Road to Dune Read online

  With extravagant festivals and poorly financed construction projects, Jesse’s father and brother had brought House Linkam to the brink of ruin. But in recent years Dorothy’s careful management and austerity measures, along with his own rallying of the people to increase productivity, had begun to turn the tide.

  He gazed out into the rain-swept night, then sighed with resignation. “It always rains here. Our house is forever dank, no matter how many shields or heaters we install. This year the kelp harvest is down, and the fishermen have not caught enough for export.” He paused. “Even so, this is my home and the home of my ancestors. I have no interest in other places, not even Duneworld.”

  Dorothy eased closer and slipped an arm around Jesse’s waist. “I wish you could take Barri along. Every noble son should see Renaissance at least once.”

  “Not this time. Too dangerous.” Jesse adored their eight-year-old boy, proud of the way Barri had matured under the careful tutelage of his mother as well as the old household doctor, Cullington Yueh. Barri was learning to be a good businessman and a good leader, too—traits that would serve him well in these days of fading Imperial grandeur. Everything Jesse did was for the future, for Barri and the advancement of House Linkam. Even his love for his concubine had to be second to that.

  “I’ll make this trip, Dor,” Jesse said, “but I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

  2

  Beware of compromises. They are more often weapons of attack than tools of peace.

  —GENERAL ESMAR TUEK,

  strategy concepts

  Ulla Bauers sat alone in the executive cabin of his diplomatic craft, thinking about the foolish nobleman he was transporting to Renaissance. Fishing! Jesse Linkam had been out on a boat performing the work of common laborers. What a complete waste of time.

  The quarters aboard Bauers’s spacecraft were crowded and austere, but he understood the reason. For such a long journey between star systems, fuel costs placed strict limitations on discretionary mass. Meals were nothing more than tablets of concentrated melange, another sign of the widespread importance of Duneworld’s product; after more than a week in transit, the passengers and crew would begin eating great quantities of real food upon reaching their destination. Bauers was perpetually hungry when he traveled through space, and it didn’t put him in the best of moods.

  He heard his stomach growl. Taking another melange tablet, he savored the cinnamon flavor and felt the drug’s soothing effects seep through him.

  Spice made a person feel better and increased the efficiency of human metabolism, streamlining the intake of energy from food. From a practical standpoint, this meant that the bulky supplies normally needed for long space voyages could be reduced to a case or two, permitting cargo holds to be used for other things. Bauers had heard a theory that melange might even increase the human life span, though with only a few years of recorded use, no long-term studies had yet proven the claim.

  While the diplomatic transport snipped shortcuts through the fabric of space, Counselor Bauers kept to his own cabin, making no attempt to socialize. Ironically, though he had great diplomatic skills, he didn’t really much care for people.

  TWO LEVELS BELOW Bauers, Jesse sat in a passenger compartment with six hand-picked members of the Catalan home guard as his escort; he preferred spending time with his own men anyway.

  He had chosen his best fighters, including General Tuek. A slender man with olive skin, the old veteran had stooped shoulders and a manner that demonstrated loyalty while at the same time rebuffing intimacy. His thinning gray hair was receding over a leathery tanned scalp. The bright red stains around his lips signified his successful battle against sapho addiction, and he wore the marks like a badge of honor.

  The security chief had faithfully served both Jesse’s father and brother, saving both of them from repeated assassination attempts, though not from their own recklessness. Sworn to serve any head of House Linkam without preference, in recent years Tuek had actually become Jesse’s friend. In a rare unguarded moment, he’d once said that it was refreshing to see a man make important decisions based on substance rather than a whim or a roll of the dice.

  “We need to be ready for anything, Esmar,” Jesse told him as they sat down to a game of strategy-stones in the cramped compartment. Meanwhile, the other five guardsmen blocked off the narrow corridor to practice rapier dueling and hand-to-hand combat, preparing to defend Nobleman Linkam against any attacks.

  “I lie awake at night thinking of things to be concerned about, My Lord,” Tuek said, as he began to beat Jesse in the first game. “My greatest hope is that Valdemar Hoskanner will slip up so I can find an excuse to kill him while defending you. He needs to pay for the death of your father.”

  “Valdemar won’t slip up, Esmar. We weren’t summoned to Renaissance by accident. You can bet your last credit that the Hoskanners have a clever plan in mind. I fear it’s too subtle for us to see yet, far too subtle.”

  FROM THROUGHOUT THE star-spanning Empire, wealth flowed to the planet Renaissance, enabling the Grand Emperor to stage any gaudy extravagance he could imagine. And many generations of rulers had imagined a great deal of extravagance.

  The Central Palace was a huge spherical construction inlaid with millions of crystalline panels. Armillary arcs curved along what would have been latitude and longitude lines on a celestial sphere, while lights spangled the outer wall, marking the astronomical locations of Emperor Inton Wuda’s star systems. In the precise center of the sphere, the Emperor sat at the symbolic zero coordinate, thus presiding (figuratively) at the center of the Known Universe.

  As he went to meet the emperor, Jesse wore the formal cloak and pantaloons that Dorothy had selected from his rarely used wardrobe of courtly attire. His dark hair was oiled and perfumed with a cloyingly sweet scent that turned his stomach; lotions covered the calluses on his hands.

  General Tuek inspected the five Catalan Guards, then made a show of removing even their ceremonial weapons before they entered the Imperial presence. Only Tuek and Jesse knew that his men still carried hidden weapons: sharp strangling wires concealed as strands of hair, self-stiffening sleeves that could be turned into cutting edges. Without doubt, the Hoskanners had taken similar precautions; the question was whether Valdemar would be so bold as to provoke a bloody attack right here in the throne room.

  After a melodious fanfare, a bellowing crier announced the arrival of Nobleman Linkam, using the five primary languages of the Empire. Head high, Jesse marched toward the throne.

  Suspended in a curved chair atop a high monolith, Grand Emperor Wuda was a plump, bald man with gelatinous skin. Though he was relatively young, a hedonistic life had made him age badly, and his body had already sagged into a fleshy dumpling. Even so, he controlled more wealth and power than any other human in the Known Universe.

  Jesse stepped back as a second fanfare preceded the crier’s multilingual introduction of Nobleman Hoskanner from Gediprime. Valdemar was strikingly tall, like a walking tree. He wore a black reflective-weave suit that shimmered like oily shadows around his lanky frame. Dark hair combed back from a prominent widow’s peak surmounted a thick and heavy brow, on which was tattooed the sinuous shape of a horned cobra, the symbol of House Hoskanner. Valdemar’s nose jutted from his face, and the lantern jaw seemed designed for extra power when he wished to clamp his teeth together. Keeping his gaze focused on the foot of the Grand Emperor’s throne, Valdemar delivered a perfect, formal bow. Never once did he glance at the Linkam party.

  Six Hoskanner bodyguards, the same number as Jesse was allowed, wore imposing studded uniforms. Their faces were blunt and blocky, almost subhuman, all of them also bearing the horned-cobra tattoo, but on their left cheeks. Tuek sneered at them, then turned back when the Grand Emperor summoned both noblemen. Dutifully, the pair marched along opposite paths toward the towering pedestal that held the high throne.

  “Nobleman Jesse Linkam, you have filed a complaint on behalf of the Nobles’ Coun
cil regarding the Hoskanner monopoly on spice production. We normally ask aristocratic families to settle their disputes without Imperial intervention. You have more straightforward means at your disposal—personal combat between champions, mutual arbitration, even kanly. None of these is deemed satisfactory?”

  “No, Sire,” both Jesse and Valdemar said in unison, as if they had choreographed their response.

  The Grand Emperor’s fleshy face descended into a scowl. He turned toward Jesse, his tiny eyes set deep within pale folds of fat. “Nobleman Hoskanner has offered a compromise, and I suggest that you accept it.”

  “I will entertain any proposal, so long as it is fair and just.” Jesse glanced over at Valdemar, who avoided looking at him.

  “House Hoskanner has met our spice requirements for eighteen years,” the Emperor said. “We see no reason to change this profitable enterprise simply because other families indulge in a fit of pique. We must be convinced that any change is to our advantage.

  “Nobleman Hoskanner is justifiably proud of his accomplishments. To prove a point, he is willing to surrender his monopoly on Duneworld for a period of two years. House Linkam—and Linkam alone—will assume control of spice harvesting. If, at the end of the probationary period, Linkam has produced more than Hoskanner did in the previous two-year period, we will award spice operations to his household, in perpetuity. You may then distribute contractual shares to the Nobles’ Council as you deem fit.”

  “A contest, Majesty?”

  The Grand Emperor did not like to be interrupted. “Nobleman Hoskanner has shown great generosity in making this offer, and he demonstrates an implicit confidence in his own abilities. If you can do better, then the monopoly is yours. Do you accept these terms as a reasonable resolution to your dispute?”

  Jesse saw from the barely contained smile lurking on Valdemar’s face that this was exactly what his rival wanted, but he could see no way out. “Am I to be allowed access to the Hoskanner production figures so we can determine at what levels we must produce?”

  Hoskanner stepped forward. “Sire, my crews did not have a challenge or a target. We did our best and provided the required quota to the Imperial coffers. Providing Nobleman Linkam with an exact target would give him an unfair advantage.”

  “Agreed,” the Grand Emperor said with a darting glance toward Valdemar. Jesse was convinced they had arranged this beforehand.

  The Linkam patriarch did not give up easily, however. “But Hoskanner has had years to set up his infrastructure, train his crews, buy his equipment. My people would be starting from scratch. Before I go to Duneworld and begin the two years, I must be allowed an acceptable ramp-up time. Will House Hoskanner leave some of their specialized equipment for us to use?”

  Valdemar scowled coolly, and his response sounded rehearsed. “House Linkam will already have the advantage of our experience, the data from eighteen years of working the sands. Our sandminers had to learn by trial and error and endure many setbacks. My engineers designed the spice-harvesting equipment and techniques, and it didn’t always work well. In many ways, my opponent is already starting out with a more favorable position than we Hoskanners ever had.” When his brow furrowed, the horned-cobra tattoo looked as if it were coiling, ready to strike.

  With a bored gesture, Emperor Wuda said, “The disadvantages seem to balance the advantages.”

  “Sire, we must have some equipment to begin with!” Jesse insisted, then smiled. “Otherwise the spice operations will cease entirely until we have everything in place. It could take months. I doubt the Empire would want that.” He waited.

  “No, that would be unconscionable.” The Grand Emperor sniffed. “Very well, House Hoskanner is hereby instructed to leave twelve spice harvesters and three carryalls on Duneworld. They will be considered a loan, to be repaid at the end of the challenge, regardless of the outcome.”

  Valdemar’s features grew stormy, but he said nothing. Jesse pressed his advantage. “And may I also request an Imperial edict that neither Nobleman Hoskanner nor anyone connected to him may interfere with my operations? After all, House Linkam did nothing to hinder his in the past eighteen years.”

  The Grand Emperor’s impatience bordered on outright annoyance. “We will not be drawn into the minutiae of your petty dispute, nor will we mediate a squabble that has already taken too much of our precious time. Additional rules and restrictions would only complicate the matter. At the conclusion of two years, House Linkam will compare its tally to that of House Hoskanner. As your sovereign, I must remain neutral, so long as the flow of spice is uninterrupted.”

  Jesse knew he would do no better. He bowed formally. “I accept the challenge, Sire.” No rules.

  The Grand Emperor folded his hands across his swollen belly and smiled. Jesse thought he could hear the steely jaws of a trap clamping shut around him.

  3

  I have always considered the descriptive powers of poetry and song to be invincible. But how can one begin to capture the essence of Duneworld in mere words? A man must journey there and experience it for himself.

  —GURNEY HALLECK,

  jongleur of House Linkam

  As an advance guard for the new Linkam operations, Esmar Tuek and a hundred Catalan men arrived on Duneworld. The Hoskanners had packed up in a flurry and departed like tenants evicted in the night. They took most of their expensive spice-harvesting machinery and transport ships, leaving behind only twelve units, as ordered: but they were the most broken-down, poorly maintained equipment.

  Esmar Tuek shook his head at the bad news. The Emperor had sent word that his concession was generous, so he must have set aside his own substantial stockpile of spice, more than enough to tide him over while leaving House Linkam to struggle against formidable odds to get their operations up and running. More than likely, the Hoskanners had bribed the Emperor with some of their own melange hoard, to influence his decision.

  While a few ambitious independent sandminers continued spice-harvesting operations in the interim, Tuek’s men set up a base of operations in the main city. Carthage was perched in a forbidding tangle of crags that rose high from the gulf of open sand, offering shelter from furious storms and other threats. Tuek would have preferred a more organized layout, but the rugged terrain allowed no discernible grid for constructing buildings, roads, and landing zones. Structures had to be erected in any open and level spot, no matter how small.

  Most of the hired workers were forced to remain, unable to afford the exorbitant passage offworld. Support staff, cooks, water merchants, repairmen, sellers of sundries and desert garb remained in Carthage, ostensibly eking out a minimal living. Tuek suspected that many of them might be saboteurs, intentionally left behind to work against House Linkam.

  The old veteran’s first order of business was to secure a chief of spice operations, someone with experience as a sandminer but with no love for the Hoskanners. He wanted to choose a man well down in the ranks, believing that anyone high in the former hierarchy might feel loyalty to the previous masters, whereas a miner suddenly jumped in rank and responsibility—not to mention pay—would be inclined to offer his full allegiance to House Linkam.

  Tuek and the Linkam family jongleur, Gurney Halleck, met with each of the men who applied for the job, as well as others who had learned not to call attention to themselves under the Hoskanners. A redheaded boulder of a man, Gurney had a sharp eye and a deadly blade, though his jovial demeanor kept his enemies continually off guard.

  After interviewing more than forty candidates, Tuek decided on an ambitious spice-crew manager named William English. Even after the Hoskanners departed, English had taken charge of three spice crews and arranged for them to keep harvesting melange—and acquiring bonuses—during the change of government. In his favor, the manager came from a noble bloodline, his grandfather having been a Linkam ally before an economic downturn ruined House English. The left side of the man’s face was rough and waxy, as if scoured by an industrial polisher. English had be
en caught out in a furious sandstorm, unable to find adequate shelter in the rocks. Most of his exposed left cheek had been worn away. The medical facilities in Carthage had been sufficient to save his life, but not to make him handsome again. He had no love for the Hoskanners.

  Tuek was more interested in the unusual chevron tattoo over the potential foreman’s right eyebrow, however. “What is that symbol? I’ve seen them in Carthage, often among the seasoned sandminers.”

  “Something to do with the Zensunni prison religion?” Gurney offered. “Were you brought here as a convict laborer?”

  English’s expression shifted into one of pride as he tapped the tattoo. “Most of us came here as prisoners, but this mark signifies that I am a freedman. I was convicted of a crime and sentenced to twenty years of hard labor in the penal caves on Eridanus V. Then the Grand Emperor and the Hoskanners offered amnesty to any prisoner who worked on Duneworld for a time equivalent to twenty-five percent of the original sentence. I had to work only five years of my original twenty.”

  Gurney grunted. “The Hoskanners needed a lot of manpower for their spice operations.” Always eager to find new stories and material for the songs he loved to write, he asked, “What was your crime? Something to do with the unfortunate fall of your House?”

  English’s mood darkened. “My sentence has been commuted, the records expunged. Therefore, I committed no crime.” He smiled wryly. “Isn’t every person guilty of something anyway?”

  Ever conscious of security, Esmar Tuek did not like the fact that most of his sandminers were convicts. How trustworthy could they be? However, he also knew that many of the best military fighters with whom he had served were those with shady pasts or guilty consciences.

  In a conciliatory tone, he asked, “How long do you have left on Duneworld? I don’t want a spice foreman who’ll leave us in a few months’ time.”