Dune: House Atreides (51 page)

Rabban fidgeted. When he tired of watching the woman's clumsy run, he looked across the seared landscape, searching for the tracks of an oncoming behemoth.

"By the way, whatever happened to that Planetologist the Emperor foisted on us?

I took him worm hunting once.

"Kynes? Who knows?" The Baron snorted. "He's always out in the desert, comes in to Carthag to deliver reports whenever he feels like it, then disappears again. Haven't heard from him in a while."

"What happens if he gets hurt? Could we get in trouble for not keeping a better eye on him?"

"I doubt it. Elrood's mind isn't what it used to be." The Baron laughed, a thin, nasal tone of derision. "Not that the Emperor's mind was much even in its prime."

The dark-haired woman, coated now with clinging dust, fought her way across the dunes. She kicked up sand, falling and struggling back onto her feet, refusing to give up.

"This bores me," Rabban said. "No challenge just to stand here and watch."

"Some punishments are easy," the Baron observed, "but easy isn't always sufficient. Erasing this woman does nothing to erase the black mark she made on the honor of House Harkonnen . . . with the help of House Atreides."

"Then let's do more," Rabban said with a thick-lipped grin, "to the Atreides."

The Baron felt the heat shimmering on his exposed face, absorbed the thrumming silence of the baked desert. When he smiled, the skin on his cheeks threatened to crack. "Maybe we will."

"What, Uncle?"

"Perhaps it's time to get rid of the Old Duke. No more thorns in our side."

Rabban bubbled with anticipation.

With a calmness designed to agitate his nephew, the Baron focused the oil lenses of his binoculars and scanned the distance at varying magnifications. He hoped to spot the wormsign himself rather than relying on the security ornithopters.

Finally he sensed the tremors approaching. He felt his pulse synchronize with the thumper: Lump . . . Lump . . . Lump . . .

Crescent dune tracks spread shadow ripples toward the horizon, an elongated mound-in-motion, a cresting of sand like a big fish swimming just under the surface. In the still, hot air, the Baron heard the rasping, abrasive sound of the slithering beast. Excitedly, he grabbed Rabban's elbow and pointed.

The com-unit at Rabban's ear chirped, and a filtered voice spoke so loudly that the Baron could hear the muffled words. Rabban swatted at the device. "We know! We see it."

The Baron continued his musings as the buried worm approached like a locomotive.

"I've kept up my contacts with . . . individuals on Caladan, you know. The Old Duke is a creature of habit. And habits can be dangerous." He smiled, his lips hard, his eyes squinting against the glare. "We've already put operatives in place, and I have a plan."

Far out in the dunes ahead of them, Janess spun around and ran in blind panic.

She had seen the oncoming worm.

The rippling upheaval of sand reached the thumper in the lee of a whaleback dune. In an explosion like a tidal wave engulfing a dock, the thumper vanished into an immense mouth lined with crystal teeth.

"Move the platform," the Baron urged. "Follow her!" Rabban worked the suspensor controls, floating them up over the desert for a better view of the action.

Following the vibrations of the woman's footsteps, the worm changed course. The sand rippled again as the behemoth dived underground and prowled like a shark searching for new prey.

Janess collapsed on the top of a dune, shuddering, holding her knees up against her chin as she tried not to make any sound that might attract the great worm.

Sand skittered around her. She froze, held her breath.

The monster paused. Janess huddled in terror, praying silently.

Rabban brought the suspensor platform above the trapped woman. Janess glared up at the Harkonnens, her jaw clenched, her eyes like daggers, a cornered animal afraid to move.

Baron Harkonnen reached down to grab an empty bottle of spice liquor, drained during their long hot wait for her execution. He raised the brown glass bottle as if in a toast, grinning.

The sandworm waited underground, alert for even a fractional movement.

The Baron tossed the bottle at the dusky-skinned woman. The glass tumbled in the air, reflecting glints of sunlight, end over end. It struck the sand within meters of Janess's feet with a loud thunk.

The worm lunged into motion, toward her.

Screaming curses at the Harkonnens, Janess plunged down the hillside, followed by a small avalanche of sand. But the ground dropped out from underneath her, like a gaping trapdoor.

The mouth of the worm rose up, a cavern of glittering teeth in the sunlight to swallow Janess and everything around her. A puff of dust drifted on the wavering air as the huge worm sank back under the sands, like a whale beneath the sea.

Rabban touched his com-unit, demanding to know whether the spotting craft overhead had taken high-resolution holos. "I didn't even see her blood, didn't hear her scream." He sounded disappointed.

"You may strangle one of my servants," the Baron offered, "if it will make you feel better. But only because I'm in such a good mood."

From the suspensor platform, he gazed down at the placid dunes, knowing the danger and death that lurked beneath them. He wished his old rival Duke Paulus Atreides had been down there instead of the woman. For that, he would have had every Harkonnen holorecorder in operation, so that he could enjoy it from every angle and savor the experience over and over, each time tasting the morsel of human flesh as the worm did.

No matter, the Baron told himself. I have something just as interesting in mind for the old man.

Speak the truth. That is always much easier, and is often the most powerful argument.

-Bene Gesserit Axiom

Duncan Idaho stared at the monstrous Salusan bull, through the force-field bars of its cage, his child's gaze meeting the multifaceted eyes of the ferocious creature. The bull had a scaly black hide, multiple horns, and two brains that were capable of only one thought: Destroy anything that moves.

The boy had worked in the stables for weeks now, doing his best at even the most miserable of jobs, feeding and watering the combat bulls, tending them, cleaning their filthy cages while the beasts were pushed back behind force-barricades to keep them from attacking him.

He enjoyed his job, despite what others considered the degrading meniality of the tasks to be performed. Duncan didn't even think of it as low-level work, though he knew several other stableboys did. These were simply chores to him, and he considered his payment in freedom and happiness more than sufficient.

Because of the gracious generosity of his benefactor, Duke Paulus Atreides, he loved the old man dearly.

Duncan ate well now and had a warm place to live and fresh clothes whenever he needed them. Though no one asked him to, he worked hard anyway, driven and dedicated. There was even some time for relaxation, and he and the other workers had their own gymnasium and recreation hall. He could also go splashing in the sea whenever he wished, and a friendly man from the dockside occasionally took him along for a day's fishing.

At present the Old Duke kept five of the mutated bulls for his games. Duncan had sought to befriend the beasts, trying to tame them with bribes of sweet green grass or fresh fruits, but an exasperated Stablemaster Yresk had caught him at it.

"The Old Duke uses them in his bullfights -- do you think he prefers them tame?"

His puffy eyes had widened with anger. The white-haired stablemaster had accepted him on the Duke's orders, but grudgingly, and he gave Duncan no special treatment. "He wants them to attack. He doesn't want the creatures to purr when he's on display in the Plaza de Toros. What would the people think?"

Duncan had lowered his eyes and backed off. Always obedient, he never again tried to make these beasts his pets.

He had seen holorecordings of the Duke's previous spectacles, as well as the performances of other renowned matadors; while he was saddened to witness the slaughter of one of his magnificent charges, he was amazed at the bravery and self-assurance of Duke Atreides.

The last corrida on Caladan had been staged to celebrate the departure of Leto Atreides for his off-planet schooling. Now after many months there would be another, as the Old Duke had recently announced a new grand bullfight, this one to entertain his guests from Ix, who had come to stay as exiles on Caladan.

Exiles. In a sense, Duncan was one, too . . . .

Though he had his own sleeping quarters in a communal outbuilding where many of the Castle workers lived, sometimes Duncan bedded down out in the stables, where he could hear the snorting and simmering beasts. He had put up with far worse conditions in his life. The stables themselves were comfortable, and he enjoyed being alone with the animals.

Whenever he slept out there, he listened to the movements of the bulls in his dreams. He felt himself becoming attuned to their moods and instincts. For days now, though, the creatures had grown increasingly fretful and moody, prone to rampages in their pens . . . as if they knew their nemesis the Old Duke was planning another bullfight.

Standing outside the cages, young Duncan noticed fresh, deep score marks where the Salusan bulls had rammed their enclosures in an attempt to break free, trying to gore imaginary opponents.

This was not right. Duncan knew it. He'd spent so much time watching the bulls that he felt he understood their instincts. He knew how they should react, knew how to provoke them and how to calm them -- but this behavior was out of the ordinary.

When he mentioned it to Stablemaster Yresk, the gaunt man looked suddenly alarmed. He scratched the shock of thinning white hair on his head, but then his expression changed. He fixed his suspicious, puffy eyes on Duncan. "Say, there's nothing wrong with those bulls. If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were just another Harkonnen, trying to cause trouble. Now run along."

"Harkonnens! I hate them."

"You lived among them, stable-rat. We Atreides are trained to be constantly on the alert." He gave Duncan a nudge. "Don't you have chores to complete? Or do I need to find some more?"

He'd heard that Yresk had actually come from Richese many years before, so he was not truly an Atreides. Still, Duncan didn't contradict the man, though he refused to back down. "I was their slave. They tried to hunt me down like an animal."

Yresk lowered his bushy eyebrows; with his lanky build and wild, pale hair he looked like a scarecrow. "Even among the common people, the old feud between Houses runs deep. How do I know what you might have up your sleeve?"

"That's not why I told you about the bulls, sir," Duncan said. "I'm just worried. I don't know anything about House feuds."

Yresk laughed, not taking him seriously. "The Atreides-Harkonnen breach goes back thousands of years. Don't you know anything about the Battle of Corrin, the great betrayal, the Bridge of Hrethgir? How a cowardly Harkonnen ancestor almost cost the humans our victory against the hated machine-minds? Corrin was our last stand, and we would have fallen to the final onslaught if an Atreides hadn't saved the day."

"I never learned much history," Duncan said. "It was hard enough just finding food to eat."

Behind folds of wrinkled skin, the stablemaster's eyes were large and expressive, as if he was trying to appear to be a kindly old man. "Well, well, House Atreides and House Harkonnen were allies once, friends even, but never again after that treachery. The feud has burned hot ever since -- and you, boy, came from Giedi Prime. From the Harkonnen homeworld." Yresk shrugged his bony shoulders. "You don't expect us to trust you completely, do you? Be thankful the Old Duke trusts you as much as he does."

"But I had nothing to do with the Battle of Corrin," Duncan said, still not understanding. "What does that have to do with the bulls? That was a long time ago."

"And that's about all the jabber I have time for this afternoon." Yresk removed a long-handled manure scraper from a prong on the wall. "You just keep your suspicions to yourself from now on. Everyone here knows what he's supposed to do."

Though Duncan worked hard and did everything he could to earn his keep, the fact that he had come from the Harkonnens continued to cause him grief. Some of the others working in the stables, not just Yresk, treated him as a barely concealed spy . . . though what Rabban would have wanted with a nine-year-old infiltrator, Duncan couldn't guess.

Not until now, however, had he felt so affronted by the prejudice. "There's something wrong with the bulls, sir," he insisted. "The Duke needs to know about it before his bullfight."

Yresk laughed at him again. "When I need the advice of a child in my business, I'll be sure to ask you, young Idaho." The stablemaster left, and Duncan returned to the stalls to stare at the agitated, ferocious Salusan bulls. They glared back at him with burning, faceted eyes.

Something was terribly wrong. He knew it, but no one would listen to him.

Imperfections, if viewed in the proper light, can be extremely valuable. The Great Schools, with their incessant questing for perfection, often find this postulate difficult to understand, until it is proven to them that nothing in the universe is random.

-From The Philosophies of Old Terra, one of the recovered manuscripts In the darkness of her isolated and protected bedroom in the Mother School complex, Mohiam sat straight up, holding her swollen belly. Her skin felt tight and leathery, without the resilience of youth. Her bedclothes were drenched in perspiration, and the nightmare remained fresh in her mind. The back of her skull pounded with visions of blood, and flames.

It had been an omen, a message . . . a screaming premonition that no Bene Gesserit could ignore.

She wondered how much melange her nurse had given her, and if it might have interacted with some other medication they'd administered. She could still taste the bitter gingery-cinnamon flavor inside her mouth. How much spice was it safe for a pregnant woman to take? Mohiam shuddered. No matter how she tried to rationalize her terror, she could not ignore the power of the sending.