had rallied these workers during their takeover of Ix.  Despite promises of better conditions and better treatment, the Tleilaxu had ground the suboids under their heels, far more than their experiences under Dominic Vernius.

 

When he was off shift, C'tair lived in a rock-walled chamber within the suboid warrens.  The workers had little social life, did not speak much to each other.  Few noticed the newcomer or asked his name; none of them made overtures of friendship.  He felt more invisible there than when he had hidden in a shielded chamber for months during the initial revolt.

 

C'tair preferred being invisible.  He could accomplish more that way.

 

Slipping off by himself, he evaluated the secret meeting place beforehand.  He took bootleg equipment into the empty supply chamber to scan for surveillance instruments.  He did not dare underestimate the Tleilaxu -- especially since two more legions of Imperial Sardaukar had been stationed here to keep even tighter control.

 

He stood in the center of the chamber and turned in a slow circle, concerned about the five tunnels leading into the chamber.  Too many entrances, too many spots for an ambush.  He pondered for a moment, then smiled as an idea occurred to him.

 

The following afternoon he stole a small holoprojector, with which he imaged comparable featureless rock.  Moving silently, he set up the projector inside one of the openings and switched it on.  A false barrier of rock now blocked one of the tunnels, a perfect illusion.

 

C'tair had lived with suspicion and fear for so long that he never expected his plans to go well.  But that didn't mean he stopped hoping. . . .

 

 

THE FREEDOM FIGHTERS ARRIVED one by one as the appointed time approached.  No one risked traveling with any other rebel; each wore a disguise, each came prepared with an excuse for his business down in the suboid tunnels.

 

C'tair arrived late -- safely late.  The furtive resistance fighters exchanged vital equipment and discussed plans in harsh whispers.  No one had an overall strategy.  Some of their schemes were so impossible C'tair had to force himself not to laugh, while others seemed like suggestions he might want to imitate.

 

He needed more crystalline rods for his rogo transmitter.  After each attempt to communicate with his distant Navigator brother, the crystals splintered and cracked, leaving him with pounding headaches.

 

The last time he'd tried the rogo, C'tair had been unable to contact D'murr, sensing his twin's presence and a few staticky thoughts but without linking up.  Afterward, lying awake for hours in his darkened chamber, C'tair felt lost and depressed, entirely alone.  He realized just how much he had counted on his brother's well-being, and on hearing that others from Ix had escaped and survived.

 

At times, C'tair wondered exactly what he had accomplished in all his years of struggle.  He wanted to do more, wanted to strike forcefully against the Tleilaxu -- but what could he do?  He stared at the gathered rebels, people who talked a great deal but accomplished little.  He watched their faces, noting greed in the black marketeers and ferretlike nervousness in others.  C'tair wondered if these were truly the allies he needed.  Somehow he doubted it.

 

Miral Alechem was also there, bartering furiously for more components to add to her mysterious plan.  She seemed different from the others, willing to take necessary action.

 

Unobtrusively, he worked his way over to Miral and caught the gaze of her large, wary eyes.  "I've studied the components you buy" -- he nodded toward the few items she held in her hands -- "and I can't fathom your plan.  I might . . . I might be able to help.  I've done a good deal of tinkering myself."

 

She took a half step back, like a suspicious rabbit, trying to read the meaning behind his words.  Finally, she spoke through pale lips, but her mouth remained drawn.  "I have an . . . idea.  I need to search --"

 

Before she could continue, C'tair heard a movement in the tunnels, footsteps that were at first faint and then louder.  The lookout guards shouted.  One ducked inside the room as projectile gunfire rang out.

 

"We're betrayed!" shouted one of the rebels.

 

In the confusion, C'tair saw Sardaukar soldiers and Tleilaxu warriors converging from the four exits, blocking the tunnels.  They fired into the gathered resistance fighters as if it were a shooting gallery.

 

Screams, smoke, and blood filled the air.  Sardaukar hurried in with hand weapons drawn; some used only their fists and fingers to kill.  C'tair waited for the smoke to thicken, for the rebels to fly into a greater frenzy -- and then lunged forward.

 

Seeing no escape, Miral crouched low.  C'tair grabbed her by the shoulders.  She began to fight him, thrashing as if he were her enemy, but C'tair pushed her backward toward the solid rock wall.

 

She fell directly through.  He plunged after her into the holo-covered opening.  He felt a twinge of guilt for not shouting to the others, but if all the rebels disappeared through the same escape hatch, the Sardaukar would be upon them in moments.

 

Miral looked around in confusion.  C'tair grabbed her arm and dragged her along.  "I planned for an escape ahead of time.  A hologram."  They began sprinting through the tunnel.

 

Miral stumbled beside him.  "Our group is dead."

 

"It was never my group," C'tair said, panting.  "They're amateurs."

 

She looked at him as they ran, her dark eyes boring into his.  "We must separate."

 

He nodded, then both took divergent tunnels.

 

Far behind him, he heard the Sardaukar cry out as they discovered the disguised opening.  C'tair ran faster, taking a left tunnel, then an uphill branch, doubling back to a different grotto.  Finally, he reached a lift tube that would take him out into the immense cavern.

 

Like a suboid going to work on the late shift, he fumbled for one of his identity cards and swiped it through a reader.  The lift tube whisked him toward the stalactite buildings that had once been inhabited by bureaucrats and nobles who served House Vernius.

 

Within the ceiling levels, he raced across connecting walkways, slipped between buildings, and looked down at the glittering lights of corrupted manufactories.  Finally, inside the crustal levels of what had once been the Grand Palais, he made his way to the shielded bolt-hole he had abandoned long ago.

 

He slipped to the chamber and locked it.  He hadn't found it necessary to hide there for a long time -- but tonight he'd come closer to capture than ever before.  In the silent darkness, C'tair rolled onto the musty-smelling cot that had been his bed for so many tense evenings.  Panting, he stared at the low ceiling, black above him.  His heart pounded.  He could not relax.

 

He imagined seeing stars above his room, a blizzard of tiny lights that showered across the open night sky on Ix's pristine surface.  As his thoughts traveled out into the sprawling expanse of the galaxy, he envisioned D'murr flying his Guild ship . . . safely away from here.

 

C'tair had to contact him soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The universe is our picture.  Only the immature imagine the cosmos to be what they think it is.

 

-SIGAN VISEE, First Head Instructor, Guild Navigator School

 

 

D'MURR, A VOICE SAID in the back of his awareness. D'murr . . .

 

Within the sealed navigation chamber atop his Heighliner, D'murr swam in spice gas, kicking his webbed feet.  Orange eddies swirled around him.  In his navigation trance, all star systems and planets were a grand tapestry, and he could travel along any thread he chose.  He derived supreme pleasure from entering the womb of the universe and conquering its mysteries.

 

It was so peaceful in deep, open space.  The brightness of suns came and went . . . a vast, eternal night dotted with tiny points of illumination.

 

D'murr performed the higher-order mental calculations required to foresee a safe course through any star system.  He guided the immense ship through the limitless void.  He could encompass the reaches of the universe and transport passengers and freight to any place he desired.  He saw the future and conformed to it.

 

Because of the outstanding abilities he had demonstrated, D'murr was among only a few mutated humans who had risen through the Navigators' ranks so swiftly.  Human.  The word was little more than a lingering memory for him.

 

His emotions -- strange detritus from his original physical form -- swung him in a way he had not expected.  In the seventeen Standard Years he'd spent growing up on Ix with his twin brother C'tair, he had not possessed the time, wisdom, or desire to understand what it meant to be human.

 

And for the past dozen years, admittedly by his own choice, he'd been removed from that dubious reality and vaulted into another existence, part dream, part nightmare.  Certainly his new appearance could frighten any man who was unprepared for the sight.

 

But the advantages, the reasons he had joined the Guild in the first place, more than compensated for that.  He experienced cosmic beauty unknown to other life-forms:  What they could only imagine, he actually knew.

 

Why had the Spacing Guild accepted him at all?  Very few outsiders were admitted to the elite corps; the Guild favored their own Navigator candidates -- those born in space to Guild employees and loyalists, some of whom had never walked upon solid ground.

 

Am I only an experiment, a freak among freaks?  Sometimes, with all the contemplative time on a great voyage, D'murr's mind wandered.  Am I being tested at this very moment by some means that can scan my aberrant thoughts?  Whenever the wild awareness of his previous human self came over him, D'murr felt as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice, deciding whether or not to leap into the void.  The Guild is always watching.

 

While floating in the navigation chamber, he journeyed among the remnants of his emotions.  An unusual sense of melancholy enveloped him.  He had sacrificed so much to become what he was.  He could never land on any planet unless he emerged in a wheeled and enclosed tank of spice gas. . . .

 

He concentrated hard, drove his thoughts back into line.  If he allowed the human self to become too strong, D'murr might send the Heighliner reeling off course.

 

"D'murr," the nagging voice said again, like the throbbing pain of a mounting headache.  "D'murr. . ."

 

He ignored it.  He tried to convince himself that such thoughts and regrets must be common for Navigators, that others experienced them as often as he did.  But why hadn't the instructors warned him?

 

I am strong.  I can overcome this.

 

On a routine flight to the Bene Gesserit world of Wallach IX, he piloted one of the last Heighliners constructed by Ixians, before the Tleilaxu took over and reverted to an earlier, less efficient design.  Mentally he reviewed the passenger list, seeing the words imaged on the walls of his navigation tank.

 

A Duke was aboard -- Leto Atreides.  And his friend Rhombur Vernius, exiled heir to the lost fortunes of Ix.  Familiar faces and memories . . .

 

A lifetime ago, D'murr had been introduced to young Leto in the Grand Palais.  Navigators overheard snippets of Imperial news and could eavesdrop on business conducted over the communication channels, but they paid little attention to petty matters.  This Duke had won a Trial by Forfeiture, a monumental act that had granted him respect throughout the Imperium.

 

Why would Duke Leto be going to Wallach IX?  And why did he bring the Ixian refugee?

 

The distant, crackling voice cut in again:  "D'murr . . . answer me . . ."

 

With sudden clarity he realized it was a manifestation of his former life.  Loyal, kind C'tair attempting to stay in touch, though for months D'murr had been unable to reply.  Perhaps it was a distortion caused by the continuing evolution of his brain, widening the gulf between himself and his brother.

 

The atrophied vocal cords of a Navigator could still utter words, but the mouth was primarily used to consume more and more melange.  The mind-expansion of the spice trance pushed away D'murr's former life and contacts.  He could no longer experience love, except as a flickering memory.  He could never again touch a human being. . . .

 

With one of his stubby webbed hands he withdrew a concentrated melange pill from a container and popped it into his tiny mouth, increasing the flow of spice through his system.  His mind floated a little, but not enough to dull the pain of the past, and of the attempted mental contact.  This time his emotions were too strong to overcome.

 

His brother finally stopped calling to him, but he would return soon.  He always did.

 

Now, the only sound D'murr heard was the steady hiss of gas entering the chamber.  Melange, melange.  It continued to pour into him, filling his senses completely.  He had no individuality left, could barely tolerate speaking to his own brother anymore.

 

He could only listen, and remember. . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

War is a form of organic behavior.  The army is a means of survival for the all-male group.  The all-female group, on the other hand, is traditionally religion-oriented.  They are the keepers of sacred mysteries.

 

-Bene Gesserit Teaching

 

 

AFTER DESCENDING FROM the orbiting Heighliner and passing through the intricate atmospheric defensive systems, Duke Leto Atreides and Rhombur Vernius were met in the Mother School's spaceport by a contingent of three black-robed women.

 

Wallach IX's blue-white sun was not visible from the ground.  A bone-chilling breeze whipped into the open-air portico where the group stood.  Leto felt it through his clothing and could see white feathers of breath curl from his exhalations.  At his side, Rhombur pulled the collar of his jacket tight.

 

The leader of the escort committee introduced herself as Mother Superior Harishka -- an honor Leto had not expected.  What have I ever done to warrant such attention?  When he'd been imprisoned on Kaitain, awaiting his Trial by Forfeiture, the Bene Gesserit had secretly offered him assistance, but had never explained their reasons.  The Bene Gesserit do nothing without a clear purpose.

 

Old but energetic, Harishka had dark almond eyes and a direct manner of speaking.  "Prince Rhombur Vernius."  She bowed to the round-faced young man, who swept his purple-and-copper cape in a dashing gesture of his own.  "It is a pity what happened to your Great House, a terrible pity. Even the Sisterhood finds the Bene Tleilax . . . incomprehensible."

 

"Thank you, but uh, I am certain everything will work out.  Just the other day our Ambassador in Exile submitted another petition to the Landsraad Council."  He smiled with forced optimism.  "I seek no sympathy."

 

"You seek only a concubine, correct?"  The old woman turned to lead the way out of the portico and onto the grounds of the Mother School complex.  "We welcome the opportunity to place one of our Sisters in Castle Caladan.  I am sure she will benefit you, and the Atreides."

 

They followed a cobblestone pathway between interlinked stucco buildings with terra-cotta roof tiles, arranged like the scales on a reef lizard.  In a flower-filled courtyard, they paused at a stylized black quartz statue of a woman kneeling.  "The founder of our ancient School," Harishka said, "Raquella Berto-Anirul.  By manipulating her own body chemistry, Raquella survived what would have been a lethal poisoning."

 

Rhombur bent to read the brass plaque.  "It says that all written and pictorial records of this woman were lost long ago when invaders set fire to the library building and destroyed the original statue.  Uh, how do you know what she looked like?"

 

With a wrinkled smile, Harishka said cryptically,  "Why, because we are witches."  Without another word, the robed old woman led the way down a short stairway and through a humid greenhouse where Acolytes and Sisters tended exotic plants and herbs.  Perhaps medicines, perhaps even poisons.

 

The Mother School was a place of legend and mythology seen by few men, and Leto had been astonished at the warm acceptance that his brash request had received.  He had asked the Bene Gesserit to select a talented, intelligent mate for Rhombur, and his tousle-haired friend had agreed to go "shopping."

 

At a brisk pace Harishka crossed a grassy field where women in short, lightweight robes performed impossible stretching exercises to a vocal cadence called out by a wrinkled, stooped old woman who matched them, move for move.  Leto found their bodily control astonishing.

 

When they finally entered a large stucco building with dark timbered beams and highly polished wooden floors, Leto was glad to be out of the sharp wind.  The building had a dusty chalkboard smell from old plaster walls.  The foyer opened into a practice hall, where a dozen young women in white robes stood motionless in the center, as erect as soldiers waiting for inspection.  Their hoods were thrown back over their shoulders.

 

Mother Superior stopped in front of the acolytes.  The two Reverend Mothers accompanying her went to stand behind the young women.  "Who here seeks a concubine?" Harishka inquired.  It was a traditional question, part of the ritual.

 

Rhombur stepped forward.  "I do-uh, Prince Rhombur, firstborn son and heir of House Vernius.  Or perhaps I seek even a wife."  He glanced over at Leto and lowered his voice.  "Since my House is renegade, I don't have to play silly political games.  Unlike some people I know."

 

Leto flushed, remembering the lessons his father had taught him.

 

Find love wherever you like, but never marry for love.  Your title belongs to House Atreides -- use it to strike the best possible bargain.

 

He had recently traveled to forested Ecaz to meet with Archduke Armand in his provisional capital after the Moritani carpet-bombing of his ancestral chateau.  Under the Emperor's crackdown, sending a legion of Sardaukar to Grumman to keep the fuming Viscount at bay, open hostilities between the two Houses had stopped, at least for the moment.

 

Archduke Armand Ecaz had requested an investigation team to study the alleged sabotage of the famous Ecazi fogtree forests and other crops, but Shaddam had refused.  "Let sleeping dogs lie" had been his official Imperial response.  And he expected the problem to end there.

 

Recognizing Leto's diligent attempts to calm the still-uneasy tensions, the Archduke had informally mentioned that his eldest daughter, Sanya, might be a marriageable prospect for House Atreides.  Upon hearing the suggestion, Leto had considered the assets of House Ecaz, their commercial, political, and military power, and how they might complement the resources of Caladan.  He had not even looked at the girl in question.  Study the political advantages of a marriage alliance.  His father would have been pleased. . . .

 

Now, Mother Superior said, "These young women are well trained in the myriad ways of pleasing nobility.  All have been chosen according to your profile, Prince."

 

Rhombur approached the line of women and looked closely at each of their faces.  Blondes, brunettes, redheads, some with skin as pale as milk, some as sleek and dark as ebony.  All were beautiful, all intelligent . . . and all studied him with poise and anticipation.

 

Knowing his friend as he did, Leto was not surprised to see Rhombur pause in front of a rather plain-looking girl with wide-set sepia eyes and mousy brown hair cut as short as a man's.  She met Rhombur's appraisal without looking away, without feigning a demure reaction as some of the others had done.  Leto noted the faintest smile curving her lips upward.

 

"Her name is Tessia," the Mother Superior said.  "A very intelligent, talented young woman.  She can recite the ancient classics perfectly, and plays several musical instruments."

 

Rhombur tilted her chin up, looked into her dark brown eyes.  "But can you laugh at a joke?  And tell an even better one in return?"

 

"Clever wordplay, my Lord?" Tessia answered.  "Do you prefer a distressingly bad pun, or a joke so bawdy it'll make your cheeks burn?"

 

Rhombur guffawed with delight.  "This one!"  As he touched Tessia's arm, she stepped out of line and walked with him for the first time.  Leto was pleased to see his friend so happy, but his heart was heavy as well, considering his own lack of a relationship.  Rhombur often did things on impulse, but had the fortitude to make them turn out right.

 

"Come here, children," Harishka said in a solemn tone.  "Stand before me and bow your heads."  They did so, holding hands.

 

With a paternal frown, Leto stepped forward to straighten Rhombur's collar and brushed an offending wrinkle from his shoulder pad.  The Ixian Prince flushed, then mumbled his thanks.

 

Harishka continued, "May you both lead long, productive lives and enjoy each other's honorable company.  You are now bound.  If, in years to come, you should choose to marry and seal the bond beyond concubinage, you have the blessings of the Bene Gesserit.  If you are not satisfied with Tessia, she may return here to the Mother School."

 

Leto was surprised to witness so many ceremonial trappings in what was, fundamentally, a business agreement.  By Courier from Caladan, he had already agreed upon a range of prices.  Still, Mother Superior's words imbued the relationship with some structure and established a foundation for good things to come.

 

"Prince Rhombur, this is a special woman, trained in ways that may surprise you.  Heed her advice, for Tessia is wise beyond her years."  Mother Superior stepped back.

 

Tessia leaned forward to whisper in Rhombur's ear, and the exiled Prince laughed.  Looking at his friend, he said, "Tessia has an interesting idea.  Leto, why don't you select a concubine for yourself?  There's plenty to choose from."  He gestured toward the other Acolytes.  "That way you won't have to keep making eyes at my sister!"

 

Leto blushed furiously.  His long-standing attraction to Kailea must be obvious, though he had taken steps over the years to conceal it.  He had refused to take her to his bed, torn as he was by the demands of ducal duty and the admonitions of his father.

 

"I've had other lovers, Rhombur.  You know that.  City and village girls find their Duke attractive enough.  There's no shame in it -- and I can maintain my honor with your sister."

 

Rhombur rolled his eyes.  "So, some fisherman's daughter from the docks is good enough for you, but my sister isn't?"

 

"That's not it at all.  I do this out of respect for House Vernius, and for you."

 

Harishka broke in, "I am afraid the women we have brought here are not suitable for Duke Atreides.  These have been selected for compatibility with Prince Rhombur."  Her prunish lips smiled.  "Nonetheless, other arrangements might be made. . . ."  She glanced up at an interior balcony, as if someone were watching them in concealment from above.

 

"I am not here for a concubine," Leto said gruffly.

 

"Uh, he's the independent sort," Rhombur said to Mother Superior, then raised his eyebrows at Tessia.  "What are we to do with him?"

 

"He knows what he wants, but does not know to admit it to himself," Tessia said with a clever smile.  "A bad habit for a Duke."

 

Rhombur patted Leto on the back.  "See, she's already giving good advice.  Why don't you just take Kailea as your concubine and be done with it, Leto?  I'm growing tired of your schoolboy angst.  It's certainly within your rights and, uh, we, both know it's the best she can aspire to be."

 

With an uneasy laugh, Leto dismissed the idea, though he had considered it many times.  He had been hesitant to approach Kailea with such a suggestion.  What might her reaction be?  Would she demand to be more than a concubine?  That was impossible.

 

Still, Rhombur's sister understood political realities.  Before the Ixian tragedy, the daughter of Earl Vernius would have been an acceptable match for a Duke (perhaps that's what old Paulus had had in mind).  But now, as head of House Atreides, Leto could never marry into a family that no longer held any Imperial title or fief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What is this Love that so many speak of with such apparent familiarity?  Do they truly comprehend how unattainable it is?  Are there not as many definitions of Love as there are stars in the universe?

 

-The Bene Gesserit Question Book

 

 

FROM AN INTERIOR BALCONY overlooking the waiting Acolytes, twelve-year-old Jessica watched the concubine-selection process with intent eyes and sharp curiosity.  Standing beside the girl, Reverend Mother Mohiam had instructed her to observe, so Jessica drank in every detail with practiced Bene Gesserit scrutiny.

 

What does the teacher want me to see?

 

On the polished hardwood floor, Mother Superior stood talking with the young nobleman and his newly selected concubine, Tessia al-Reill.  Jessica had not predicted that choice; several of the other Acolytes were more beautiful, more shapely, more glamorous . . . but Jessica did not know the Prince or his personality, was not familiar with his tastes.

 

Did beauty intimidate him, an indication of low self-esteem?  Perchance the Acolyte Tessia reminded him of someone else he had known?  Or maybe he was simply attracted to her for some difficult-to-define reason . . . her smile, her eyes, her laugh.

 

"Never try to understand love," Mohiam cautioned in a directed-whisper, sensing the girl's thoughts.  "Simply work to understand its effects in lesser people."

 

Below, one of the other Reverend Mothers brought a document on a writing board and handed it to the Prince for his signature.  His companion, a black-haired, hawk-featured nobleman, peered over his shoulder to review the fine print.  Jessica could not make out their spoken words, but she was familiar with the ancient Ritual of Duty.

 

The dark-haired Duke reached forward to fix his companion's collar.  She found the gesture oddly endearing, and she smiled.

 

"Will I be presented to a nobleman one day, Reverend Mother?" she whispered.  No one had ever explained what Jessica's purpose in the Bene Gesserit might be, and it was a constant source of curiosity to her -- one that often irritated Mohiam.

 

The Reverend Mother formed a scowl on her plain, aging face, as Jessica had suspected she would.  "When the time is right, you will know, child.  Wisdom is understanding when to ask questions."

 

Jessica had heard this admonition before.  "Yes, Reverend Mother.  Impatience is a weakness."

 

The Bene Gesserit had many such sayings, all of which Jessica had committed to memory.  She sighed in exasperation, then controlled the reaction, hoping her teacher had not seen.  The Sisterhood obviously had some plan for her -- why wouldn't they reveal her future?  Most other Acolytes had some idea of their predetermined paths, but Jessica saw only a blank wall ahead of her, with no writing on it.

 

I am being groomed for something.  Prepared for an important assignment.

 

Why had her teacher brought her to this balcony, at this precise moment?  There was no accident in this, no coincidence; the Bene Gesserit planned everything, thought everything through with utmost care.

 

"There is hope for you yet, child," Mohiam murmured.  "I instructed you to observe -- but you are intent on the wrong person.  Not the man with Tessia.  Watch the other one, watch them both, watch how they interact with each other.  Tell me what you see."

 

From her high vantage, Jessica studied the men.  She breathed deeply, let her muscles relax.  Her thoughts, like minerals suspended in a glass of water, clarified.

 

"Both men are nobles, but not blood kin, judging from differences in their dress, mannerisms, and expressions."  She did not take her eyes from them.  "They have been close friends for many years.  They depend on one another.  The black-haired one is concerned for his friend's welfare."

 

"And?"  Jessica heard excitement and anticipation in her teacher's voice, though she could not imagine why.  The Reverend Mother's eyes were riveted on the second nobleman.

 

"I can tell by his bearing and interaction that the dark-haired one is a leader and takes his responsibilities seriously.  He has power, but does not wallow in it.  He is probably a better ruler than he gives himself credit for."  She watched his movement, the flush of his skin, the way he looked at the other Acolytes and then forced himself to turn away.  "He is also lonely."

 

"Excellent."  Mohiam beamed down at her pupil, but her eyes narrowed.  "That man is Duke Leto Atreides -- and you are destined for him, Jessica.  One day you will be the mother of his children."

 

Though Jessica knew she should take this news impassively, as a duty she must perform for the Sisterhood, she suddenly found a need to calm her hammering heart.

 

At that moment Duke Leto glanced up at Jessica, as if sensing her presence in the balcony shadows -- and their gazes met.  She saw a fire in his gray eyes, a strength and wisdom beyond his years, the result of bearing difficult burdens.  She felt herself drawn to him.

 

But she resisted.  Instincts . . . automatic reactions, responses . . . I am not an animal.  She rejected other emotions, as Mohiam had taught her for years.

 

Jessica's previous questions vanished, and for the moment she formed no new ones.  A deep, calming breath brought her to a state of serenity.  For whatever reasons, she liked the look of this Duke . . . but her duty was to the Sisterhood.  She would wait to learn what lay in store for her, and she would do whatever was necessary.

 

Impatience is a weakness.

 

Inwardly, Mohiam smiled.  Knowing the genetic threads she'd been ordered to weave, the Reverend Mother had staged this brief but distant encounter between Jessica and Duke Atreides.  Jessica was the culmination of many generations of careful breeding to create the Kwisatz Haderach.

 

The mistress of the program, Kwisatz Mother Anirul, wife of Emperor Shaddam, claimed that the highest likelihood of success would occur if a Harkonnen daughter of the current generation produced an Atreides daughter.  Jessica's secret father was Baron Harkonnen . . . and when she was ready she would be joined with Duke Leto Atreides.

 

Mohiam found it supremely ironic that these mortal enemies -- House Harkonnen and House Atreides -- were destined to form such an incredibly important union, one that neither House would ever suspect . . . or condone.

 

She could hardly restrain her excitement at the prospect:  Thanks to Jessica, the Sisterhood was only two generations away from its ultimate goal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you ask a question, do you truly want to know the answer, or are you merely flaunting your power?

 

-DMITRI HARKONNEN, Notes to My Sons

 

 

BARON HARKONNEN HAD TO PAY for the Suk doctor twice.

 

He'd thought his massive payment to Richesian Premier Calimar would be sufficient to obtain the services of Dr. Wellington Yueh for as long as would be required to diagnose and treat his debilitating illness.  Yueh, though, refused to cooperate.

 

The sallow Suk doctor was totally absorbed in himself and his technical research on the orbiting laboratory moon of Korona.  He showed not the slightest respect or fear when the Baron's name was mentioned.  "I may work for the Richesians," he said in a firm, humorless voice, "but I do not belong to them."

 

Piter de Vries, sent to Richese to work out the confidential details for the Baron, studied the doctor's aged, wooden features, the oblivious stubbornness.  They stood together in a small laboratory office on the artificial research station, a grand satellite that shone in the Richesian sky.  Despite the emphatic request of Premier Calimar, narrow-faced Yueh, with long drooping mustaches and a rope of black hair gathered into a silver Suk ring, declined to go to Giedi Prime.  Self-confident arrogance, de Vries thought.  That can be used against him.

 

"You, sir, are a Mentat, accustomed to selling your thoughts and intelligence to any patron."  Yueh drew his lips together and studied de Vries as if he were performing an autopsy . . . or wanted to.  "I, on the other hand, am a member of the Suk Inner Circle, graduate of full Imperial Conditioning."  He tapped the diamond tattoo on his wrinkled forehead.  "I cannot be bought, sold, or rented out.  You have no hold over me.  Now, please allow me to return to my important work."  He gave a minimal bow before taking his leave to continue research in the Richesian laboratories.

 

That man has never been put in his place, never been hurt . . . never been broken.  Piter de Vries considered it a challenge.

 

 

IN THE GOVERNMENTAL BUILDINGS of Triad Center, Richesian Premier Calimar's apologies and posturing meant nothing to de Vries.  However, he could easily make use of the man's authorization to pass through the security gates and guards, to return to the Korona satellite research station.  With no choice in the matter, the Mentat went to Dr. Yueh's sterile medical laboratory.  Alone, this time.

 

Time to renegotiate for the Baron.  He did not dare return to Giedi Prime without a fully cooperative Suk doctor.

 

He moved with mincing steps into a metal-walled room filled with machinery, cables, and preserved body parts in tanks -- a mixture of the best Richesian electromechanical technology, Suk surgical equipment, and biological specimens from other animals.  The smells of lubricants, rot, chemicals, burned flesh, and burning circuits hung heavy in the cold room, even as the station's air-recyclers attempted to scrub the contaminants.  Several tables contained sinks, metal and plaz piping, snaking cables, dispensing machines.  Rising above the dissection areas, shimmering holo blueprints portrayed human limbs as organic machines.

 

As the Mentat gazed across the laboratory, Yueh's head suddenly appeared on the other side of one of the counters -- lean and grease-smeared, with facial bones so prominent they seemed to be made of metal.

 

"Please don't disturb me further, Mentat," he said in an abrupt voice, preempting conversation.  He didn't even ask how de Vries had found his way back to the restricted Korona moon.  The diamond tattoo of Imperial Conditioning glistened on his forehead, buried under a smear of dark lubricant from a careless wipe of his hand.  "I am very busy."

 

"Still, Doctor, I must speak with you.  My Baron commands it."

 

Yueh narrowed his eyes, as if imagining how some of his prototype cyborg parts might fit on the Mentat.  "I am not interested in your Baron's medical condition.  It is not my area of expertise."  He looked at the laboratory racks and tables filled with experimental prosthetics, as if the answer should be obvious.  Yueh remained maddeningly aloof, as if he couldn't be touched or corrupted by anything.

 

De Vries approached to within garroting distance of the shorter man, talking all the while.  No doubt he would face serious punishment if he was forced to kill this annoying doctor.  "My Baron used to be healthy, trim, proud of his physique.  Through no change in diet or exercise, he has nearly doubled his body weight in ten years.  He suffers from a gradual deterioration of muscular functions and bloating."

 

Yueh frowned, but his gaze turned back to the Mentat's.  De Vries caught the flicker of expression and lowered his voice, ready to pounce.  "Do those symptoms sound familiar to you, Doctor?  Something you've seen elsewhere?"

 

Now Yueh became calculating.  He shifted so that racks of test apparatus separated him from the twisted Mentat.  A long glass tube continued to bubble and stink on the far side of the chamber.  "No Suk doctor gives free advice, Mentat.  My expenses here are exorbitant, my research vital."

 

De Vries chuckled as his enhanced mind spun through possibilities.  "And are you so engrossed in your tinkering, Doctor, that you've failed to notice that your patron, House Richese, is nearly bankrupt?  Baron Harkonnen's payment could guarantee your funding for many years."

 

The twisted Mentat reached abruptly into his jacket pocket, causing Yueh to flinch, fearing a silent weapon.  Instead de Vries brought out a flat black panel with touch pads.  The holoprojection of an old-style sea chest appeared, made entirely of gold with precious-gem studs inlaid on its top and sides in the patterns of blue Harkonnen griffins.  "After you diagnose my Baron, you could continue your research however you see fit."

 

Intrigued, Yueh reached out, so that his hand and forearm passed through the image.  With a synthetic squeal, the lid of the bolo-image opened to reveal an empty interior.  "We will fill this with whatever you please.  Melange, soostones, blue obsidian, opafire jewels, Hagal quartz . . . blackmail images.  Everyone knows that a Suk doctor can be bought."

 

"Then go buy yourself one.  Make it a matter of public record."

 

"We prefer a more, ah, confidential arrangement, as Premier Calimar promised."

 

The sallow old doctor pursed his dark lips again, deep in thought.  Yueh's entire world seemed focused on a small bubble around him, as if no one else existed, no one else mattered.  "I cannot provide long-term care, but I could perhaps diagnose the disease."

 

De Vries shrugged his bony shoulders.  "The Baron doesn't want you any longer than necessary."

 

Staring at the sheer amount of wealth the Mentat was promising him, Yueh imagined how much more productive his work would be here on Korona, given adequate funding.  Still, he hesitated.  "I have other responsibilities.  I have been assigned here by the Suk College for this specific purpose.  Cyborg prostheses will be a valuable market for Richese, and us, once proven."

 

With a sigh of resignation, de Vries pressed a key on the pad, and the treasure chest became noticeably larger.

 

Yueh stroked his mustaches.  "It might be possible for me to travel between Richese and Giedi Prime -- under an assumed identity, of course.  I could study your Baron, then return here to continue my work."

 

"An interesting idea," the Mentat said.  "So you accept our terms?"

 

"I agree to examine the patient.  And I shall consider what to put in the treasure chest you offer."  Yueh pointed toward a nearby counter.  "Now hand me that measuring scope.  Since you interrupted, you can help me with constructing a prototype body core."

 

 

TWO DAYS LATER ON GIEDI PRIME, adjusting to the industrial air and the heavier gravity, Yueh examined the Baron in the infirmary of Harkonnen Keep.  All doors closed, all windows covered, all servants sent away.  Piter de Vries watched through his peephole, grinning.

 

Yueh discarded the medical files the Baron's doctors had compiled over the years, documenting the progress of the disease.  "Foolish amateurs.  I am not interested in them, or their test results."  Opening his diagnostic kit, the doctor withdrew his own set of scanners, complex mechanisms that only a highly trained Suk could decipher.  "Remove your clothing, please."

 

"Do you want to play?"  The Baron tried to retain his dignity, his command of the situation.

 

"No."

 

The Baron distracted himself from the uncomfortable probings and proddings as he considered ways to kill this pompous Suk if he, too, failed to discover the cause of the disease.  He drummed his fingertips on the examining table.  "None of my physicians could suggest any effective course of treatment.  Given the choice of a clean mind or a clean body, I had to take my pick."

 

Ignoring the basso voice, Yueh donned a pair of goggles with green lenses.  "Suggesting that you strive for both is too much to ask?"  He initialized the power pack and scanning routines, then peered at the gross, naked form of his patient.  The Baron lay on his belly on the examination couch.  He muttered constantly, complaining about pains and discomforts.

 

Yueh spent several minutes examining the Baron's skin, his internal organs, his orifices, until a string of subtle clues began to fit together in his mind.  Finally, the delicate Suk scanner detected a vector path.

 

"Your condition appears to be sexually generated.  Are you able to use this penis?"  Yueh said without the slightest trace of humor.  He might have been giving a stock quote.

 

"Use it?"  The Baron gave a rude snort.  "Hells and damnations, it's still the best part of me."

 

"Ironic."  Yueh used a scalpel to scrape a sample from the foreskin, and the Baron yelped in surprise.  "I need to run an analysis."  The doctor didn't give the slightest hint of an apology.

 

With the slender blade Yueh smeared the fragment of skin onto a thin slide and inserted it into a slot in the front underside of his goggles.  Using finger controls, he rotated the specimen in front of his eyes, under varying illuminations.  The goggle plaz changed color from green to scarlet to lavender.  Then he sent the sample through a multistage chemical analysis.

 

"Was that necessary?" the Baron growled.

 

"It is only the beginning."  Yueh then removed more instruments -- many of them sharp -- from his kit.  The Baron would have been intrigued, if he'd been able to use the tools on someone else.  "I must perform many tests."

 

 

AFTER SLIPPING INTO A ROBE, Baron Harkonnen sat back, gray-skinned and sweaty, sore in a thousand places that had not hurt before.  Several times he'd wanted to kill this arrogant Suk doctor -- but he didn't dare interfere with the protracted diagnosis.  The other physicians had been helpless and stupid; now he would endure whatever was necessary in order to obtain his answer.  The Baron hoped the treatment and eventual cure would be less aggressive, less painful than Yueh's original analysis.  He poured from a decanter of kirana brandy and gulped down a mouthful.

 

"I have reduced the spectrum of possibilities, Baron," Yueh said, pursing his lips.  "Your ailment belongs to a category of rare diseases, narrowly defined, specifically targeted.  I can collect another full set of samples, if you would like me to triple-verify the diagnosis?"

 

"That will not be necessary."  The Baron sat up, gripping his walking stick in case he needed to hit someone with it.  "What have you found?"

 

Yueh droned on, "The transmission vector is obvious, via heterosexual intercourse.  You were infected by one of your female lovers."

 

The Baron's momentary elation at finally finding an answer washed away in confusion.  "I have no female lovers.  Women disgust me."

 

"Yes, I see."  Yueh had heard many patients deny the obvious.  "The symptoms are so subtly general that I am not surprised less-competent doctors missed it.  Even Suk teaching did not initially include a mention of it, and I learned of such intriguing diseases through my wife Wanna.  She is a Bene Gesserit, and the Sisterhood occasionally makes use of these disease organisms --"

 

The Baron lunged into a sitting position on the edge of the examination couch.  A firestorm crossed his jowly face.  "Those damnable witches!"

 

"Ah, so now you remember," Yueh said with smug satisfaction.  "When did the contacts occur?"

 

Hesitation, then:  "More than a dozen years ago."

 

Yueh stroked his long mustaches.  "My Wanna tells me that a Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother is capable of altering her internal chemistry to hold diseases latent in her own body."

 

"The bitch!" the Baron roared.  "She infected me."

 

The doctor did not seem interested in the injustice or the indignity.  "More than just passively infected -- such a pathogen is released by force of will.  This was not an accident, Baron."

 

In his mind's eye the Baron envisioned horse-faced Mohiam, the sneering, disrespectful manner with which she had looked at him during the Fenrings' banquet.  She had known, known all along -- had been watching his body transform itself into this loathsome, corpulent lump.

 

And she had been the cause of it all.

 

Yueh closed up his goggles and slipped them back into his diagnostic kit.  "Our bargain is concluded, and I will take my leave now.  I have much research to complete on Richese."

 

"You agreed to treat me."  The Baron lost his balance as he tried to surge to his feet.  He collapsed back onto the groaning examination couch.

 

"I agreed to examine you, and no more, Baron.  No Suk can do anything for your condition.  There is no known treatment, no cure, though I am sure we'll eventually study it at the Suk College."

 

The Baron clenched his walking stick, finally standing.  Seething, he thought about the venom-drenched darts hidden in its tip.

 

But he also understood the political consequences of killing a Suk doctor, if word ever got out.  The Suk School had powerful contacts in the Imperium; it might not be worth the pleasure.  Besides, he had murdered enough doctors already . . . at least he finally had an answer.

 

And a legitimate target for his revenge.  He knew who had done this to him.

 

"I'm afraid you must ask the Bene Gesserit, Baron."

 

Without another word, Dr. Wellington Yueh hurried out of Harkonnen Keep and fled from Giedi Prime aboard the next Heighliner, glad that he would never have to deal with the Baron again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some lies are easier to believe than the truth.

 

-Orange Catholic Bible

 

 

EVEN SURROUNDED BY other villagers, Gurney Halleck felt completely alone.  He stared into the watery beer.  The brew was weak and sour, though if he drank enough of it, the pain in his body and in his heart grew numb.  But in the end he was left with only a throbbing hangover and no hope of finding his sister.

 

In the five months since Captain Kryubi and the Harkonnen patrol had taken her, Gurney's cracked ribs, bruises, and cuts had healed.  "Flexible bones," he told himself, a bitter joke.

 

The day after Bheth's abduction, he'd been back in the fields, slowly and painfully digging trenches and planting the despised krall tubers.  The other villagers, looking sidelong at him, had continued to work, pretending nothing had happened.  They knew that if productivity declined, the Harkonnens would come back and punish them even more.  Gurney learned that other daughters had been taken as well, but the parents involved never spoke of it outside their families.

 

Back at the tavern, Gurney rarely sang anymore.  Though he carried his old baliset with him, the strings remained silent, and music refused to issue from his lips.  He drank his bitter ale and sat sullenly, listening to the tired conversations of his mates.  The men repeated complaints about work, about the weather, about uninteresting spouses.  Gurney turned a deaf ear on all of it.

 

Though sickened to imagine what Bheth might be enduring, he hoped she was still alive. . . .  She was probably locked inside a Harkonnen pleasure house, trained to perform unspeakable acts.  And if she resisted or failed to meet expectations, she would be killed.  As the patrol sweep had proved, Harkonnens could always find other candidates for their stinking brothels.

 

At home, his parents had blocked their own daughter from memory; without Gurney's painstaking attention, they would have let Bheth's garden die.  His parents had even performed a mock funeral and recited verses from the battered Orange Catholic Bible.  For a while, Gurney's mother lit a candle and stared at the flickering flame, her lips moving in a silent prayer.  They cut calla lilies and daisies -- Bheth's favorite flowers -- and laid out a bouquet to honor her memory.

 

Then all of it ceased, and they moved on with their dreary lives without mention of her, as if she had never existed.

 

But Gurney never gave up.

 

"Don't you care?" he bellowed one night into his father's seamed face.  "How can you let them do this to Bheth?"

 

"I didn't let them do anything."  The older man seemed to stare right through his son, as if he were made of dirty glass.  "There's nothing any of us can do -- and if you keep trying to fight against the Harkonnens, they will pay you back in blood."

 

Gurney stormed out to sulk in the tavern, but the villagers there offered no more help.  Night after night, he grew disgusted with them.  The months passed in a blur.

 

Sloshing his ale, Gurney suddenly sat up at his table and realized what he was becoming.  He saw his blunt face in the mirror each morning with a gradual awareness that he had stopped being himself.  He, Gurney Halleck -- good-natured, full of music and bluster -- had tried to reawaken the life in these people.  But instead he'd been transformed into one of them.  Though barely in his twenties, he already looked like his aging father.

 

The drone of humorless conversation continued, and Gurney looked at the smooth prefab walls, the streaked window plates.  This monotonous routine had not varied for generations.  His hand clenched around the flagon, and he took stock of his own talents and abilities.  He couldn't fight the Harkonnens with brute strength or weapons, but he had another idea.  He could strike back at the Baron and his followers in a more insidious way.

 

Feeling renewed energy, he grinned.  "I've got a tune for you, mates -- the likes of which you've never heard before."

 

The men smiled uneasily.  Gurney held the baliset, strummed its strings as brusquely as if he were peeling coarse vegetables, and sang out in a loud, blustery voice:

 

We work in the fields, we work in the towns,

and this is our lot in life.

For the rivers are wide, and the valleys are low,

and the Baron -- he is fat.

 

We live with no joy, we die without grief,

and this is our lot in life.

For the mountains are high, and the oceans are deep,

and the Baron -- he is fat.

 

Our sisters are stolen, our sons are crushed,

our parents forget, and our neighbors pretend --

and this is our lot in life!

For our labor is hard, and our rest is short,

while the Baron grows fat from us.

 

As the stanzas continued the listeners' eyes widened in horror.  "Stop this, Halleck!" one man said, rising from his seat.

 

"Why, Perd?" Gurney said with a sneer.  "Do you love the Baron so much?  I hear he enjoys bringing strong young men like you into his pleasure chambers."

 

Bravely, Gurney sang another insulting song, and another, until finally he felt liberated.  These tunes gave him a freedom he'd never before imagined.  The onlookers were disturbed and uneasy.  Many got up to leave as he continued to sing, but Gurney would not be swayed.  He stayed until long after midnight.

 

When finally he walked home that night, Gurney Halleck had a spring in his step.  He had struck back at his tormentors, though they would never know it.

 

He wouldn't get enough sleep going to bed at this hour, and work would begin early in the morning.  But that didn't bother him -- he felt recharged.  Gurney returned to the darkened house where his parents had long since retired.  He set the baliset in his personal wardrobe, lay back on his pallet, and dozed off with a smile on his lips.

 

 

LESS THAN TWO WEEKS LATER, a silent Harkonnen patrol entered the village of Dmitri.  It was three hours before dawn.

 

Armed guards battered in the door of the prefab dwelling, though the Hallecks never kept it locked.  The uniformed men lit blazing glowglobes as they marched in, knocking furniture aside, smashing crockery.  They uprooted all the flowers Bheth had planted in old pots outside the front door.  They tore down the curtains that covered the small windows.

 

Gurney's mother screamed and huddled far back on the bed.  His father lurched up, went to the door of their chamber, and saw the troopers.  Instead of defending his home, he backed away and slammed the bedroom door, as if that could protect him.

 

But the guards were only interested in Gurney.  They dragged the young man from his bed, and he came out flailing wildly with his fists.  The men found his resistance amusing, and flung him facedown on the fireplace hearth; Gurney chipped a tooth and scraped his chin.  He tried to get back to his hands and knees, but two Harkonnens kicked him in the ribs.

 

After ransacking a small closet, one blond soldier came out with the nicked and patched baliset.  He tossed it on the floor, and Kryubi made sure Gurney's face was turned toward the instrument.  As the Harkonnens pressed their victim's cheek against the hearth bricks, the guard captain stomped on the baliset with a booted foot, breaking its spine.  The strings twanged in a discordant jangle.

 

Gurney moaned, feeling a greater pain from that than from the blows he had received.  All the work he had put into restoring the instrument, all the pleasure it had given him.  "Bastards!" he spat, which earned him another pummeling.

 

He made a concentrated effort to see their faces, recognized a square-featured, brown-haired ditch-digger he'd known from a nearby village, now resplendent in his new uniform with the low-rank insignia of an Immenbrech.  He saw another guard with a bulbous nose and a harelip, a man he was sure had been "recruited" from Dmitri five years before.  But their faces showed no recognition, no sympathy.  They were the Baron's men now, and would never do anything to risk being sent back to their former lives.

 

Seeing that Gurney recognized them, the guards dragged him outside and beat him with redoubled enthusiasm.

 

During the attack, Kryubi stood tall, sad, and appraising.  He ran a finger along his shred of mustache.  The guard captain watched in grim silence as his men punched and kicked and beat Gurney, drawing energy from their victim's refusal to cry out as often as they would have liked.  They finally stepped back to catch their breath.

 

And brought out the sticks . . .

 

At last, when Gurney could no longer move because his bones were broken, his muscles battered, and his flesh covered with clotting blood, the Harkonnens withdrew.  Under the harsh glare of clustered glowglobes, he lay bleeding and moaning.

 

Kryubi held up his hand and signaled the men to return to their craft.  They took all the glowglobes but one, which shed a single flickering light upon the mangled man.

 

Kryubi stared at him with apparent concern, then knelt close by.  He spoke quiet words meant only for Gurney.  Even through the pain-fogged clamor in his skull, Gurney found it strange.  He had expected the Harkonnen guard captain to crow his triumph so that all the villagers could hear.  Instead, Kryubi seemed more disappointed than smug.  "Any other man would have given up long ago.  Most men would have been more intelligent.  You brought this on yourself, Gurney Halleck."

 

The captain shook his head.  "Why did you force me to do this?  Why did you insist on bringing wrath down upon yourself?  I've saved your life this time.  Barely.  But if you defy the Harkonnens again, we may have to kill you."  He shrugged.  "Or perhaps just kill your family and maim you instead.  One of my men has a certain talent for gouging out eyes with his fingers."

 

Gurney tried to speak several times around broken, blood-thick lips.  "Bastards," he finally managed.  "Where's my sister?"

 

"Your sister is not of concern right now.  She is gone.  Stay here and forget about her.  Do your work.  We each have our job to do for the Baron, and if you fail in yours" -- Kryubi's nostrils flared --" then I must do mine.  If you speak out against the Baron, if you insult him, if you ridicule him to incite discontent, I will have to act.  You're smart enough to know that."

 

With an angry grunt, Gurney shook his head.  Only his anger sustained him.  Every drop of his blood that spattered the ground he swore to repay with Harkonnen blood.  With his dying breath he would discover what had happened to his sister -- and if by some miracle Bheth remained alive, he would rescue her.

 

Kryubi turned toward the troop transport, where the guards had already seated themselves.  "Don't make me come back."  He looked over his shoulder at Gurney and added a very odd word.  "Please."

 

Gurney lay still, wondering how long it would take for his parents to venture out and see whether he lived or not.  He watched through blurred vision and pain-smeared eyes as the transport lifted off and left the village.  He wondered if any other lights would come on, if any villagers would come out and help him, now that the Harkonnens were gone.

 

But the dwellings in Dmitri remained dark.  Everyone pretended not to have seen or heard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The strictest limits are self-imposed.

 

-FRIEDRE GINAZ, Philosophy of the Swordmaster

 

 

WHEN DUNCAN IDAHO ARRIVED at Ginaz, he believed he needed nothing more than the Old Duke's prized sword to become a great warrior.  His head full of romantic expectations, he envisioned the swashbuckling life he would lead, the marvelous fighting techniques he would learn.  He was only twenty, and looked forward to a golden future.

 

Reality was quite different.

 

The Ginaz School was an archipelago of habitable islands scattered like bread crumbs across turquoise water.  On each island, different Masters taught students their particular techniques that ranged from shield-fighting, military tactics, and combat skills to politics and philosophy.  Over the course of his eight-year training ordeal, Duncan would move from one environment to the next and learn from the best fighters in the Imperium.

 

If he survived.

 

The school's main island served as the spaceport and administration center, surrounded by reefs that blocked waves from the choppy water.  Tall clustered buildings reminded Duncan of the bristles on a spiny rat, like the one he'd kept as a pet inside the Harkonnen prison fortress.

 

Revered throughout the Imperium, the Swordmasters of Ginaz had built many of their primary structures as museums and memorials, rather than classrooms.  This reflected the supreme confidence they felt in their personal fighting abilities, a self-assurance that bordered on hubris.  Politically neutral, they served their art and allowed its practitioners to make their own choices regarding the Imperium.  Contributing to the mythology, the academy's graduates had included the leaders of many Great Houses in the Landsraad.  Master jongleurs were commissioned to compose songs and commentary about the great deeds of the legendary heroes of Ginaz.

 

The central skyscraper, where Duncan would endure his final testing years hence, held the tomb of Jool-Noret, founder of the Ginaz School.  Noret's sarcophagus lay in open view -- surrounded by clear armor-plaz and a Holtzman-generated shield -- yet only the "worthy" were allowed to see it.

 

Duncan vowed that he would prove himself worthy. . . .

 

He was met at the spaceport by a slender, bald woman wearing a black martial-arts gi.  Brisk and businesslike, she introduced herself as Karsty Toper.  "I have been assigned to take your possessions."  She extended her hand for his rucksack and the long bundle containing the Old Duke's sword.

 

He clutched the blade protectively.  "If you give me your personal guarantee that these items will be safe."

 

Her forehead furrowed, wrinkling her shaved head.  "We value honor more than any other House in the Landsraad."  Her hand remained extended, unwavering.

 

"Not more than the Atreides," Duncan said, still refusing to relinquish the blade.

 

Karsty Toper frowned as she considered.  "Not more, perhaps.  But we are comparable."

 

Duncan handed her the packages, and she directed him to a long distance shuttle 'thopter.  "Go there.  You will be taken to your first island.  Do what you are told without complaining, and learn from everything."  She tucked the sword bundle and his rucksack under her arms.  "We will hold these for you until it is time."

 

Without seeing the Ginaz city or the school administration tower, Duncan was flown far across the deep sea to a low, lush island like a lily pad that barely lifted itself out of the water. Jungles were dense and huts were few.  The three uniformed crewmen dropped him on the beach and departed without answering any of his questions.  Duncan stood all alone, listening to the rush of ocean against the island shore, reminded of Caladan.

 

He had to believe this was some sort of test.

 

A deeply tanned man with frizzy white hair and thin, sinewy limbs strode out to meet him, parting palm fronds.  He wore a sleeveless black tunic belted at the waist.  The man's expression appeared stony as he squinted into the light glaring off the beach.

 

"I am Duncan Idaho.  Are you my first instructor, sir?"

 

"Instructor?"  The man scowled.  "Yes, rat, and my name is Jamo Reed -- but prisoners don't use names here, because everyone knows his place.  Do your work, and don't cause any trouble.  If the others can't keep you in line, then I will."

 

Prisoners?  "I'm sorry, Master Reed, but I'm here for Swordmaster training --"

 

Reed laughed.  "Swordmaster?  That's rich!"

 

Without giving him any time to settle, the man assigned Duncan to a rugged work crew with dark-skinned Ginaz natives.  Duncan communicated by rough hand signals, since none of the natives spoke Imperial Galach.

 

For several hot and sweaty days, the men dug channels and wells to improve the water system for an inland village.  The air was so thick with humidity and biting gnats that Duncan could barely breathe.  As evening approached and the gnats dissipated, the jungle swarmed with mosquitoes and black flies, and Duncan's skin was covered with swollen bites.  He had to drink copious amounts of water just to replace what he sweated out.

 

As Duncan labored to move heavy stones by hand, the sun warmed the rippling muscles of his bare back.  Workmaster Reed watched from the shade of a mango tree, arms folded across his chest, a studded whip gripped in one hand.  He never said a word about Swordmaster training.  Duncan voiced no complaints, demanded no answers.  He had expected Ginaz to be . . . unexpected.

 

This has to be some kind of test.

 

Before attaining his ninth birthday, he'd suffered cruel tortures at the hands of the Harkonnens.  He had watched Glossu Rabban murder his parents.  Even as a boy, he had killed hunters in Forest Guard Preserve, and he'd finally escaped to Caladan only to see his mentor, Duke Paulus Atreides, slain in the bullring.  Now, after a decade of service to House Atreides, he chose to view each day's effort as a training exercise, toughening himself for future battles.  He would become a Swordmaster of Ginaz. . . .

 

A month later, another 'thopter unceremoniously dropped off a red-haired, pale-skinned young man.  The newcomer looked out of place on the beach, upset and confused -- just as Duncan must have appeared at his own arrival.  Before anyone could speak to the redhead, though, Master Reed sent the work crews to hack at the dense undergrowth with dull machetes; the jungle seemed to grow back as fast as they could cut it down.  Perhaps that was the point of sending convicts here, a perpetual but pointless errand, like the myth of Sisyphus he'd heard during his studies with the Atreides.

 

Duncan didn't see the redhead again until two nights later, when he tried to fall asleep in his own primitive palm-frond hut.  In a shelter on the other side of the shoreline encampment, the newcomer lay moaning with a horrible sunburn.  Duncan crept out to help him under the starlight of Ginaz, rubbing a creamy salve on the worst blisters, as he had seen the natives do.

 

The redhead hissed at the pain, bit back an outcry.  He finally spoke in Galach, startling Duncan.  "Thank you, whoever you are."  Then he lay back and closed his eyes.  "Damned poor way to run a school, wouldn't you say?  What am I doing here?"

 

The young man, Hiih Resser, came from one of the Houses Minor on Grumman.  As part of a family tradition, every other generation selected a candidate to be trained on Ginaz, but during his generation he was the only one available.  "I was considered a poor choice, a cruel joke to send here, and my father is convinced I'm going to fail."  Resser winced as he sat up, feeling his raw, blistered skin.  "Everyone tends to underestimate me."

 

Neither of them knew how to explain his situation, stuck on an island populated by convicts.  "It'll toughen us up at least," Duncan said.

 

The next day, when Jamo Reed saw them talking with each other, he scratched his frizzy white hair, scowled, then assigned them to different work details on opposite sides of the island.

 

Duncan did not see Resser again for quite a while. . . .

 

As months passed with no further information, no structured exercises, Duncan began to grow angry, resenting the wasted time when he could have been serving House Atreides.  How was he ever going to become a Swordmaster at this rate?

 

One dawn as he lay in his hut, instead of the expected call from Workmaster Reed, Duncan heard a rhythmic beating of 'thopter wings, and his heart leaped.  Racing outside, he saw a craft landing on the wide, wet beach just within the line of breakers.  Wind from the articulated wings blew the leaf fronds like fans.

 

A slender, bald form in a black gi climbed out and spoke with Jamo Reed.  The sinewy workmaster grinned and extended a warm handshake; Duncan had never noticed that Reed's teeth were so white.  Karsty Toper stepped aside, letting her eyes rove across the curious prisoners who had emerged from their huts.

 

Workmaster Reed turned back to the convicts standing beside their ramshackle huts.  "Duncan Idaho!  Come over here, rat."  Duncan ran across the rocky beach toward the 'thopter.  When he got closer to the flying machine, he could see redheaded Hiih Resser already sitting inside the cockpit.  He pressed a freckled, smiling face against the curved windowplaz.

 

The woman bowed her shaved head to him, then ran her eyes up and down his body like a scanner.  She turned to Reed and spoke in Galach.  "Success, Master Reed?"

 

The workmaster shrugged his whipcord shoulders, and his moist eyes suddenly filled with expression.  "The other prisoners didn't try to kill him.  He didn't get himself in trouble.  And we worked some of the fat and weakness out of him."

 

"Is this part of my training?" Duncan asked.  "A labor crew to toughen me up?"

 

The bald woman placed her hands on her narrow hips.  "This was a genuine prison crew, Idaho.  These men are murderers and thieves, assigned here for the rest of their lives."

 

"And you sent me here?  With them?"

 

Jamo Reed came forward and gave him a surprising hug.  "Yes, rat, and you survived.  As did Hiih Resser."  He gave Duncan a paternal pounding on the back.  "I'm proud of you."

 

Embarrassed and confused, Duncan mustered a disbelieving snort.  "I lived through worse prisons when I was an eight-year-old boy."

 

"And you will face worse from this day forward."  In a no-nonsense tone, Karsty Toper explained, "This was a test of character and obedience -- and patience.  A Swordmaster must have the patience to study an opponent, to implement a plan, to ambush the enemy.""But a real Swordmaster usually has more information about his situation," Duncan said.

 

"Now we have seen what you can do with yourself, rat." Reed wiped a tear from his own cheek.  "Don't let me down -- I expect to see you on your final day of testing."

 

"Eight years from now," Duncan said.

 

Toper directed him toward the still-fluttering 'thopter; he was delighted to see that she had brought the Old Duke's sword back to him.  The bald woman had to raise her voice to be heard over the loud hum of the aircraft's engines as she applied thrust.  "Now it is time to begin your real training."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Special knowledge can be a terrible disadvantage if it leads you too far along a path that you cannot explain anymore.

 

-Mentat Admonition

 

 

IN A MEDITATION ALCOVE in the darkest basement of Harkonnen Keep, Piter de Vries could not hear the screech of amputation saws or the screams of torture victims from an open doorway just down the hall.  His Mentat concentration was focused too intensely on other, more important matters.

 

Numerous harsh drugs enhanced his thinking process.

 

Sitting with his eyes closed, he pondered the clockwork of the Imperium, how the cogs meshed and slipped and ground together.  The Great and Minor Houses of the Landsraad, the Spacing Guild, the Bene Gesserit, and the commercial trading conglomerate CHOAM were the key cogs.  And all depended upon one thing.

 

Melange, the spice.

 

House Harkonnen reaped huge profits from its spice monopoly.  When they'd learned of the secret "Project Amal" years ago, the Baron had needed little coaxing to realize how he would suffer financial ruin if a cheap melange substitute were ever developed -- one that made Arrakis worthless.

 

The Emperor (or, more likely, Fenring) had hidden the artificial spice scheme well.  He'd buried the vastly expensive project in the vagaries of the Imperial budget - imposed higher taxes here, trumped-up fines there, called in long-standing debts, sold valuable properties.  But Piter de Vries knew where to look.  Consequences, plans, preparations, third- and fourth-order ripples that could not remain invisible.  Only a Mentat could follow them all, and the indications pointed to a long-term project that would bring about the economic ruin of House Harkonnen.

 

The Baron, however, would not go quietly. He had even attempted to start a war between the Bene Tleilax and House Atreides in order to destroy the "Amal" work . . . but that plan had failed, thanks to the damnable Duke Leto.

 

Since then, infiltrating spies onto the planet formerly known as Ix had proved predictably difficult, and his Mentat projections gave him no reason to believe the Tleilaxu had ceased their experiments.  Indeed, since the Emperor was sending two more legions of "peacekeeper" Sardaukar to Ix, the research might finally be reaching a head.

 

Or Shaddam might be reaching the limits of his patience.

 

Now, in his Mentat trance, de Vries did not move a muscle, other than his eyes.  A tray of mind-enhancing drugs hung around his neck, a slowly spinning platform like a table centerpiece.  A yellow carrion fly landed on his nose, but he didn't see it, didn't feel it.  The insect crawled onto his lower lip and kissed the spilled, bitter sapho juice there.

 

De Vries studied the rotating smorgasbord of drugs, and with a flick of his eyes stopped the turntable.  The tray tilted, pouring a vial of tikopia syrup into his mouth . . . and with it the hapless fly, followed by a capsule of melange concentrate.  The Mentat bit down on the spice capsule and swallowed, tasting an explosion of sweet-burning cassia essence.  Then he summoned a second capsule, more melange than he had ever consumed in one sitting.  But he needed the clarity now.

 

A torture victim in a distant cell howled, babbling a confession.  But de Vries noticed nothing.  Impervious to distractions, he plunged deeper into his own mind.  Deeper.  He felt his awareness opening, an unfolding of time like the spreading petals of a flower.  He flowed along a continuum, each part accessible to his brain.  He saw his exact place in it.

 

In his mind's eye, one of several possible futures became clear, an extraordinary Mentat projection based upon an avalanche of information and intuition, enhanced by massive melange consumption.  The vision was a series of painful filmbook images, visual spikes driven into his eyes.  He saw the Tleilaxu Master Researcher proudly holding a vial of synthetic spice, and laughing as he consumed it for himself.  Success!

 

A blur.  He saw the Harkonnens on Arrakis, packing up, leaving all their spice production behind.  Troops of armed Sardaukar guards marched blurred figures to an Imperial transport, taking them away from holdings on the desert world.  He saw the Harkonnen blue-griffin banner taken down from the fortress in Carthag and the Residency at Arrakeen.

 

And replaced with the green-and-black of House Atreides!

 

A strangled noise came from his throat, and his Mentat mind sifted through the prescient images, forced them into a pattern, and tried to translate what he had seen.

 

The Harkonnens will lose their spice monopoly.  But not necessarily because of the amal being developed by the Tleilaxu in collusion with the Emperor.

 

How, then?

 

As the drugs' multitentacled hold tightened, smothering him, his mind streaked down one avenue of synapses after another.  Each time, he found nothing, only dead ends.  He circled around and tried again, but reached the same conclusion.

 

How will it happen?

 

Heavy consumption of mixed drugs was not an approved method of stimulating mind powers; but he wasn't a normal Mentat, a gifted person accepted into the School and trained in the arcane methods of data-sorting and analysis.  Piter de Vries was a "twisted" Mentat -- grown in a Tleilaxu axlotl tank from the cells of a dead Mentat and trained by others who had broken from the Mentat School.  After dispensing their warped training, the Tleilaxu retained no control over their Mentats, though de Vries had no doubt that they had another fully grown ghola, genetically identical to him, just waiting in case Baron Harkonnen happened to lose patience with him one too many times.

 

The Tleilaxu "twisting" produced an enrichment that could be obtained in no other way.  It gave de Vries greater capabilities, far beyond what normal Mentats could attain.  But it also made him unpredictable and dangerous, potentially beyond control.

 

For decades the Bene Tleilax had experimented with drug combinations on their Mentats; in his formative years, de Vries had been one of their subjects.  The effects had been unpredictable and inconclusive, resulting in alterations -- improvements, he hoped -- to his brain.

 

Ever since he'd been sold to House Harkonnen, de Vries had performed his own tests, refining his body, tuning it to the condition he wanted.  With just the right mixture of chemicals he had achieved a high degree of mental clarity for faster processing of data.

 

Why will House Harkonnen lose the spice monopoly?  And when?

 

It seemed wise to suggest to the Baron that he reinforce his operations, double-check the secret melange stockpiles hidden on Lankiveil and elsewhere.  We must protect ourselves from this disaster.

 

His heavy eyelids flickered, lifted.  Bright particles of light swam into his eyes; with difficulty, he focused his vision.  He heard squealing.  Past the half-closed door, two uniformed men wheeled a squeaky gurney, on top of which lay a misshapen lump that had once been a human form.

 

Why will House Harkonnen lose its spice monopoly?  Sadly, he realized the drugs he had administered were wearing off, dissipated in the effort to unravel the troubled prescient vision.  Why?  He needed to take this to an even deeper level.  I must learn the answer!

 

In a frenzy he detached the drug tray from his neck, dumping juice and capsules on the floor.  Falling to his knees, he gathered all the pills he could find and swallowed them.  Like an animal, he lapped up spilled sapho juice, before he huddled in a jittering heap on the cold floor.  Why?

 

When a pleasurable feeling came over him, he lay back on the sticky, wet surface, staring at the ceiling.  His involuntary body functions slowed, giving him the outward appearance of death.  But his mind was racing, its electrochemical activity increasing, neurons sorting signals, processing, searching . . . electrical impulses leaping synaptic gaps, faster and faster.

 

Why?  Why?

 

His cognitive pathways fired in all directions, crossed, sizzled; potassium and sodium ions collided with other radicals in his brain cells.  The internal mechanisms broke down, no longer able to handle the fire-hose flow of data.  He was on the brink of vaulting into mental chaos and slipping into a coma.

 

Instead, his marvelous Mentat mind went into survival mode, shutting down functions, limiting the damage. . . .

 

 

PITER DE VRIES AWOKE in a pool of spilled drug residue.  His nostrils, mouth, and throat burned.

 

At the Mentat's side, the Baron paced back and forth, scolding him like a child.  "Look at the mess you've made, Piter.  All that wasted melange, and I almost had to purchase a new Mentat from the Tleilaxu.  Don't ever be so thoughtless and wasteful again!"

 

De Vries struggled to sit up, wanting to tell the Baron about his vision, the destruction of House Harkonnen.  "I . . . I have seen . . ."  But he could not get the words out.  It would take a long time before he was able to string sentences together coherently.

 

Worse yet -- even with his desperate overdose, he still did not have an answer for the Baron.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Too much knowledge never makes for simple decisions.

 

-CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO, Discourses on Leadership

 

 

WITHIN THE ICE-CHOKED arctic circle of Lankiveil, commercial whale fur boats were like cities on the water, enormous processing plants that lumbered across the steel-gray waters for months before returning to spaceport docks to disgorge their cargo.

 

Abulurd Harkonnen, the Baron's younger half-brother, preferred smaller vessels with native crews.  To them, whale hunting was a challenge and an art, rather than an industry.

 

Biting wind blew his ash-blond hair around his ears and shoulders as he squinted pale-eyed into the distance.  The sky was a soup of dirty clouds, but he'd grown accustomed to the climate.  Despite the glamorous and expensive Harkonnen palaces on other planetary holdings, Abulurd had chosen this frigid, mountainous world to call home.

 

He had been out on the sea for a week now, cheerfully attempting to assist the swarthy crew, though his appearance was far different from that of the Lankiveil natives.  His hands were sore and covered with blisters that sooner or later would turn to calluses.  The Buddislamic whalers seemed bemused that their planetary governor wanted to come out and work, but they knew his eccentricities.  Abulurd had never been one for pomp and ceremony, for abusing his power, or showing off his riches.

 

In the deep northern seas, Bjondax fur whales swam in herds like aquatic bison.  Golden-furred beasts were common; those with exotic leopard spots were much rarer.  Standing next to rattling prayer wheels and streamers, lookouts on observation platforms scanned the ice-thick sea with binoculars, searching for lone whales.  Off-shift whalers took turns praying.  These native hunters were selective of the beasts they killed, choosing only those with the best coats that would bring in the highest prices.

 

Abulurd smelled the salt air and the omnipresent tang of impending sleet.  He waited for the action to begin, for a fast hunt when the captain and his first mate would bellow orders, treating Abulurd as just another crewman.  For now, he had nothing to do but wait and think about home. . . .

 

At night, when the whaling boat rocked and swayed, accompanied by the patter and thump of ice chunks bumping against the reinforced hull, Abulurd would sing or play a local betting game that involved stacked beads.  He would recite required sutras with the gruff, deeply religious crew.

 

Glowing heaters inside the boat cabins could not match the roaring fireplaces in his bustling main lodge on Tula Fjord or his romantic private dacha at the mouth of the fjord.  Although he enjoyed the whale hunt, Abulurd already missed his quiet and strong wife.  He and Emmi Rabban-Harkonnen had been married for decades, and the separation of days would only make their reunion sweeter.

 

Emmi had noble blood, but from a diminished Minor House.  Four generations ago, before the alliance with House Harkonnen, Lankiveil had been the fief of an unimportant family, House Rabban, which had devoted itself to religious pursuits.  They built monasteries and seminary retreats in the rugged mountains, instead of exploiting the resources of their world.

 

Long ago, after the death of his father, Dmitri, Abulurd had taken Emmi with him to spend seven unpleasant years on Arrakis.  His elder half-brother Vladimir had consolidated all the power of House Harkonnen in his iron fist, but their father's will had given control of spice operations to Abulurd, the kind and bookish son.  Abulurd understood the importance of the position, how much wealth melange brought to his family, though he never grasped the nuances and political complexities of the desert world.

 

Abulurd had been forced to leave Arrakis in supposed disgrace.  But no matter what they said, he preferred to live on Lankiveil with manageable responsibilities, among people he understood.  He felt sorry for those being trampled by the Baron's overzealous efforts on the desert planet, but Abulurd vowed to do his best here, though he had not yet bothered to reclaim his rightful title of subdistrict governor.  The tedious politics seemed like such a waste of human effort.

 

He and Emmi had only one son, thirty-four-year-old Glossu Rabban, who, according to Lankiveil tradition, was given the distaff name from his mother's bloodline.  Unfortunately, their son had a coarse personality and took after his uncle more than his own parents.  Although Abulurd and Emmi had always wanted more children, the Harkonnen bloodline had never been particularly fecund. . . .

 

"Albino!" shouted the lookout, a sharp-eyed boy whose dark hair hung in a thick braid kinked over his warm parka.  "White fur swimming alone -- twenty degrees to port."

 

The vessel became a hive of activity.  Neuro-harpooners grabbed their weapons while the captain increased the engine speed.  Men scrambled up deck ladders, shading their eyes and staring into water laden with icebergs that looked like buoyant white molars.  It had been a full day since the last chase, so the decks were clean, the processing bins open and prepped, the men anxious.

 

Abulurd waited his turn to peer through a set of binoculars, staring across the whitecaps.  He saw flashes that might have been an albino whale, but were instead just chunks of drifting ice.  Finally, he spotted the creature as it breached, a creamy arc of white fur.  It was young.  Albinos, the rarest of the breed, were ostracized from the pod, cut loose and left without the support of the swimming herd.  Rarely did they survive to full adulthood.

 

The men bent to their weapons as the vessel bore down upon its prey.  Prayer wheels continued to spin and clack in the breeze.  The captain leaned out from the bridge deck and shouted in a voice resonant enough to break solid ice.  "If we get this one undamaged, we'll have enough shares to go home."

 

Abulurd loved to see the sheer joy and exhilaration on their faces.  He felt the thrill himself, his heart pounding to keep the blood moving in this intense cold.  He never took a share of the whaling profits, since he had no use for additional money, but allowed the men to divide it among themselves.

 

The albino beast, sensing pursuit, swam faster, heading toward an archipelago of icebergs.  The captain increased the throbbing engines, churning a wake behind them.  If the Bjondax whale dove, they would lose it.

 

Fur whales spent months at a time beneath the heavy ice sheets.  There, in dark waters fed by volcanic vents full of nutrients and warmth, the whales devoured swarms of krill, spores, and Lankiveil's rich plankton that did not require direct sunlight for photosynthesis.

 

With a loud pop, one of the long-range rifles planted a pulse-tag on the white whale's back.  In response to the prick, the albino dove.  The crewman working the controls sent a jolt of electricity through the pulse-tag, which made the whale breach again.

 

The boat came about, grinding the starboard side against an iceberg, but the reinforced hull held as the captain closed the gap.  Two master harpooners, moving with forced calm and precision, got into separate pursuit boats, sleek craft with narrow prows and ice-cutting keels.  The men strapped themselves in, sealed the clear protective canopy over them, and dropped the craft into the icy water.

 

The pursuit boats bounced across the choppy water, striking chunks of ice but closing on the target.  The main boat circled, approaching from the opposite direction.  Each of the master harpooners crossed in front of the albino whale, popping the canopy enclosures and standing up in their compartments.  With perfect balance, they hurled long stun-staves into the whale, delivering a blast of numbing energy.

 

The whale rolled and came toward the whaling boat.  The master harpooners pursued, but by now the main boat was close enough and four other harpooners leaned over the deck.  Like a well-practiced Roman legion hurling javelins, they pitched stun-staves with enough force to render the whale unconscious.  The two pursuit craft approached the furred hulk and, working as a team, the master harpooners delivered the coup de grace.

 

Later, as the pursuit craft were winched up to the boat, furriers and skinners strapped on spiked footwear and rappelled down the vessel sides to the floating carcass.

 

Abulurd had seen whales taken many times before, but he had an aversion to the actual butchering process, so he crossed to the starboard deck and stared northward at the mountain ranges of icebergs.  Their rugged shapes reminded him of the steep rocks that formed the fjord walls near where he lived.

 

The whaling vessel had reached the far northern limit of even the native hunting waters.  CHOAM whaling crews never ventured into these high latitudes, since their enormous vessels could not navigate the treacherous waters.

 

Alone at the bow, Abulurd enjoyed the prismatic purity of arctic ice, a crystal glow that enhanced the shrouded sunlight.  He heard the grind of colliding icebergs and stared, not realizing what his peripheral vision registered.  Something gnawed at his subconscious until finally his gaze centered on one of the monoliths of ice, a squarish mountain that appeared fractionally grayer than the others.  It reflected less light.

 

He squinted, then retrieved a pair of binoculars left lying on the deck.  Abulurd listened to the wet sounds behind him, the men shouting as they cut their prize into pieces ready to take home.  He focused the oil lenses and stared at the floating iceberg.

 

Glad to have a distraction from the bloody work, Abulurd spent long minutes scrutinizing fragments that had been hacked out of the ice.  The shards were too precise, too exact to have broken free from the glacial shelf and drifted about, battering and scraping other icebergs.

 

Then, at water level, he saw something that looked suspiciously like a door.

 

He marched up to the bridge deck.  "You'll be at work here for another hour, won't you, Captain?"

 

The big-shouldered man nodded.  "Aye.  Then we go home tonight.  Do you want to get down into the wet work?"

 

Abulurd drew himself up, queasy at the prospect of being smothered in whale blood.  "No . . . actually, I'd like to borrow one of the small boats to go explore . . . something I found on an iceberg."  Normally, he would have asked for an escort, but the whalers were all occupied with the butchery.  Even in these cold, uncharted seas, Abulurd would be glad to be away from the smell of death.

 

The captain raised his bushy eyebrows.  Abulurd could tell the gruff man wanted to express his skepticism, but he maintained his silence.  His broad, flat face carried only respect for the planetary governor.

 

Abulurd Harkonnen knew how to handle a boat himself -- often taking one into the fjords and exploring the coastline -- so he declined the offer of other whalers to accompany him.  Alone, he cruised away at a slow speed, watching out for dangerous ice.  Behind him, the butchering continued, filling the iron-scented air with a richer smell of blood and entrails.

 

Twice as he piloted his boat through the maze of floating mountains, Abulurd lost sight of his target, but eventually he found it again.  Hidden among the drifting icebergs, this one chunk seemed not to have moved.  He wondered if it was anchored in place.

 

He brought the small boat up against the rugged side, then momentum-locked it to the ice.  A feeling of unreality and displacement shrouded this strange monolith.  As he gingerly stepped out of the boat and onto the nearest flat white surface, he realized just how exotic this object was.

 

The ice was not cold.

 

Abulurd bent to touch what appeared to be milky shards of ice.  He rapped with his knuckles:  The substance was some kind of polymer crystal, a translucent solid that had the appearance of ice -- almost.  He stomped hard, and the iceberg echoed beneath him.  Very odd indeed.

 

He rounded a jagged corner to the place where he'd seen a geometrically even line of cracks, a parallelogram that might have been an access hatch.  He stared at it until he found an indentation, an access panel that appeared to have been damaged, perhaps in a collision with a real iceberg.  He found an activation button, and the trapezoidal covering slid aside.

 

He gasped as a strong cinnamon scent wafted out, a pungent odor that he recognized instantly.  He had smelled enough of it during his time on Arrakis.  Melange.

 

He breathed deeply just to make sure, then ventured into the eerie corridors.  The floors were smooth, as if worn down by many feet.  A secret base?  A command post?  A hidden archive?

 

He discovered room upon room filled with nullentropy containers, sealed bins that bore the pale blue griffin of House Harkonnen.  A stockpile of spice put here by his own family -- and no one had told him of it.  A grid map showed how far the storehouse extended beneath the water.  Here on Lankiveil, under Abulurd's own nose, the Baron had secreted a huge illegal hoard!

 

Such an amount of spice could have purchased this entire planetary system many times over.  Abulurd's mind reeled, unable to comprehend the treasure he had stumbled upon.  He needed to think.  He needed to talk to Emmi.  With her quiet wisdom, she would give him the advice he needed.  Together they would decide what to do.

 

Though he considered the whaling crew to be honest, wholesome men, such a stockpile would tempt even the best of them.  Abulurd left in a hurry, sealed the door behind him, and scrambled aboard his boat.

 

Upon returning to the whaling ship, he made sure to mark the coordinates carefully in his mind.  When the captain asked if he had found anything, Abulurd shook his head and retreated into his private cabin.  He didn't trust himself to control his expressions around the other men.  It would be a long voyage home until he could get back to his wife.  Oh, how he missed her, how he needed her wisdom.

 

 

BEFORE LEAVING THE DOCK AT TULA FJORD, the captain presented the fur whale's liver to Abulurd as his reward, though it was worth little compared to the share of the albino's fur he had given to each of the crewmen.

 

When he and Emmi dined together at the main lodge for the first time in a week, Abulurd was distracted and fidgeting, waiting for the chef to finish her grand workings.

 

The steaming, savory whale liver came out on two gilded silver platters, surrounded by mounds of salted stringreens with a side dish of smoked oyster nuts.  The long formal dining table could accommodate up to thirty guests, but Abulurd and Emmi sat next to each other near one end, serving themselves from the platters.

 

Emmi had a pleasant, wide Lankiveil face and a squarish chin that was not glamorous or beautiful -- but Abulurd adored it anyway.  Her hair was the truest color of black and hung straight, cut horizontally just below her shoulders.  Her round eyes were the rich brown of polished jasper.

 

Often, Abulurd and his wife would eat with the others in the communal dining hall, joining in the conversations.  But since Abulurd had just returned from a long whaling journey, everyone in the household knew the two wanted to talk quietly.  Abulurd had no qualms about telling his wife the great secret he had discovered in the icy sea.

 

Emmi was silent, but deep.  She thought before she spoke, and didn't talk unless she had something to say.  Now she listened to her husband and did not interrupt him.  When Abulurd finished his tale, Emmi sat in silence, thinking about what he had said.  He waited long enough for her to consider a few possibilities, then said to her, "What shall we do, Emmi?"

 

"All that wealth must have been stolen from the Emperor's share.  It's probably been there for years."  She nodded to reinforce her own convictions.  "You don't want to dirty your hands with it."

 

"But my own half-brother has deceived me."

 

"He must have plans for it.  He didn't tell you because he knew you'd feel honor-bound to report it."

 

Abulurd chewed a mouthful of the tart stringreens and swallowed, washing it down with a Caladan blanc.  With the smallest hints, Emmi could always tell exactly what he was thinking.  "But I do feel honor-bound to report it."

 

She considered for a moment, then said, "If you call attention to this stockpile, I can think of many ways it could harm us, harm the people of Lankiveil, or harm your own family.  I wish you had never found it."

 

He looked into her jasper-brown eyes to see if any glimmer of temptation had crossed them, but he saw only concern and caution there.  "Perhaps Vladimir is avoiding taxes or just embezzling to fill the coffers of House Harkonnen," she ventured, her expression turning hard.  "But he is still your brother.  If you report him to the Emperor, you could bring disaster upon your House."

 

Abulurd realized another consequence and groaned.  "If the Baron is imprisoned, then I would have to control all of the Harkonnen holdings.  Assuming we keep the Arrakis fief, I'd have to go back there, or else live on Giedi Prime."  Miserably, he took another drink of the wine.  "I couldn't stomach either option, Emmi.  I like it here."

 

Emmi reached over to touch his hand.  She stroked it, and he raised her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers.  "Then we've come to our decision," she said.  "We know the spice is there . . . but we'll just leave it be."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The desert is a surgeon cutting away the skin to expose what is underneath.

 

-Fremen Saying

 

 

 

 

AS THE MOON ROSE COPPER-RED over the desert horizon, Liet-Kynes and seven Fremen departed the rocks and made their way out to the soft curving dunes where they could be easily seen.  One by one the men made the sign of the fist, in accordance with Fremen tradition at the sign of First Moon.

 

"Prepare yourselves," Stilgar said moments later, his narrow face like a desert hawk's in the moonlight.  His pupils had dilated, making his solid blue eyes look black. He wrapped his desert camouflage around him, as did the other, older guerrillas.  "It is said that when one waits for vengeance, time passes slowly but sweetly."

 

Liet-Kynes nodded.  He was dressed to look like a weak, water-fat village boy, but his eyes were as hard as Velan steel.  Beside him, his sietch-mate and blood-brother Warrick, a slightly taller lad, nodded as well.  This night, the two would pretend to be helpless children caught out in the open . . . irresistible targets for the anticipated Harkonnen patrol.

 

"We do what must be done, Stil."  Liet clapped a hand on Warrick's padded shoulder.  These twelve-year-olds had already blooded more than a hundred Harkonnens apiece, and would have stopped keeping count, except for their friendly rivalry with each other.  "I trust my brother with my life."

 

Warrick covered Liet's hand with his own.  "Liet would be afraid to die without me at his side."

 

"With or without you, Warrick, I don't plan to die this night," Liet said, which elicited a deep laugh from his companion.  "I plan to exact revenge."

 

After the orgy of poisoned death had fallen upon Bilar Camp, Fremen rage had spread from sietch to sietch like water soaking into sand.  From the 'thopter markings found near the hidden cistern, they knew who was responsible.  All Harkonnens must pay.

 

Around Carthag and Arsunt, word was passed to timid-looking workers and dusty servants who had been placed inside Harkonnen strongholds.  Some of the infiltrators scrubbed the floors of troop barracks using dry rags and abrasives.  Others posed as water-sellers supplying the occupation force.

 

As the tale of the poisoned village passed from one Harkonnen soldier to another in progressively exaggerated anecdotes, the Fremen informants noted who derived the greatest pleasure from the news.  They studied the crew assignments and route logs of Harkonnen patrols.  Before long, they had learned exactly which Harkonnen troopers were responsible.  And where they could be found. . . .

 

With a high-pitched squeak and a dancing blur of gossamer wings, a tiny distrans bat swooped from observation outcroppings in the mountains behind them.  When Stilgar held up a hand, the bat landed on his forearm, primly folding its wings and waiting for a reward.

 

Stilgar drew a tiny drop of water from the sipping tube at his throat and let the moisture fall into the bat's open mouth.  Then he brought forth a thin cylinder and placed it to his ear, listening as the bat emitted complex, wavering squeaks.  Stilgar tapped the bat on its head, then flung it into the night air again, like a falconer releasing his bird.

 

He turned back to his expectant troop, a predatory smile on his moon-shadowed face.  "Their ornithopter has been seen over the ridge.  The Harkonnens fly a predictable path as they scan the desert.  But they have been on patrol for so long, they are complacent.  They do not see their own patterns."

 

"Tonight, they fly into a web of death," Warrick said from the dune top, lifting his fist in a very unboylike gesture.

 

The Fremen checked their weapons, loosed crysknives in sheaths at their sides, tested the strength of garroting cords.  With swishing robes, they erased all marks of their passage, leaving the two young men alone.

 

Stilgar looked up at the night sky, and a muscle on his jaw flickered.  "This I learned from Umma Kynes.  When we were cataloging lichens, we saw a rock lizard that seemed to vanish before our eyes.  Kynes said to me, 'I give you the chameleon, whose ability to match itself with its background tells you all you need to know about the roots of ecology and the foundations of personal identity.' "  Stilgar looked gravely at his men, and his expression faltered.  "I don't know exactly what he meant . . . but now we must all become chameleons of the desert."

 

Wearing light-colored clothes, Liet stepped up the slipface of the dune, leaving deliberate, painfully apparent footprints.  Warrick followed just as clumsily, while the other Fremen spread out on the flat sand.  After pulling out breathing tubes and covering their faces with loose hoods, they flailed their arms in a blur of motion.  Powdery sand engulfed them, and then they lay still.

 

Liet and Warrick ran about, smoothing wrinkles on the surface and leaving nothing but their own footprints.  They finished just as the patrol 'thopter whirred over the line of rocks, flashing red lights.

 

The two white-clad Fremen froze out in the open, their bright clothes unmistakable against the pale, moonlit sand.  No true Fremen would ever be caught in such a show of clumsiness . . . but the Harkonnens didn't know that.  They would not suspect.

 

As soon as the 'thopter came into view, Liet made an exaggerated gesture of alarm.  "Come on, Warrick. Let's make a good show of it."  The two ran away pell-mell, as if in a panic.

 

Predictably, the 'thopter circled to intercept them.  A powerful spotlight flooded down, then a laughing sidegunner leaned out of the 'thopter.  He fired his lasgun twice, sketching a line of melted glass upon the sand surface.

 

Liet and Warrick tumbled down the steep side of a dune.  The gunner fired three more blasts, missing them each time.

 

The 'thopter landed on the broad surface of a nearby dune . . . close to where Stilgar and his men had buried themselves.  Liet and Warrick flashed each other a smile, and prepared for the second part of the game.

 

 

SIDEGUNNER KIEL SHOULDERED his still-hot lasgun rifle and popped open the door.  "Let's go hunt some Fremen."  He jumped onto the sand as soon as Garan had landed the patrol craft.

 

Behind them, the fresh-faced recruit Josten fumbled for his own weapon.  "It would be easier just to shoot them from above."

 

"What kind of sport would that be?" Garan asked in his gruff voice.

 

"Or is it just that you don't want blood on your new uniform, kid?"  Kiel called over his shoulder.  They stood beside the armored craft looking across the moonlit dunes, where the two scrawny nomads stumbled away -- as if they had any hope of escape once a Harkonnen trooper decided to target them.

 

Garan grabbed his weapon, and the three of them strode across the sands.  The two Fremen youths scuttled like beetles, but the threat of the troops might cause them to turn around and surrender . . . or better yet, fight like cornered rats.

 

"I've heard stories about these Fremen."  Josten panted as he kept up with the two older men.  "Their children are said to be killers, and their women will torture you in ways that even Piter de Vries couldn't imagine."

 

Kiel gave a rude snort of laughter.  "We've got lasguns, Josten.  What are they going to do -- throw rocks at us?"

 

"Some of them carry maula pistols."

 

Garan looked back at the young recruit, then gave a shrug.  "Why don't you go back to the 'thopter and get our stunner, then?  We can use a wide field if things get bad."

 

"Yeah," Kiel said, "that way we can make this last longer."  The two white-clad Fremen continued to flounder across the sand, and the Harkonnen troopers closed the distance with purposeful strides.

 

Glad for the opportunity to be away from the fight, Josten sprinted over the dune toward the waiting 'thopter.  From the dune top, he looked back at his companions, then rushed to the darkened craft.  As he ducked inside, he encountered a man clad in desert tans, hands flicking across the controls with the speed of a snake on a hot plate.

 

"Hey, what are you --" Josten cried.

 

In the cabin light he saw that the figure had a narrow leathery face.  The eyes captivated him, blue-within-blue with the sharp intensity of a man accustomed to killing.  Before Josten could react, his arm was grabbed with a grip as strong as an eagle's talon, and he was dragged deeper into the cockpit.  The Fremen's other hand flashed, and he saw a curved, milky-blue knife strike up.  A bright icicle of pain slashed into his throat, all the way back to his spine -- then the knife was gone before even a droplet of blood could cling to its surface.

 

Like a scorpion that had just unleashed its sting, the Fremen backed up.  Josten fell forward, already feeling red death spreading from his throat.  He tried to say something, to ask a question that seemed all-important to him, but his words only came out as a gurgle.  The Fremen snatched something from his stillsuit and pressed it against the young man's throat, an absorbent cloth that drank his blood as it spilled.

 

Was the desert man saving him?  A bandage?  A flash of hope rose in Josten's mind.  Had it all been a mistake?  Was this gaunt native trying to make amends?

 

But Josten's blood pumped out too quickly and forcefully for any medical help.  As his life faded, he realized that the absorbent pack had never been meant as a wound dressing, but simply to capture every droplet of blood for its moisture. . . .

 

 

 

 

WHEN KIEL CAME within firing distance of the two Fremen youths, Garan looked back into the moonlight.  "I thought I heard something from the 'thopter."

 

"Probably Josten tripping on his own feet," the sidegunner said, not lowering his weapon.

 

The trapped Fremen staggered to a halt across a shallow pan of soft sand.  They crouched and pulled out small, clumsy-looking knives.

 

Kiel laughed out loud.  "What do you mean to do with those?  Pick your teeth?"

 

"I'll pick the teeth from your dead body," one of the boys shouted.  "Got any old-fashioned gold molars we can sell in Arrakeen?"

 

Garan chortled and looked at his companion.  "This is going to be fun."  Moving in lockstep, the troopers marched into the flat sandy area.

 

As they closed to within five meters, the sand around them erupted.  Human forms popped out of the dust, covered with grit-tan human silhouettes, like animated corpses boiling up from a graveyard.

 

Garan let out a useless warning cry, and Kiel fired once with his lasgun, injuring one of the men in the shoulder.  Then the dusty forms surged forward.  Clustering around the pilot, they pressed in so close that he couldn't bring his lasgun to bear.  They attacked him like blood-lice on an open wound.

 

As they drove Garan to his knees, he cried out like an old woman.  The Fremen restrained him so that he could do little more than breathe and blink his eyes.  And scream.

 

One of the white-clad "victims" hurried forward.  The young man -- Liet-Kynes -- held out the small knife that Garan and Kiel had snickered at just moments ago.  The youth darted downward, jabbing with the tip of the blade -- but with precise control, as gentle as a kiss -- to gouge out both of Garan's eyes, transforming his sockets into red Oedipal stains.

 

Stilgar barked out a command, "Bind him and keep him.  We shall bring this one back to Red Wall Sietch alive, and let the women take care of him in their own way."

 

Garan screamed again. . . .

 

When the Fremen rushed forward to attack Kiel, the sidegunner responded by swinging his weapon like a club.  As clawing hands grabbed for it, he surprised them by releasing the lasrifle. The Fremen who clutched the gun fell backward, caught off-balance by the unexpected action.

 

Then Kiel began to run.  Fighting would do him no good.  They had already taken Garan, and he assumed Josten was dead back at the 'thopter.  So he left the Fremen, running as he had never run before.  He sprinted across the night sands away from the rocks, away from the 'thopter . . . and out into the open desert.  The Fremen might be able to catch him, but he would give them a run for it.

 

Panting, leaving his companions behind, Kiel raced across the dunes with no plan and no thought other than to flee farther and farther away. . . .

 

 

"WE'VE CAPTURED the 'thopter intact, Stil," Warrick said, flushed with adrenaline and quite proud of himself.  The commando leader nodded grimly.  Umma Kynes would be exceedingly pleased at the news.  He could always use a 'thopter for his agricultural inspections, and he didn't need to know where it came from.

 

Liet looked down at the blinded captive, whose gouged eye sockets had been covered by a cloth.  "I saw what the Harkonnens did to Bilar Camp with my own eyes . . . the poisoned cistern, the tainted water."  The other body had already been packed in the rear of the patrol 'thopter to be taken to the deathstills.  "This doesn't pay back a tenth part of the suffering."

 

Going to his blood-brother's side, Warrick made a face of disgust.  "Such is my scorn that I don't even want to take their water for our tribe."

 

Stilgar glowered at him as if he had spoken sacrilege.  "You would prefer to let them mummify in the sands, to let their water go wasted into the air?  It would be an insult to Shai-Hulud."

 

Warrick bowed his head.  "It was only my anger speaking, Stil.  I did not mean it."

 

Stilgar looked up at the ruddy rising moon.  The entire ambush had lasted less than an hour.  "We shall perform the ritual of tal hai so that their souls will never rest.  They will be damned to walk the desert for all eternity."  Then his voice became harsh and fearful.  "But we must take extra care to cover our tracks, so that we do not lead their ghosts back to our sietch."

 

The Fremen muttered as fear dampened their vengeful pleasure.  Stilgar intoned the ancient chant, while others drew designs in the sand, labyrinthine power-shapes that would bind the spirits of the cursed men to the dunes forever.

 

Out across the moonlit sands they could still see the clumsily running figure of the remaining trooper.  "That one is our offering to Shai-Hulud," Stilgar said, finishing his chant.  The tal hai curse was complete.  "The world will be at balance, and the desert will be pleased."

 

"He's chugging like a broken crawler."  Liet stood next to Stilgar, drawing himself up though he was still small compared to the commando leader.  "It won't be long now."

 

They gathered their supplies.  As many as possible piled into the patrol 'thopter, while the remaining Fremen slipped back across the sands.  They used a well-practiced random gait so that their footsteps made no sound that was not natural to the desert.

 

The Harkonnen sidegunner continued to flee in a blind panic.  By now, he might be entertaining a hope of escape, though the direction of his flight across the ocean of dunes would take him nowhere.

 

Within minutes, a worm came for him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The purpose of argument is to change the nature of truth.

 

-Bene Gesserit Precept

 

 

IN ALL HIS DEVIOUS DEALINGS, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had never before felt such loathing for anyone.

 

How could the Bene Gesserit bitch do this to me?

 

One smoky morning on Giedi Prime, he entered the exercise room of his Keep, locked the doors, and left orders not to be disturbed.  Unable to use the weights or pulley equipment because of his increasing bulk, he sat on a floor mat and tried to perform simple leg lifts.  Once, he had been perfection in human form -- now he could barely raise each leg.  Disgust enveloped him.

 

For two months, ever since hearing Dr. Yueh's diagnosis, he'd wanted to rip out Mohiam's internal organs one by one.  Then, keeping her awake, jolted with life-support systems, he would do interesting things while she watched . . . burn her liver, make the witch-bitch eat her spleen, strangle her with her own entrails.

 

Now he understood Mohiam's smug expression at the Fenring banquet.

 

She did this to me!

 

He looked at himself in a floor-length mirror and recoiled.  His face was puffy and swollen, slig-ugly.  Reaching up with his heavy arms, he yanked the plaz mirror off the wall and slammed it to the floor, twisting the unbreakable material out of shape so that his reflection became even more distorted.

 

It was understandable that Mohiam might resent the rape, he supposed.  But the witch had blackmailed him into the sexual act in the first place, demanding that he provide the damnable Sisterhood with a Harkonnen daughter -- twice!  It wasn't fair.  He was the victim here.

 

The Baron simmered and stewed and raged.  He didn't dare let any of his rivals in the Landsraad learn of the cause; it was the difference between strength and weakness.  If they continued to believe he had grown bloated and corpulent because of excess, through his own overindulgences to flaunt his success, he could retain his power.  If, however, they learned he had been inflicted with a disgusting disease by a woman who had forced him to have sex with her . . . The Baron could not abide that.

 

Yes, hearing Mohiam's screams would be a tasty revenge, but no more than a morsel, not sufficient for a man of his stature.  She was only a repulsive appendage of the Bene Gesserit order itself.  The witches considered themselves so superior, able to crush anyone -- even the head of House Harkonnen.  They must be punished, as a matter of family pride, a matter of asserting power and status in the name of the entire Landsraad.

 

Besides, he would enjoy it.

 

But if he acted precipitously, he would never wring a cure from them.  The Suk doctor had claimed there was no known treatment for the disease, that it was in the hands of the Bene Gesserit.  The Sisterhood had done this to the Baron, and only they could restore his once-beautiful body.

 

Damn them!

 

He needed to turn the tables, get into their diabolical minds and discover what lurked there.  He would find a way to blackmail them.  He would strip away their funereal black robes (figuratively) and leave them to stand naked, awaiting his judgment.

 

He threw the bent mirror across the tile floor, where it skidded and slammed into an exercise machine.  Without his walking stick, he lost his balance, slipped, and tumbled back to the mat.

 

It was all too much to bear. . . .

 

After composing himself, the Baron hobbled into his cluttered workroom and summoned Piter de Vries.  His voice boomed through the corridors, and servants dashed about, looking for the Mentat.

 

For a full month de Vries had been recovering from his foolish spice overdose.  The idiot claimed to have seen a vision of House Harkonnen's downfall, but he'd been unable to offer any useful information as to how the Baron could combat such a dismal future.

 

Now the Mentat could make up for his failure by devising a strike against the Bene Gesserit.  Every time de Vries pushed the Baron too far, annoying him to the point of impending execution, he managed to prove himself indispensable again.

 

How do I hurt the witches?  How do I cripple them, make them squirm?

 

Still waiting, the Baron looked out of the Keep, studying Harko City, with its oil-streaked buildings and hardly a tree in sight.  Usually he liked this view, but now it added to his despondency.  He chewed the inside of his mouth, felt the tears of self-pity recede.

 

I will crush the Sisterhood!

 

These women were not stupid.  Far from it.  With their breeding programs and their political machinations, they had bred intelligence into their own ranks.  To improve on this even more, they had wanted his superior Harkonnen genes as part of their order.  Oh, how he hated them!

 

A careful plan would be required . . . tricks within tricks . . .

 

"My Lord Baron," Piter de Vries said, arriving silently.  His voice rose from his throat like a viper slithering out of a pit.

 

In the corridor outside, the Baron heard loud voices and a clattering of metal.  Something thudded against a wall, and furniture crashed.  He turned from the window to see his burly nephew stride through the doorway, right behind the Mentat.  Even with normal footsteps, Glossu Rabban seemed to stomp across the floor.  "I'm here, Uncle."

 

"Obviously.  Now leave us.  I called Piter, not you."  Normally Rabban spent his time on Arrakis carrying out the Baron's wishes, but whenever he returned to Giedi Prime he wanted to participate in every meeting, every discussion.

 

The Baron took a deep breath, reconsidered.  "On second thought, you may as well stay, Rabban.  I need to tell you about this anyway."  After all, this brute was his heir-presumptive, the best hope for the future of House Harkonnen.  Better than soft-headed Abulurd, Rabban's father.  How different they were, though each man had serious shortcomings.

 

Like a pathetic puppy, his nephew smiled, happy to be included.  "Tell me what, Uncle?"

 

"That I'm going to have you put to death."

 

Rabban's pale blue eyes dulled for a moment, then he brightened.  "No you aren't."

 

"How can you be so sure?"  The Baron glowered, while the Mentat's darting eyes watched the interplay.

 

Rabban responded promptly.  "Because if you were really going to put me to death, you wouldn't warn me first."

 

A smile stole across the Baron's plump face.  "Perhaps you aren't a total fool after all."

 

Accepting the compliment, Rabban slumped into a chairdog, squirming until the creature molded to his form.  De Vries remained standing, observing, waiting.

 

The Baron reiterated the details of the disease Mohiam had inflicted upon him -- and his need for revenge against the Bene Gesserit.  "We must come up with a way to get even with them.  I want a plan, a delicious plan that will return the . . . favor . . . for us."

 

De Vries stood with his effeminate features slack, his eyes unfocused.  In Mentat mode, he rolled pattern-searches through his mind at hyperspeed.  His tongue darted over his red-stained lips.

 

Rabban kicked the chairdog with his heel, adjusting to a different position.  "Why not a full-scale military assault on Wallach IX?  We can destroy every building on the planet."

 

De Vries twitched, and for a fraction of a second he seemed to glance at Rabban, but it was so quick that the Baron wasn't certain if it had occurred at all.  He couldn't stand the notion of his nephew's primitive thoughts contaminating the finely tuned thinking processes of his valuable Mentat.

 

"Like a Salusan bull at a dinner party, you mean?" the Baron said.  "No, we require something with more finesse.  Look up the definition in a dictionary slate if the concept is unfamiliar to you."

 

Rather than being offended, Rabban leaned forward on the chairdog, narrowing his eyes.  "We . . . have the no-ship."

 

Startled, the Baron turned to look at him.  Just when he thought the clod was too dull-witted even to join the House Guard, Rabban surprised him with an unexpected insight.

 

They had dared use the experimental invisible ship only once, to destroy Tleilaxu vessels and frame the hapless young Duke Atreides.  Because Rabban had murdered the eccentric Richesian inventor, they had no way of duplicating the technology.  Even so, it was a weapon whose existence no one suspected, not even the witches.

 

"Perhaps . . . unless Piter has a different idea."

 

"I do, my Baron."  De Vries's eyelids flickered, and the eyes came into focus.  "Mentat summation," he said, in a voice that was more stilted than his normally smooth tone.  "I have found a useful loophole in the Law of the Imperium.  Something most intriguing, my Baron."  Like a lawtech he quoted it word for word, then recommended a plan.

 

For a moment all of the Baron's bodily aches and pains vanished in euphoria.  He turned to his nephew.  "Now do you see the potential, Rabban?  I would rather be known for finesse than brute force."

 

Grudgingly, Rabban nodded.  "I still think we should take the noship.  Just in case."  He himself had piloted the invisible warcraft and launched the attack that should have triggered a full-scale Atreides-Tleilaxu war.

 

Not wanting to let the Mentat grow too smug, the Baron agreed.  "It never hurts to have a backup plan."

 

 

THE PREPARATIONS WERE swift and complete.  Captain Kryubi insisted that his men follow Piter de Vries's instructions to the letter.  Rabban marched through the hangars and barracks like a warlord, maintaining an appropriate level of tension among the troops.

 

Guild transport had already been summoned, while a Harkonnen frigate was stripped and loaded with more than its normal complement of men and weapons, along with the ultrasecret ship that had been used only once, a full decade earlier.

 

From a military standpoint the invisibility technology was a potential boon unlike any other in recorded history.  Theoretically, it would let the Harkonnens deliver crushing blows to their enemies without being detected in any way.  Imagine what Viscount Moritani of Grumman would pay for such an advantage.

 

The unseen warcraft had functioned effectively on its maiden voyage, but further plans had been delayed while technicians repaired mechanical bugs that cropped up afterward.  While most of the problems were minor, some -- involving the no-field generator itself -- proved more stubborn.  And the Richesian inventor was no longer alive to offer assistance.  Nevertheless, the ship had performed well enough in recent tests, though the quavery-voiced mechanics warned that it might not be entirely battleworthy. . . .

 

One of the slowest-moving cargo workers had had to be crushed gradually in a steam-press to give sufficient incentive to his peers so that they would not miss the scheduled departure time.  The Baron was in a hurry.

 

 

THE FULLY LOADED FRIGATE went into geostationary orbit over Wallach IX, directly above the Mother School complex.  Standing on the bridge of the frigate with Piter de Vries and Glossu Rabban, the Baron transmitted no signal to the Bene Gesserit headquarters.  He didn't have to.

 

"State your business," a female voice demanded over the comsystem, stiff and unwelcoming.  Did he detect an undertone of surprise?

 

De Vries replied formally, "His Excellency the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen of Giedi Prime wishes to speak with your Mother Superior on a private channel."

 

"Not possible.  No prior arrangements have been made."

 

The Baron leaned forward and boomed into the comsystem, "You have five minutes to establish a confidential connection with your Mother Superior, or I will communicate on an open line.  That could prove, ah . . . embarrassing."

 

The pause was longer this time. Moments before the deadline, a different, rasping voice came over the speaker.  "I am Mother Superior Harishka.  We are on my personal comlink."

 

"Good, then listen carefully."  The Baron smiled.

 

De Vries recited the case.  "The articles of the Great Convention are most explicit regarding certain serious crimes, Mother Superior.  These laws were established in the wake of the horrors committed by thinking machines on humanity.  One of the ultimate crimes is the use of atomics against human beings.  Another is aggression by biological warfare."

 

"Yes, yes.  I am not a military historian, but I can get someone to quote the exact phrasing, if you wish.  Does your Mentat not take care of such bureaucratic details, Baron?  I don't see what this has to do with us.  Would you like me to tell you a bedtime story as well?"

 

Her sarcasm could only mean she had begun to grow nervous.  " 'The forms must be obeyed,' " the Baron quoted.  "The punishment for a violation of these laws is immediate annihilation of the perpetrators at the hands of the Landsraad.  Every Great House has sworn to deliver an overwhelming combined force against the offending party."  He paused, and his words became more menacing.  "The forms have not been obeyed, have they, Mother Superior?"

 

Piter de Vries and Rabban looked at each other, both grinning.

 

The Baron continued.  "House Harkonnen is prepared to bring a formal complaint before the Emperor and the Landsraad, charging the Bene Gesserit with the illegal use of biological weapons against a Great House."

 

"You speak nonsense.  The Bene Gesserit have no aspirations of military power."  She sounded entirely baffled.  Was it possible she did not know?

 

"Know this, Mother Superior -- We have incontrovertible evidence that your Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam intentionally inflicted a biological scourge upon my person while I was providing a service demanded by the Sisterhood.  Ask the bitch yourself, if your underlings keep such information from you."

 

The Baron did not mention that the Sisterhood had blackmailed him with information about illegal spice-stockpiling activities.  He was ready for that subject if it surfaced again, since all of his melange hoards had been moved to remote regions of distant Harkonnen worlds, where they would never be discovered.

 

Contented, the Baron sat back, listening to the deep silence.  He imagined the appalled horror on the old Mother Superior's face.  He twisted the knife deeper.  "If you doubt our interpretation, read the wording of the Great Convention again and see if you care to risk it in open Landsraad court.  Bear in mind, too, that the instrument of your attack -- Reverend Mother Mohiam -- was delivered to me on a Guild ship.  When the Guild discovers that, they will not be pleased."  He tapped his fingertips on a console.  "Even if your Sisterhood is not demolished, you will receive severe sanctions from the Imperium, heavy fines, even banishment."

 

Finally, in a voice that almost managed to cover how the threat had shaken her, Harishka said, "You exaggerate your case, Baron, but I wish to be open-minded.  What is it you want from us?"

 

He could feel her squirm.  "I will take a shuttle down to the surface and meet with you privately.  Send up a pilot to shepherd us through your planetary defense systems."  He did not bother to point out his arrangements to transmit the evidence and accusations directly to Kaitain, should anything happen to them on this journey.  The Mother Superior would already know.

 

"Certainly, Baron, but you will realize soon, this is all a terrible misunderstanding."

 

"Just produce Mohiam at the meeting.  And be prepared to provide me with an effective treatment and cure -- or else you and your Sisterhood have no hope of surviving this debacle."

 

The ancient Mother Superior remained unimpressed.  "How large is your entourage?"

 

"Tell her we have a whole army," Rabban whispered to his uncle.

 

The Baron shoved him away.  "Myself and six men."

 

"Your request for a meeting is granted."

 

When the link was shut down, Rabban asked, "Can I go, Uncle?"

 

"Do you remember what I said to you about finesse?"

 

"I looked up the word and all of its definitions, as you commanded."

 

"Stay here and think about it while I confer with the witch mother."

 

Angrily, Rabban stomped away.

 

An hour later a Bene Gesserit lighter docked with the Harkonnen frigate.  A narrow-faced young woman with wavy chestnut hair stepped onto the entry dock.  She wore a slick black uniform.  "I am Sister Cristane.  I will guide you to the surface."  Her eyes glittered.  "Mother Superior awaits."

 

The Baron marched forward with six hand-picked, armed soldiers.  Piter de Vries spoke in a low voice that the witch could not hear.  "Never underestimate the Bene Gesserit, my Baron."

 

With a grunt the Baron strode past his Mentat and boarded the lighter.  "Not to worry, Piter.  They're under our thumb now."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Religion is the emulation of the adult by the child.  Religion is the encystment of past beliefs:  mythology, which is guesswork, the hidden assumptions of trust in the universe, those pronouncements which men have made in search of personal power . . . all mingled with shreds of enlightenment.  And always the ultimate unspoken commandment is "Thou shalt not question!"  But we do anyway.  We break that commandment as a matter of course.  The work to which we have set ourselves is the liberating of the imagination, the harnessing of imagination to humankind's deepest sense of creativity.

 

-Credo of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood

 

 

A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN confined to a desolate world, Lady Margot Fenring did not complain about the starkness, miserable heat, or lack of amenities in the dusty garrison town.  Arrakeen was situated on a hard salt pan, with the inhospitable desert stretching off to the south and higher elevations, including the rugged Shield Wall, rising to the northwest.  Since it was a few kilometers beyond the uncertain wormline, the settlement had never been attacked by one of the great sandworms, but this was still a subject of occasional concern.  What if something changed?  Life on the desert planet was never entirely secure.

 

Margot thought of the Sisters who had been lost there while working for the Missionaria Protectiva.  Long ago, they had gone off into the desert, following the orders of Mother Superior -- never to be seen again.

 

Arrakeen was immersed in the rhythms of the desert . . . the dryness and the premium put on water, the ferocious storms that blew in like great winds across a vast sea, the legends of danger and survival.  Margot felt great serenity and spirituality here.  It was a haven where she could contemplate nature, philosophy, and religion far from the inane bustle of the Imperial Court.  She had time to do things in this place, time to discover herself.

 

What had those lost women found?

 

In the lemon glow of dawn, she stood on a second-floor balcony of the Residency.  Fine dust and grit filtered the rising sun and gave the landscape a new look, leaving deep shadows where creatures concealed themselves.  She watched a desert hawk fly toward the sun-drenched horizon, flapping its wings with slow power.  The sunrise was like an oil painting by one of the great masters, a wash of pastels that sharply defined the rooftops of the town and the Shield Wall.

 

Somewhere out there, in countless sietches nestled in the rocky wasteland, dwelled the elusive Fremen.  They had the answers she needed, the essential information Mother Superior Harishka had pressed her to obtain.  Had the desert nomads listened to the teachings of the Missionaria Protectiva, or had they simply killed the messengers and stolen their water?

 

Behind her, the recently completed conservatory had been sealed with an airlock that opened only for her.  Count Fenring, still asleep in their bedroom, had helped her to obtain some of the most exotic plants in the Imperium.  But they were for her eyes alone.

 

Lately, she'd heard rumors of a Fremen dream for a green Arrakis -- typical Edenic myths of the type often spread by the Missionaria Protectiva.  That could have been an indication of the missing Sisters.  It was not unusual, however, for a struggling people in a harsh environment to develop their own dreams of paradise, even without Bene Gesserit prompting.  It would have been interesting to discuss the stories with Planetologist Kynes, perhaps ask him who the Fremen's mysterious "Umma" might be.  She could not imagine how all this might be connected.

 

The desert hawk rose on thermals and soared.

 

Still standing at the balcony window, Margot took a sip of melange tea from a small cup; the soothing glow of its spicy essence filled her mouth.  Though she had lived on Arrakis for a dozen years, she consumed spice only in moderation, careful not to become addicted enough that her eye color altered.  In the mornings, though, melange enhanced her ability to perceive the natural beauty of Arrakis.  She'd heard it said that melange never tasted the same twice, that it was like life, changing each time one partook of it. . . .

 

Change was an essential concept here, a key to understanding the Fremen.  Superficially, Arrakis appeared always the same, a wasteland stretching into the unending distance, and into infinite time.  But the desert was so much more than that.  Margot's Fremen housekeeper, the Shadout Mapes, had suggested as much one day.  "Arrakis is not what it seems, my Lady."  Tantalizing words.

 

Some said the Fremen were strange, suspicious, and smelly.  Outsiders spoke with a critical eye and sharp tongue, with no compassion or any attempt to understand the indigenous population.  Margot, though, viewed the Fremen oddness as intriguing.  She wanted to learn about their fiercely independent ways, to understand how they thought, and how they survived here.  If she got to know them better, she could perform her job more effectively.

 

She could learn the answers she needed.

 

Studying the Fremen who worked in the mansion, Margot recognized barely discernible identifiers in body language, vocal inflection, odor.  If the Fremen had anything to say, and if they thought you deserved to hear it, they would tell you.  Otherwise, they went about their chores diligently, with heads bowed, disappearing into the tapestry of their society afterward like grains of sand in the desert.

 

In her search for answers, Margot had considered stating her questions outright, demanding any information about the missing Sisters, hoping the household servants would take her request out into the desert.  But she knew the Fremen would simply vanish, refusing to be coerced.

 

Perhaps she should expose her own vulnerabilities to gain their trust.  The Fremen would be shocked at first, then confused . . . and possibly even willing to cooperate with her.

 

My only duty is to the Sisterhood.  I am a loyal Bene Gesserit.

 

But how to communicate without being obvious, without raising suspicions?  She considered writing a note and leaving it in a place where it was sure to be found.  The Fremen were always listening, always gathering information in their furtive ways.

 

No, Margot would have to be subtle, and also treat them with respect.  She would have to tantalize them.

 

Then she remembered an odd practice that came to her through centuries of Other Memory . . . or was it just a bit of trivia she had read while studying on Wallach IX?  No matter.  On Old Terra, in an honor-based society known as Japan, there had been a tradition of hiring ninja assassins, quiet yet effective, in order to dodge legal entanglements.  When a person wished to engage the services of the shadowy killers, he would go to a designated wall, face it, and whisper the name of the target and the fee offered.  Though never seen, the ninja were always listening, and a contract was made.

 

Here in the Residency, the Fremen, too, were always listening.

 

Margot tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, loosened her cool slikweave garment, and stepped into the hall outside of her offices.  In the immense mansion, even in the cool early morning, people moved about, cleaning, dusting, polishing.

 

Margot stood in the central atrium and looked up toward the high-arched ceiling.  She spoke in a soft, directed voice, knowing that the architecture of the old Residency created a whisper gallery.  Some would hear her, in random places.  She didn't know who, nor did she look to identify them.

 

"The Bene Gesserit Sisters, whom I represent here, hold the utmost respect and admiration for Fremen ways.  And I, personally, am interested in your affairs."  She waited for the faint echoes to die away.  "If anyone could hear me, perhaps I have information to share about the Lisan al-Gaib -- information you do not know at this time."

 

The Lisan al-Gaib, or "Voice from the Outer World," was a Fremen myth concerning a messianic figure, a prophet who bore striking parallels with the Sisterhood's own plans.  Obviously, some prior representative of the Missionaria Protectiva had planted the legend as a precursor to the arrival of the Bene Gesserit's Kwisatz Haderach.  Such preparation had been done on countless worlds in the Imperium; her comments were sure to spark Fremen interest.

 

She saw a flitting shadow, a drab robe, leathery skin.

 

Later that day, upon observing the Fremen employees moving about their household tasks, Margot thought they stared at her with a different kind of intensity, assessing her rather than just averting their blue-within-blue eyes.

 

Now, she began to wait, with the supreme patience of a Bene Gesserit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Humiliation is a thing never forgotten.

 

-REBEC of Ginaz

 

 

THE NEXT ISLAND of the Ginaz School was the remnant of an ancient volcano, a bleak scab raised out of the water and left to dry in the tropical sun.  The settlement inside the bowl of the dry crater looked like another penal colony.

 

Duncan stood in formation on the stony exercise field with a hundred and ten other young men, including the redheaded Grumman trainee Hiih Resser.  Of the original hundred and fifty, thirty-nine had not completed their initial testing.

 

The curly black hair on Duncan's head had been shaved, and he wore the loose black gi of the school.  Each student carried whatever weapon he'd brought to Ginaz, and Duncan had the Old Duke's sword -- but he would learn to rely above all on his own abilities and reactions, not a talisman that reminded him of home.  The young man felt comfortable now, and strong, and ready.  He was eager to begin his training, at long last.

 

Inside the crater compound, the junior training master identified himself as Jeh-Wu.  He was a muscular man with a rounded nose, and a weak chin that gave him the appearance of an iguana.  His long dark hair was kinked into snakelike dreadlocks.  "The Pledge," he said.  "In unison, please!"

 

"To the memory of the Swordmasters," Duncan and the other students intoned, "in heart, soul, and mind, we do pledge ourselves without condition, in the name of Jool-Noret.  Honor is the core of our being."

 

A moment of silence ensued as they contemplated the great man who had established the principles upon which Ginaz was founded, whose sacred remains could still be viewed in the tall administration building on the main school island.

 

As they stood at attention, the new instructor strolled up and down each row, inspecting the candidates.  Jeh-Wu thrust his head forward, paused in front of Duncan.  "Produce your weapon."  He spoke Ginazee, with the words translated into Galach by a thin purple collar that circled his neck.

 

Duncan did as he was told, handing over the Old Duke's sword hilt first.  Jeh-Wu's eyebrows arched beneath massed dreadlocks that hung like a thundercloud on his head.  "Fine blade.  Marvelous metallurgy.  Pure Damasteel."  He flexed the blade expertly, bent it back, then released it to snap into position with a thrummm like a struck tuning fork.

 

"Each newly forged Damasteel blade is said to be quenched in the body of a slave."  Jeh-Wu paused; his dreadlocks looked like serpents ready to strike.  "Are you thickheaded enough to believe crap like that, Idaho?"

 

"That depends on whether or not it's true, sir."

 

The dour training master finally gave a thin smile, but did not answer Duncan.  "I understand this is the blade of Duke Paulus Atreides?"  He narrowed his eyes and spoke in a warmer voice.  "See that you are worthy of it."  He slipped it back into Duncan's scabbard.

 

"You will learn to fight with other weapons until you are ready for this one.  Go to the armory and pick up a heavy broadsword, then don a full set of body armor -- antique medieval plate."  Now Jeh-Wu's smile seemed more sinister on his iguana-like face.  "You'll need it for this afternoon's lesson.  I intend to make an example of you."

 

 

ON THE PUMICE-AND-GRAVEL FIELD in the crater, with forbidding crags all around him, Duncan Idaho clanked forward in full plate armor.  The hauberk blocked his peripheral vision, forcing him to stare straight ahead through the slit.  The metal pressed down on him, falling as if it weighed hundreds of pounds.  Over his chain-mail shirt he wore shoulder plates, gorget, breastplate, greaves, cuirass, and tasset.  He carried an enormous two-handed broadsword.

 

"Stand over there."  Jeh-Wu pointed to a packed gravel area.  "Consider how you intend to fight in that suit.  It is not an easy task."

 

Before long, the island sun turned his outfit into a claustrophobic oven.  Already sweating, Duncan struggled to stride across the uneven ground.  He could barely bend his arms and legs.

 

None of the other students wore similar armor, but Duncan did not feel fortunate.  "I'd rather be wearing a personal shield," he said, his voice muffled in the echoing helmet.

 

"Raise your weapon," the junior training master ordered.

 

Like a shackled prisoner, Duncan clumsily lifted the broadsword.  With a conscious effort, he bent his stiff gauntlets into place around the hilt.

 

"Remember, Duncan Idaho, you have the best armor . . . supposedly the greatest advantage.  Now, defend yourself."

 

He heard a shout from beyond his constricted range of vision, and suddenly he was surrounded by other students.  They pummeled him with conventional swords, clanging against the steel plate.  It sounded like a brutal hailstorm on a thin metal roof.

 

Duncan swiveled and struck out with his blade, but he moved too slowly.  A pommel bashed his helmet, making his ears buzz.  Although he swung again, he could barely see his opponents through the slit in his helmet, and they easily sidestepped the blow.  Another blade rang against his shoulder plate.  He fell to his knees, struggled to stand.

 

"Well, fight back, Idaho," Jeh-Wu said, raising his eyebrows in impatience.  "Don't just stand there."

 

Duncan was reluctant to harm the other students with his huge broadsword, but none of his flat-bladed blows even touched a target.  The students returned to pound him again.  Sweat poured down his skin, and black spots danced in front of his eyes.  The air inside his helmet grew stifling.

 

I can fight better than this!

 

Duncan responded with more energy, and the students dodged his thrusts and swings, but the heavy plate armor denied him free movement.  In his ears, the roar of his breathing, the pounding of his heart was deafening.

 

The attack went on and on until he finally collapsed on the uneven gravel.  The training master came forward and tore off the heavy helmet so that Duncan blinked in a blaze of sunlight.  He gasped, shaking salty sweat out of his eyes.  The heavy suit pinned him to the ground like a giant's foot.

 

Jeh-Wu stood over him.  "You had the best armor of all of us, Duncan Idaho.  You also had the largest sword."  The training master looked down at his helpless form and waited for him to consider.  "And yet you failed utterly.  Would you care to explain why?"

 

Duncan remained silent; he didn't make any excuses for the abuse and embarrassment he had suffered during the exercise.  It was clear there were hardships in life that a man had to face and overcome.  He would accept adversity and use it to grow stronger.  Life was not always fair.

 

Jeh-Wu turned to the other students.  "Tell me the lesson here."

 

A short, dark-skinned trainee from the artificial world of Al-Dhanab barked out immediately, "Perfect defenses are not always an advantage.  Complete protection can become a hindrance, for it limits you in other ways."

 

"Good."  Jeh-Wu ran a finger along a scar on his chin.  "Else?"

 

"Freedom of movement is a better defense than cumbersome armor," said Hiih Resser.  "The hawk is safer from attack than the turtle."

 

Duncan forced himself to sit up, and slid the heavy broadsword aside in disgust.  His voice was hoarse.  "And the largest weapon is not always the deadliest."

 

The training master looked down at him, dreadlocks drooping, and gave him a genuine smile.  "Excellent, Idaho.  You may yet learn something here."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Learn to recognize the future the way a Steersman identifies guiding stars and corrects the course of his vessel.  Learn from the past; never use it as an anchor.

 

-SIGAN VISEE, First Head Instructor, Guild Navigator School

 

 

DEEP BENEATH THE CITY GROTTOES on Ix, the hot subterranean tunnels were illuminated red and orange.  Generations ago, Ixian architects had drilled field-lined pits into the molten mantle of the planet, bottomless shafts that served as hungry mouths for industrial waste.  The thick air smelled of acrid chemicals and sulfur.

 

Suboid workers sweated through twelve-hour shifts beside automated conveyors that dumped debris over the lip into the brimstone fires.  Robed Tleilaxu guards stood perspiring, bored and inattentive.  Dull-faced laborers tended the conveyors, removing items of value, gleaning bits of precious metal, wires, and components from wreckage torn out of scrapped factories.

 

On the job, C'tair Pilru stole what he could.

 

Unnoticed on the line, the young man was able to snag several valuable crystals, tiny power sources, even a microsensor grid.  After the Sardaukar raid on the freedom fighters two months earlier, he no longer had a network to supply him with the technological items he needed.  He was all alone in his battle now, but he refused to concede defeat.

 

For two months he'd lived in paranoia.  Though he still had a few peripheral contacts in the port-of-entry grottoes and the resource-processing docks, all the rebels C'tair knew, all the black marketeers he'd dealt with, had been slaughtered.

 

He kept a desperately low profile, avoiding his previous haunts, afraid that one of the captured and interrogated rebels had provided some clue to his identity.  Out of contact with even Miral Alechem, he went deeper underground, literally, than he had ever gone before, working on a labor gang in the refuse-disposal shafts.

 

Beside him, one of the disposal workers fidgeted too much, glanced around too often.  The man sensed intelligence in C'tair, though the dark-haired man studiously avoided him.  He made no eye contact, did not initiate conversation, though his work partner clearly wanted to make a connection.  C'tair suspected the man was another refugee pretending to be much less than he actually was.  But C'tair could afford to trust no one.