Dune: House Corrino Read online

  “Sire?” Ridondo stared at the Emperor with a disconcerting expression as he rattled off complex names without consulting notes. The Chamberlain, while not a Mentat, had a formidable natural memory, enabling him to keep track of the numerous details of the Imperial workday. “A newly arrived visitor has requested an immediate audience with you.”

  “They always say that. What House does he represent?”

  “He is not from the Landsraad, Sire. Nor is he an official from CHOAM or the Guild.”

  Shaddam made a rude noise. “Then your decision is obvious, Chamberlain. I cannot waste my time with commoners.”

  “He is… not exactly a commoner, Sire. His name is Liet-Kynes, and he comes from Arrakis.”

  Shaddam was irritated at the audacity of any man who would assume that he could simply walk in and expect an audience with the Emperor of a Million Worlds. “If I wish to speak with one of the desert rabble, I will summon him.”

  “He is your Imperial Planetologist, Sire. Your father appointed his father to investigate spice on Arrakis. I believe numerous reports have been submitted.”

  The Emperor yawned. “All of them boring, as I recall.” Now he remembered the eccentric Pardot Kynes, who had spent much of his life on Arrakis, shirking his duties and going native, preferring dust and heat to the splendor of Kaitain. “I have lost interest in deserts.” Especially now that amal is at hand.

  “I understand your reservations about him, Sire, but Kynes could go back and rile up the desert workers. Who knows what influence he has with them? They might decide to stage an immediate general strike, decreasing spice production and forcing Baron Harkonnen to crack down. The Baron would then request Sardaukar reinforcements, and from there—”

  Shaddam raised his well-manicured hand. “Enough! I see your point.” The Chamberlain always cycled through more consequences than an Emperor needed to hear. “Let him in. But clean the dirt off of him first.”

  * * *

  Liet-Kynes found the immense Imperial Palace impressive, but he was accustomed to a different sort of grandeur. Nothing could be more spectacular than the sheer vastness of Dune. He had stood face-to-face with monster Coriolis storms. He had ridden great sandworms. He had watched flickers of plant life thrive in the most inhospitable conditions.

  A man sitting on a chair, however expensive, could not match any of that.

  His skin felt oily from the lotion the attendants had smeared all over it. His hair smelled of flowery perfumes, and his body stank with unnatural deodorizers. According to Fremen wisdom, sand cleansed the body and the mind. Once he returned from Kaitain, Kynes intended to roll naked on a dune and stand out in the biting wind just to feel truly clean again.

  Because he insisted on wearing his sophisticated stillsuit, the garment had been dismantled in a thorough search for concealed weapons and listening devices. The components had been scrubbed and lubricated, the carefully treated surfaces coated with strange chemicals, before the security men let him have it back. Kynes doubted the vital piece of desert equipment would ever function properly again, and he would have to discard it. Such a waste.

  But since he was the son of the great prophet Pardot Kynes, Fremen would line up to the horizon for the honor of making a new garment for him. After all, they shared one goal: the welfare of Dune. But only Kynes could approach the Emperor and make the necessary demands.

  These Imperial men understand so little.

  Liet’s mottled tan cape flowed behind him as he marched forward. On Kaitain it appeared to be no more than coarse cloth, but he wore it like a royal mantle.

  The Chamberlain announced his name curtly, as if offended that the Planetologist did not carry sufficient noble or political titles. Kynes clomped across the floor in temag boots, not bothering to walk with grace. He came to a stop in front of the dais and spoke boldly, without bowing. “Emperor Shaddam, I must speak to you of spice and of Arrakis.”

  Courtiers gasped at his forthrightness. The Emperor stiffened, obviously offended. “You are bold, Planetologist. Foolishly so. Do you assume I know nothing of matters so vital to my Imperium?”

  “I assume, Sire, that you have been given false information by the Harkonnens, propaganda to hide their true activities from you.”

  Shaddam raised a reddish eyebrow and leaned forward, his full attention now focused on the Planetologist.

  Kynes continued, “The Harkonnens are wild dogs tearing at the desert. They exploit the native people. Casualty rates on spice crawlers are higher even than in the slave pits on Poritrin or Giedi Prime. I have sent you many reports detailing such atrocities, and my father before me did the same. I have also delivered a long-term plan detailing how plantings of grass and desert scrub brush could reclaim much of the surface area of Dune— Arrakis, I mean— for human habitation.” He paused a beat. “I can only assume you have not read our reports, since we have received no response, and you have taken no action.”

  Shaddam grasped the arms of the Golden Lion Throne. Flanking him, the dazzling ion torches roared in what seemed to be a feeble imitation of the furnace inside the mouth of Shai-Hulud. “I have much to read, Planetologist, and many demands on my time.” Sardaukar guards moved a little closer, attuned to their Emperor’s darkening mood.

  “And much of it is unimportant compared to the future of melange production, is it not?” Kynes’s retort shocked Shaddam and the listeners in the court. The guards were on full alert now, blades at the ready.

  Oblivious to his danger, Kynes went on. “I have requested new equipment and teams of botanists, meteorologists, and geologists. I have asked for experts in cultural studies to assist me in determining how the desert people are able to survive so well, when your Harkonnens suffer so many losses.”

  The Chamberlain had heard enough. “Planetologist, one does not make demands of the Emperor. Shaddam IV alone decides what is important and where to distribute resources through the benevolence of his Imperial hand.”

  Kynes was not cowed by Shaddam or his lackey. “And nothing is more important to the Imperium than the spice. I offer a way for history to remember the Emperor as a visionary, in the tradition of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino.”

  At this audacity, Shaddam rose to his feet— something he rarely did during Imperial audiences. “Enough!” He was tempted to summon an executioner, but reason prevailed. Barely. He might still need this man. Besides, once amal was in production it would be enjoyable to let Kynes see his beloved desert planet dwindle to nothing in the eyes of the Empire.

  So, in the calmest of tones, he said, “My Imperial Spice Minister, Count Hasimir Fenring, is scheduled to arrive on Kaitain within a week. If your requests have merit, he is the one who will address them.”

  Sardaukar guards stepped forward quickly, took Kynes by the elbows, and escorted him out at a rapid clip. He did not struggle now that he had his answer. He saw that Emperor Shaddam was blind and self-centered, and now he had no respect for the man, no matter how many worlds he ruled.

  Now Kynes knew that the Fremen would have to take care of Dune for themselves, and the Imperium be damned.

  Those who are half-alive demand what is missing in them… but deny it when it is presented to them. They fear the proof of their own insufficiency.

  — ATTRIBUTED TO SAINT SERENA BUTLER,

  Apocrypha of the Jihad

  In the banquet hall of Castle Caladan, well-dressed servants maintained the appearance of normalcy, though their Duke was only a shell of his former self.

  Women in bright dresses hurried down the stone corridors. Nutmeg-scented candles illuminated every alcove. But even the best meals prepared by the cook, the finest china and flatware service, and the gentlest music could not diminish the gloom that had settled over House Atreides. Every servant felt Leto’s pain, and they could do nothing to help him.

  Lady Jessica occupied a chair of carved elacca wood near one end of the table, her formal position as the Duke’s chosen concubine. At the head of the table, her dark-haire
d lover, Leto Atreides, sat tall and proud, distractedly polite to the green-liveried servants as they brought forth various courses.

  There were numerous empty seats in this hall— far too many. To ease Leto’s piercing grief, Jessica had discreetly removed the little chair that had been made for six-year-old Victor, the Duke’s dead son. Despite her years of Bene Gesserit training, Jessica had been unable to break through Leto’s grief, and her heart ached for him. She had so much to say to him, if only he would listen.

  On opposite sides of the long table sat the Mentat Thufir Hawat and the scarred smuggler Gurney Halleck. Gurney, who could usually liven up a gathering with a song and his baliset, remained preoccupied with preparations for a covert trip to Ix that he and Thufir would soon undertake, spying to discover any weaknesses in the Tleilaxu defenses there.

  With a mind like a computer, Thufir would be able to make hundreds of plans and contingencies in an instant, which made him vital to the mission. Gurney was good at slipping into places where he didn’t belong and escaping under the direst of circumstances. These two might be able to succeed where all others had failed.…

  “I’ll have some more of that Caladan white,” said Swordmaster Duncan Idaho, raising his goblet. A servant rushed forward with a bottle of expensive local wine, and Duncan held his cup steady while rich golden liquid splashed out of the bottle. Raising his hand for the servant to wait, he gulped the wine, then gestured for more.

  In the uncomfortable silence, Leto stared toward the wood-carved entrance doors… as if waiting, anticipating the arrival of one more person. His eyes were like chips of smoky ice.

  The exploded skyclipper, the vessel in flames—

  Rhombur mangled and burned, the boy Victor killed—

  And then to learn it had all been caused by Leto’s jealous concubine Kailea, Victor’s own mother, who had thrown herself from a high tower of Castle Caladan in unspeakable shame and grief…

  The cook emerged from the kitchen archway, proudly carrying a platter. “Our finest dish, my Lord Duke. Created in your honor.”

  It was a fat parafish wrapped in crisped aromatic leaves. Spiky sprigs of rosemary were tucked into folds of the pinkish meat; purple-blue juniper berries lay sprinkled about the platter like jewels. Even though she served Leto the choicest part of the fillet, he did not lift his fork. He continued to watch the main doorway. Waiting.

  Finally, responding to the sound of plodding footsteps and humming motors, Leto rose to his feet, his face filled with concern and anticipation. Moving quickly on feather-light feet, the plain-featured Bene Gesserit Tessia entered the banquet hall. She scanned the room, noted the chairs, the stone floor where the carpet had been removed, and gave an approving nod. “He’s progressing admirably, my Duke, but we must be patient.”

  “He is patient enough for all of us,” Leto said, and his expression began to show the pale sunrise of hope.

  With a calculated precision involving twitches of electrofluid muscle, the flexing of shigawire thread and microfiber nerves, Prince Rhombur Vernius lurched into the banquet hall. His scarred face, a blend of artificial and natural skin, reflected his intense concentration. Glistening pearls of perspiration stood out on his waxy forehead. He wore a short, loose robe; on the lapel glimmered a purple-and-copper helix, proud symbol of the fallen House Vernius.

  Tessia hurried toward him, but Rhombur raised a finger of polished metal and polymers, signaling her to let him continue on his own.

  The skyclipper explosion had blasted his body to a broken lump of flesh, burning away his limbs and half of his face, destroying most of his organs. Yet he had been kept alive, a fading ember of a once-bright flame. What remained now was little more than a passenger on a mechanical vehicle shaped like a man.

  “I’m going as fast as I can, Leto.”

  “There is no hurry.” The Duke’s heart went out to his brave friend. The two of them had fished together, played games, caroused, and planned strategies for decades. “I’d be loath to have you fall and break anything— such as the table, I mean.”

  “Most funny, indeed.”

  Leto remembered how badly the vile Tleilaxu had wanted genetic samples from the Atreides and Vernius bloodlines, trying to blackmail the Duke in his hour of greatest grief. They had made an anguished Leto a diabolical offer, that in exchange for the mangled but still-living body of his best friend Rhombur, they would grow a ghola— a clone from dead cells— of the boy Victor.

  Their hatred of House Atreides ran deep— and deeper still for House Vernius, whom they had overthrown on Ix. The Tleilaxu had wanted access to complete Atreides and Vernius DNA. With the bodies of Victor and Rhombur, they would be able to create any number of gholas, clones, assassins, duplicates.

  But Leto had turned down their offer. Instead, he had engaged the services of the Suk doctor Wellington Yueh, an expert in the replacement of organic limbs.

  “Thank you for holding this dinner in my honor, all of you.” Rhombur looked at the serving platters and dishes arrayed on the table. “I’m sorry if the food has gotten cold.”

  Leto brought his hands together in a firm round of applause. Smiling warmly, Duncan and Jessica joined in. With her sharp observational skills, Jessica noticed a sheen of captive tears deep within the Duke’s gaze.

  The sallow-faced Dr. Yueh moved beside his patient, tracking readings, studying a dataplate in his hand that received impulses from Rhombur’s cybernetic systems. The slender doctor pursed his purplish lips into an intent flower-bud shape. “Excellent. You are functioning as designed, although a few components still need fine-tuning.” He circled Rhombur, moving like a ferret as the cyborg Prince took slow, self-conscious steps.

  Tessia pulled out a chair for Rhombur. His synthetic legs were powerful and sturdy, but without grace. His hands looked like armored gloves; his arms hung like circuit-patterned oars at his sides.

  Rhombur smiled at the big fish the cook had just served. “That smells wonderful.” He turned his head, a slow rotational movement, as if on ball bearings. “Do you think I might eat some of it, Dr. Yueh?”

  The Suk doctor stroked his long mustaches. “Just taste it. Your digestive system needs more work.”

  Rhombur swiveled his head toward Leto. “It appears I’m going to consume more power cells than desserts for a while.” He lowered himself into his chair, and the others finally resumed their seats.

  Leto raised his wineglass, trying to think of a toast. Then his face acquired an anguished expression, and he simply took a sip. “I am so sorry this has happened to you, Rhombur. These… mechanical replacements… were the best I could do.”

  Rhombur’s scarred face lit up in a combination of gratitude and annoyance. “Vermilion hells, Leto, stop apologizing! Trying to find all the facets of blame would consume House Atreides for years, and we’d all go mad.” He lifted a mechanical arm, rotated the hand at the wrist joint, and stared down at it. “This isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s marvelous. Dr. Yueh’s a genius, you know. You should keep him around as long as you can.” The Suk doctor fidgeted in an effort to keep from glowing at the compliment.

  “Remember that I come from Ix, so I appreciate the marvels of technology,” Rhombur said. “Now I’m a living example of it. If any person is better suited to adapt to this new situation, I’d like to meet him.”

  For years, the exiled Prince Rhombur had been biding his time, sending minimal support to the resistance movement on his devastated homeworld, including explosive wafers and military supplies provided by Duke Leto.

  In recent months, as Rhombur grew stronger physically, he also grew stronger mentally. Though he was only a fraction of a man, every day he spoke of the need to recapture Ix, to the point where Duke Leto and even his concubine Tessia sometimes had to tell him to calm down.

  Finally, Leto had agreed to risk sending the reconnaissance team of Gurney and Thufir, clutching at a goal of his own, a new determination to accomplish something good in the face of all the tragedies he had survived.
It was not a matter of if they could mount an attack; it was a matter of when and how.

  Tessia spoke without shifting her gaze. “Don’t underestimate Rhombur’s strength. You of all people know how one must adapt in order to survive.”

  Jessica couldn’t help but notice the adoring look on the concubine’s face. Tessia and Rhombur had spent years together on Caladan, during which time she had encouraged him to support the freedom fighters on Ix, so that he might regain his royal position. Tessia had stood by him through the worst times, even after the explosion. Upon returning to consciousness, Rhombur had said, “I am surprised you stayed.”

  “As long as you need me, I will remain.”

  Tessia was a whirlwind working on his behalf, supervising the modification of his Castle apartments and preparing devices to assist him. Much of Tessia’s time was devoted to making him stronger. “Once Prince Rhombur is feeling better,” she had announced, “he will lead the Ixian people to victory.”

  Jessica didn’t know if the brown-haired woman followed her heart, or fulfilled an unknown set of instructions secretly given to her by the Sisterhood.

  All through her own childhood, Jessica had listened to her teacher and mentor, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. She had followed her every draconian instruction, learning what the old woman had to teach her.

  But now the Sisterhood wanted the Duke’s genetics combined with hers. In no uncertain terms, Jessica had been ordered to seduce Leto and conceive an Atreides daughter. When she experienced unfamiliar and forbidden feelings of love for this dark and moody Duke, however, Jessica had developed a rebellious streak and delayed becoming pregnant. Then, in the wake of Victor’s death and Leto’s destructive depression, she had allowed herself to conceive a son, against the strictest of orders. Mohiam would feel betrayed and deeply disappointed. But Jessica could always bear a daughter later, couldn’t she?