Dune (40th Anniversary Edition) Page 3

  “You’d like to see that, wouldn’t you, Piter?” the Baron asked. “You’d enjoy seeing the Corps of Sardaukar pillage through my cities and sack this castle. You’d truly enjoy that.”

  “Does the Baron need to ask?” Piter whispered.

  “You should’ve been a Bashar of the Corps,” the Baron said. “You’re too interested in blood and pain. Perhaps I was too quick with my promise of the spoils of Arrakis.”

  Piter took five curiously mincing steps into the room, stopped directly behind Feyd-Rautha. There was a tight air of tension in the room, and the youth looked up at Piter with a worried frown.

  “Do not toy with Piter, Baron,” Piter said. “You promised me the Lady Jessica. You promised her to me.”

  “For what, Piter?” the Baron asked. “For pain?”

  Piter stared at him, dragging out the silence.

  Feyd-Rautha moved his suspensor chair to one side, said: “Uncle, do I have to stay? You said you’d—”

  “My darling Feyd-Rautha grows impatient,” the Baron said. He moved within the shadows beside the globe. “Patience, Feyd.” And he turned his attention back to the Mentat. “What of the Dukeling, the child Paul, my dear Piter?”

  “The trap will bring him to you, Baron,” Piter muttered.

  “That’s not my question,” the Baron said. “You’ll recall that you predicted the Bene Gesserit witch would bear a daughter to the Duke. You were wrong, eh, Mentat?”

  “I’m not often wrong, Baron,” Piter said, and for the first time there was fear in his voice. “Give me that: I’m not often wrong. And you know yourself these Bene Gesserit bear mostly daughters. Even the Emperor’s consort had produced only females.”

  “Uncle,” said Feyd-Rautha, “you said there’d be something important here for me to—”

  “Listen to my nephew,” the Baron said. “He aspires to rule my Barony, yet he cannot rule himself.” The Baron stirred beside the globe, a shadow among shadows. “Well then, Feyd-Rautha Harkonne, I summoned you here hoping to teach you a bit of wisdom. Have you observed our good Mentat? You should’ve learned something from this exchange.”

  “But, Uncle—”

  “A most efficient Mentat, Piter, wouldn’t you say, Feyd?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Ah! Indeed but! But he consumes too much spice, eats it like candy. Look at his eyes! He might’ve come directly from the Arrakeen labor pool. Efficient, Piter, but he’s still emotional and prone to passionate outbursts. Efficient, Piter, but he still can err.”

  Piter spoke in a low, sullen tone: “Did you call me in here to impair my efficiency with criticism, Baron?”

  “Impair your efficiency? You know me better, Piter. I wish only for my nephew to understand the limitations of a Mentat.”

  “Are you already training my replacement?” Piter demanded.

  “Replace you? Why, Piter, where could I find another Mentat with your cunning and venom?”

  “The same place you found me, Baron.”

  “Perhaps I should at that,” the Baron mused. “You do seem a bit unstable lately. And the spice you eat!”

  “Are my pleasures too expensive, Baron? Do you object to them?”

  “My dear Piter, your pleasures are what tie you to me. How could I object to that? I merely wish my nephew to observe this about you.”

  “Then I’m on display,” Piter said. “Shall I dance? Shall I perform my various functions for the eminent Feyd-Rau—”

  “Precisely,” the Baron said. “You are on display. Now, be silent.” He glanced at Feyd-Rautha, noting his nephew’s lips, the full and pouting look of them, the Harkonnen genetic marker, now twisted slightly in amusement. “This is a Mentat, Feyd. It has been trained and conditioned to perform certain duties. The fact that it’s encased in a human body, however, must not be overlooked. A serious drawback, that. I sometimes think the ancients with their thinking machines had the right idea.”

  “They were toys compared to me,” Piter snarled. “You yourself, Baron, could outperform those machines.”

  “Perhaps,” the Baron said. “Ah, well....” He took a deep breath, belched. “Now, Piter, outline for my nephew the salient features of our campaign against the House of Atreides. Function as a Mentat for us, if you please.”

  “Baron, I’ve warned you not to trust one so young with this information. My observations of—”

  “I’ll be the judge of this,” the Baron said. “I give you an order, Mentat. Perform one of your various functions.”

  “So be it,” Piter said. He straightened, assuming an odd attitude of dignity—as though it were another mask, but this time clothing his entire body. “In a few days Standard, the entire household of the Duke Leto will embark on a Spacing Guild liner for Arrakis. The Guild will deposit them at the city of Arrakeen rather than at our city of Carthag. The Duke’s Mentat, Thufir Hawat, will have concluded rightly that Arrakeen is easier to defend.”

  “Listen carefully, Feyd,” the Baron said. “Observe the plans within plans within plans.”

  Feyd-Rautha nodded, thinking: This is more like it. The old monster is letting me in on secret things at last. He must really mean for me to be his heir.

  “There are several tangential possibilities,” Piter said. “I indicate that House Atreides will go to Arrakis. We must not, however, ignore the possibility the Duke has contracted with the Guild to remove him to a place of safety outside the System. Others in like circumstances have become renegade Houses, taking family atomics and shields and fleeing beyond the Imperium.”

  “The Duke’s too proud a man for that,” the Baron said.

  “It is a possibility,” Piter said. “The ultimate effect for us would be the same, however.”

  “No, it would not!” the Baron growled. “I must have him dead and his line ended.”

  “That’s the high probability,” Piter said. “There are certain preparations that indicate when a House is going renegade. The Duke appears to be doing none of these things.”

  “So,” the Baron sighed. “Get on with it, Piter.

  “At Arrakeen,” Piter said, “the Duke and his family will occupy the Residency, lately the home of Count and Lady Fenring.”

  “The Ambassador to the Smugglers,” the Baron chuckled.

  “Ambassador to what?” Feyd-Rautha asked.

  “Your uncle makes a joke,” Piter said. “He calls Count Fenring Ambassador to the Smugglers, indicating the Emperor’s interest in smuggling operations on Arrakis.”

  Feyd-Rautha turned a puzzled stare on his uncle. “Why?”

  “Don’t be dense, Feyd,” the Baron snapped. “As long as the Guild remains effectively outside Imperial control, how could it be otherwise? How else could spies and assassins move about?”

  Feyd-Rautha’s mouth made a soundless “Oh-h-h-h.”

  “We’ve arranged diversions at the Residency,” Piter said. “There’ll be an attempt on the life of the Atreides heir—an attempt which could succeed.”

  “Piter,” the Baron rumbled, “you indicated—”

  “I indicated accidents can happen,” Piter said. “And the attempt must appear valid.”

  “Ah, but the lad has such a sweet young body,” the Baron said. “Of course, he’s potentially more dangerous than the father ... with that witch mother training him. Accursed woman! Ah, well, please continue, Piter.”

  “Hawat will have divined that we have an agent planted on him,” Piter said. “The obvious suspect is Dr. Yueh, who is indeed our agent. But Hawat has investigated and found that our doctor is a Suk School graduate with Imperial Conditioning—supposedly safe enough to minister even to the Emperor. Great store is set on Imperial Conditioning. It’s assumed that ultimate conditioning cannot be removed without killing the subject. However, as someone once observed, given the right lever you can move a planet. We found the lever that moved the doctor.”

  “How?” Feyd-Rautha asked. He found this a fascinating subject. Everyone knew you couldn’t subvert Im
perial Conditioning!

  “Another time,” the Baron said. “Continue, Piter.”

  “In place of Yueh,” Piter said, “we’ll drag a most interesting suspect across Hawat’s path. The very audacity of this suspect will recommend her to Hawat’s attention.”

  “Her?” Feyd-Rautha asked.

  “The Lady Jessica herself,” the Baron said.

  “Is it not sublime?” Piter asked. “Hawat’s mind will be so filled with this prospect it’ll impair his function as a Mentat. He may even try to kill her.” Piter frowned, then: “But I don’t think he’ll be able to carry it off.”

  “You don’t want him to, eh?” the Baron asked.

  “Don’t distract me,” Piter said. “While Hawat’s occupied with the Lady Jessica, we’ll divert him further with uprisings in a few garrison towns and the like. These will be put down. The Duke must believe he’s gaining a measure of security. Then, when the moment is ripe, we’ll signal Yueh and move in with our major force ... ah....”

  “Go ahead, tell him all of it,” the Baron said.

  “We’ll move in strengthened by two legions of Sardaukar disguised in Harkonnen livery.”

  “Sardaukar!” Feyd-Rautha breathed. His mind focused on the dread Imperial troops, the killers without mercy, the soldier-fanatics of the Padishah Emperor.

  “You see how I trust you, Feyd,” the Baron said. “No hint of this must ever reach another Great House, else the Landsraad might unite against the Imperial House and there’d be chaos.”

  “The main point,” Piter said, “is this: since House Harkonnen is being used to do the Imperial dirty work, we’ve gained a true advantage. It’s a dangerous advantage, to be sure, but if used cautiously, will bring House Harkonnen greater wealth than that of any other House in the Imperium.”

  “You have no idea how much wealth is involved, Feyd,” the Baron said. “Not in your wildest imaginings. To begin, we’ll have an irrevocable directorship in the CHOAM Company.”

  Feyd-Rautha nodded. Wealth was the thing. CHOAM was the key to wealth, each noble House dipping from the company’s coffers whatever it could under the power of the directorships. Those CHOAM directorships—they were the real evidence of political power in the Imperium, passing with the shifts of voting strength within the Landsraad as it balanced itself against the Emperor and his supporters.

  “The Duke Leto,” Piter said, “may attempt to flee to the new Fremen scum along the desert’s edge. Or he may try to send his family into that imagined security. But that path is blocked by one of His Majesty’s agents—the planetary ecologist. You may remember him—Kynes.”

  “Feyd remembers him,” the Baron said. “Get on with it.”

  “You do not drool very prettily, Baron,” Piter said.

  “Get on with it, I command you!” the Baron roared.

  Piter shrugged. “If matters go as planned,” he said, “House Harkonnen will have a subfief on Arrakis within a Standard year. Your uncle will have dispensation of that fief. His own personal agent will rule on Arrakis.”

  “More profits,” Feyd-Rautha said.

  “Indeed,” the Baron said. And he thought: It’s only just. We’re the ones who tamed Arrakis ... except for the few mongrel Fremen hiding in the skirts of the desert ... and some tame smugglers bound to the planet almost as tightly as the native laborpool.

  “And the Great Houses will know that the Baron has destroyed the Atreides,” Piter said. “They will know.”

  “They will know,” the Baron breathed.

  “Loveliest of all,” Piter said, “is that the Duke will know, too. He knows now. He can already feel the trap.”

  “It’s true the Duke knows,” the Baron said, and his voice held a note of sadness. “He could not help but know ... more’s the pity.”

  The Baron moved out and away from the globe of Arrakis. As he emerged from the shadows, his figure took on dimension—grossly and immensely fat. And with subtle bulges beneath folds of his dark robes to reveal that all this fat was sustained partly by portable suspensors harnessed to his flesh. He might weigh two hundred Standard kilos in actuality, but his feet would carry no more than fifty of them.

  “I am hungry,” the Baron rumbled, and he rubbed his protruding lips with a beringed hand, stared down at Feyd-Rautha through fat-enfolded eyes. “Send for food, my darling. We will eat before we retire.”

  Thus spoke St. Alia-of-the-Knife: “The Reverend Mother must combine the seductive wiles of acourtesan with the untouchable majesty of a virgin goddess, holding these attributes in tension so long as the powers of her youth endure. For when youth and beauty have gone, she will find that the place-between, once occupied by tension, has become a well-spring of cunning and resourcefulness.”

  —from“Muad’Dib, Family Commentaries” by the Princess Irulan

  “WELL, JESSICA, what have you to say for yourself?” asked the Reverend Mother.

  It was near sunset at Castle Caladan on the day of Paul’s ordeal. The two women were alone in Jessica’s morning room while Paul waited in the adjoining soundproofed Meditation Chamber.

  Jessica stood facing the south windows. She saw and yet did not see the evening’s banked colors across meadow and river. She heard and yet did not hear the Reverend Mother’s question.

  There had been another ordeal once—so many years ago. A skinny girl with hair the color of bronze, her body tortured by the winds of puberty, had entered the study of the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, Proctor Superior of the Bene Gesserit school on Wallach IX. Jessica looked down at her right hand, flexed the fingers, remembering the pain, the terror, the anger.

  “Poor Paul,” she whispered.

  “I asked you a question, Jessica!” The old woman’s voice was snappish, demanding.

  “What? Oh....” Jessica tore her attention away from the past, faced the Reverend Mother, who sat with back to the stone wall between the two west windows. “What do you want me to say?”

  “What do I want you to say? What do I want you to say?” The old voice carried a tone of cruel mimicry.

  “So I had a son!” Jessica flared. And she knew she was being goaded into this anger deliberately.

  “You were told to bear only daughters to the Atreides.”

  “It meant so much to him,” Jessica pleaded.

  “And you in your pride thought you could produce the Kwisatz Haderach!”

  Jessica lifted her chin. “I sensed the possibility.”

  “You thought only of your Duke’s desire for a son,” the old woman snapped. “And his desires don’t figure in this. An Atreides daughter could’ve been wed to a Harkonnen heir and sealed the breach. You’ve hopelessly complicated matters. We may lose both bloodlines now.”

  “You’re not infallible,” Jessica said. She braved the steady stare from the old eyes.

  Presently, the old woman muttered: “What’s done is done.”

  “I vowed never to regret my decision,” Jessica said.

  “How noble,” the Reverend Mother sneered. “No regrets. We shall see when you’re a fugitive with a price on your head and every man’s hand turned against you to seek your life and the life of your son.”

  Jessica paled. “Is there no alternative?”

  “Alternative? A Bene Gesserit should ask that?”

  “I ask only what you see in the future with your superior abilities.”

  “I see in the future what I’ve seen in the past. You well know the pattern of our affairs, Jessica. The race knows its own mortality and fears stagnation of its heredity. It’s in the bloodstream—the urge to mingle genetic strains without plan. The Imperium, the CHOAM Company, all the Great Houses, they are but bits of flotsam in the path of the flood.”

  “CHOAM,” Jessica muttered. “I suppose it’s already decided how they’ll redivide the spoils of Arrakis.”

  “What is CHOAM but the weather vane of our times,” the old woman said. “The Emperor and his friends now command fifty-nine point six-five per cent of the CHOAM di
rectorship’s votes. Certainly they smell profits, and likely as others smell those same profits his voting strength will increase. This is the pattern of history, girl.”

  “That’s certainly what I need right now,” Jessica said. “A review of history.”

  “Don’t be facetious, girl! You know as well as I do what forces surround us. We’ve a three-point civilization: the Imperial Household balanced against the Federated Great Houses of the Landsraad, and between them, the Guild with its damnable monopoly on interstellar transport. In politics, the tripod is the most unstable of all structures. It’d be bad enough without the complication of a feudal trade culture which turns its back on most science.”

  Jessica spoke bitterly: “Chips in the path of the flood—and this chip here, this is the Duke Leto, and this one’s his son, and this one’s—”

  “Oh, shut up, girl. You entered this with full knowledge of the delicate edge you walked.”

  “ ‘I am Bene Gesserit: I exist only to serve,’ ” Jessica quoted.

  “Truth,” the old woman said. “And all we can hope for now is to prevent this from erupting into general conflagration, to salvage what we can of the key bloodlines.”

  Jessica closed her eyes, feeling tears press out beneath the lids. She fought down the inner trembling, the outer trembling, the uneven breathing, the ragged pulse, the sweating of the palms. Presently, she said, “I’ll pay for my own mistake.”

  “And your son will pay with you.”

  “I’ll shield him as well as I’m able.”

  “Shield!” the old woman snapped. “You well know the weakness there! Shield your son too much, Jessica, and he’ll not grow strong enough to fulfill any destiny.”

  Jessica turned away, looked out the window at the gathering darkness. “Is it really that terrible, this planet of Arrakis?”

  “Bad enough, but not all bad. The Missionaria Protectiva has been in there and softened it up somewhat.” The Reverend Mother heaved herself to her feet, straightened a fold in her gown. “Call the boy in here. I must be leaving soon.”