Dune Prequel 3 - House Corrino [some errors] (Brian Herbert & Kevin J Anderson)

417 Pages·2016·2.42 MB·English

by  Herbert Brian & Frank

Proofed without dead tree copy.
Possible errors (at some places, entire words or parts of words seemed
to be missing - probably pages not scanned to the edge) and things I
couldn’t figure out or remained with some doubt about, are highlighted.
Enjoy,
Vlad.

Dune: House Corrino
Brian Herbert & Kevin J Anderson

The axis of spin for the planet Arrakis is at right angles to the radius of its orbit.
The world itself is not a globe, but more a spinning top somewhat fat at the equator
and concave toward the poles. There is a sense that this may be artificial, the
product of some ancient artifice.

- Report of the Third Imperial Commission on Arrakis

Under the light of two moons in a dusty sky, the Fremen raiders flitted across the desert
rocks. They blended into the rugged surroundings as if cut from the same cloth, harsh
men in a harsh environment.

Death to Harkonnens. All members of the armed razzia squad had sworn the same vow.

In the quiet hours before dawn, Stilgar, their tall and black-bearded leader, stalked catlike
ahead of a score of his best fighters. We must move as shadows in the night. Shadows
with hidden knives.

Lifting a hand, he commanded the silent squad to halt. Stilgar listened to the pulse of the
desert, his ears probing the darkness. His blue-within-blue eyes scanned towering rock
escarpments profiled against the sky like giant sentinels. As the pair of moons moved
across the heavens, patches of darkness shifted moment by moment, living extensions of
the mountain face.

The men picked their way up a rock buttress, using dark-adapted eyes to follow a steep,
tool-hewn trail. The terrain seemed hauntingly familiar, though Stilgar had never been
here before. His father had described the way, the route their ancestors had taken into
Hadith Sietch, once the greatest of all hidden settlements, abandoned long ago.

"Hadith"-a word taken from an old Fremen song about the patterns of survival in the
desert. Like many living Fremen, he carried the story etched into his psyche ... a tale of
betrayal and civil conflict during the first generations of the wandering Zensunni here on
Dune. Legend held that all meanings originated here, in this holy sietch.

Now, though, the Harkonnens have desecrated our ancient place.

Every man in Stilgar's commando squad felt revulsion at such sacrilege, back in Red
Wall Sietch, a flat stone held tally marks of all the enemies his Fremen had slain, and
tonight more enemy blood would be shed.

The column followed Stilgar as he picked up the pace down the rocky trail. It would be
dawn soon, and they still had much killing to do.

Here, far from prying Imperial eyes, Baron Harkonnen had been using the empty caves of
Sietch Hadith to conceal one of his illegal spice hoards. The embezzled stockpile of
valuable melange appeared on no inventory sheet ever submitted to the Emperor.
Shaddam suspected nothing of the ruse. But the Harkonnens could not hide such
activities from the eyes of the desert people.

In the squalid village of Bar Es Rashid at the base of the ridge, the Harkonnens had a
listening post and guards up in the cliffs. Such minor defenses presented no obstacle to
the Fremen, who long ago had built numerous shafts and entrances into the mountain
grottoes. Secret ways ...

Stilgar found a split in the trail and followed the faint path, searching for the hidden
opening into Sietch Hadith. In low light he saw a patch of darkness beneath an overhang.
Dropping to all fours, he reached into the darkness and located the expected opening,
cool and moist, without a doorseal. Wasteful.

No bright light, no sign of guards. Crawling inside the hole, he etched a leg down and
located a rough ledge, where he rested his boot, with his other foot he found a second
ledge, and below that another. Steps going down. Ahead, he discerned low yellow light
where the tunnel sloped the right. Stilgar backed up and raised a hand, summoning the
others to low.

On the floor at the base of the rough steps he noticed an old serving vl. Tugging off his
nose plugs, he smelled raw meat. Bait for small predator? An animal trap? He froze,
looking for sensors. Had he already tripped silent alarm? He heard footsteps ahead, and a
drunken voice. "Got another one. Let's blow it to kulon-hell."

Stilgar and two Fremen darted into a side tunnel and drew their milky knives. Maula
pistols would be far too noisy in these enclosed spaces, ten a pair of Harkonnen guards
blundered past them, reeking of spice r, Stilgar and his comrade Turok leaped out and
grabbed them from behind.

Before the hapless men could cry out, the Fremen slit their throats, slapped sponge pads
over the wounds to absorb the precious blood. In efficient blur of motion, Fremen
removed hand weapons from the still flinching guards. Stilgar seized a lasrifle for himself
and passed one to Turok.

Dim military glowglobes floated in ceiling recesses, casting low light, razzia band
continued down the passageway, toward the heart of the ancient sietch. When the passage
skirted a conveyor system used for the transportation of materials in and out of the secret
chamber, he detected the cinnamon odor of melange, which grew stronger as the group
went deeper. Here, the ceiling glowglobes were tuned to pale orange instead of yellow.

Stilgar's troop murmured at the sight of human skulls and rotting bodies, propped against
the sides of the corridor, carelessly displayed trophies. Rage suffused him. These might
have been Fremen prisoners or villagers, taken by the Harkonnens for sport. At his side,
Turok glanced around, searching for another enemy he might kill.

Cautiously, Stilgar led the way forward and began to hear voices and clanging noises.
They came to an alcove rimmed with a low stone railing that overlooked an underground
grotto. Stilgar imagined the thousands of desert people who must have thronged into this
vast cavern long ago, before the Harkonnens, before the Emperor… before the spice
melange had become the most valuable substance in the universe.

At the center of the grotto rose an octagonal structure, dark blue and silver, surrounded
by ramps. Smaller matching structures were arranged around it. One was under
construction; plasmetal parts lay strewn about, with seven laborers hard at work.

Slipping back into shadows, the raiders crept down shallow stairs to the grotto floor.
Turok and the other Fremen, each man holding his confiscated weapons, took positions in
different alcoves overlooking the grotto. Three raiders raced up the ramp that encircled
the largest octagonal structure. At the top, the Fremen vanished from view, then
reappeared and made rapid hand signals to Stilgar. Six guards had already been killed
without making a sound, dispatched in deadly crysknife silence.

Now the time for stealth had ended. On the rock floor, a pair of commandos pointed their
maula pistols at the surprised construction workers and ordered them up the stairs. The
sunken-eyed laborers complied grudgingly, as if they didn't care which masters held them
captive.

The Fremen searched connecting passageways and found an underground barracks with
two dozen guards asleep among bottles of spice beer scattered on the floor. A strong odor
of melange permeated the large common room.

Scoffing, the Fremen charged in, slashing with knives, kicking and punching, dealing out
pain but no fatal wounds. The groggy Harkonnens were disarmed and herded to the
central grotto.

His blood running hot, Stilgar scowled at the slouching, half-drunken men. One always
hopes for an honorable enemy. But we have found none tonight. Even here, in the highly
secure grotto, these men had been sampling the spice they were supposed to guard-
probably without the Baron's knowledge.

"I want to torture them to death right now." Turok's eyes were dark ider the ruddy
glowglobe light. "Slowly. You saw what they did to their captives."

Stilgar stopped him. "Save that for later. Instead, we shall put them to work."
Stilgar paced back and forth in front of the Harkonnen captives, scratching his dark
beard. The stink of their fear-sweat began to overpower s melange odor. In a low,
measured tone, he used a threat their leader Liet-Kynes had suggested. "This spice
stockpile is illegal, in explicit violation of Imperial orders. All melange on the premises
will be confiscated and reported to Kaitain."

Liet, as the recently appointed Imperial Planetologist, had gone to Kaitain to request a
meeting with the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV. It s a long journey across the galaxy to
the Imperial Palace, and a simple desert dweller like Stilgar could scarcely comprehend
such distances. "Says a Fremen?" sneered the half-drunk guard captain, a small man with
quivering jowls and a high forehead.

"Says the Emperor. We take possession of it in his name." Stilgar's indigo eyes bored into
him. The red-faced captain didn't even have enough sense to be frightened. Apparently,
he had not heard what Fremen did to their captives. He would find out soon enough.

"Get to work unloading the silos!" Turok barked, standing with the res-d [rescued?]
workers. Those prisoners who weren't too exhausted to notice seemed surprised to see the
Harkonnens jump. "We'll have our own 'thopters here to pick up the spice."

When the rising sun blistered the desert, Stilgar hovered on the tense edge of anxiety. The
Harkonnen captives worked, hour after hour. This raid was taking a long time, yet they
had so much to gain.

While Turok and his companions kept their weapons ready, surly Harkonnen guards
loaded packages of melange onto rattling conveyor belts that led to openings on the cliff
faces near 'thopter landing pads, side, the Fremen raiders hauled away enough treasure to
ransom a Id.

What could the Baron possibly want with such wealth?

At noon, precisely on schedule, Stilgar heard explosions from the village of Bar Es
Rashid at the base of the ridge-the second Fremen razzia attacking the Harkonnen guard
post in a well-coordinated assault, four unmarked ornithopters circled the rock buttress
gracefully, flapping their mechanical wings until Stilgar's men guided them onto the
landing slabs. Freed construction workers and the Fremen commandos loaded the craft
with the packaged, twice-stolen melange.

It was time for the operation to end.

Stilgar lined the Harkonnen guards along a sheer dropoff over the dusty huts of Bar Es
Rashid far below. After hours of hard work and brewing fear, the jowly Harkonnen
captain was fully sober now, his hair sweaty and eyes haunted. Standing before him,
Stilgar studied the man with utter contempt.
Without a word, he drew his crysknife and slit the man up the middle, from pubic bone to
sternum. The captain gasped in disbelief as his blood and entrails spilled out into the sun.

"Waste of moisture," Turok muttered beside him.

Several panicked Harkonnen prisoners tried to break away, but the Fremen fell upon
them, hurling some over the cliff and stabbing others with sharp blades. Those who stood
their ground were dispatched quickly and painlessly. The Fremen took much longer with
the cowards.

The sunken-eyed construction workers were ordered to load bodies into the ornithopters,
even the decaying corpses found in the passageways. Back at Red Wall Sietch, Stilgar's
people would render the bodies in a deathstill, extracting every drop of water for the
benefit of the tribe. Desecrated Hadith would be left empty again, a ghost sietch. A
warning to the Baron.

One by one the loaded 'thopters rose like dark birds into the clear sky, while Stilgar's men
trotted beneath the hot sun of afternoon, their mission complete.

As soon as Baron Harkonnen discovered the loss of his spice hoard and the murder of his
guards, he would retaliate against Bar Es Rashid, even though those poor villagers had
had nothing to do with the raid. His mouth set in a grim line, Stilgar decided to move the
entire population to the safety of a distant sietch.

There, along with the captive construction workers, they would be turned into Fremen, or
killed if they did not cooperate. Considering their squalid lives in Bar Es Rashid, Stilgar
felt he was doing them a favor.

When Liet-Kynes returned from his meeting with the Emperor on Kaitain, he would be
very pleased with what the Fremen had accomplished.

Mankind has only one science: the science of discontentment.

- PADISHAH EMPEROR SHADDAM IV, Decree in Response to the Actions of
House Moritani

Please grant forgiveness, Sire. I crave a boon, Sire.

For the most part, Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV found his daily duties tedious. Sitting on
the Golden Lion Throne had been a thrill at first, but now as he gazed across the Imperial
Audience Chamber, it seemed to him that power lured sycophantic pests like sweet
frosting lured roaches. The supplicants' voices slipped into the back of his mind as he
went through the motions, granting or not granting favors. I demand justice, Sire. A
moment of your time, Sire.
During his years as Crown Prince, he had schemed so hard to claim the throne. Now,
with the snap of a finger, Shaddam had the power to elevate a worthy commoner to noble
status, to destroy worlds, or to bring Great Houses crashing down.

But even the Emperor of the Known Universe could not rule solely as he saw fit. His
decisions were beset on all sides by challenges from political string-pullers. The Spacing
Guild had its own interests, as did Combine Honnete Ober Avancer Mercantiles, the
trading conglomerate better known as CHOAM. It was a blessing to know that the noble
families bickered with each other as much as they squabbled with him. Please hear my
case, Sire. Have mercy, Sire.

The Bene Gesserit had helped him cement the early years of his reign. Yet now the
witches -including his own wife-whispered behind his back, unraveling his Imperial
tapestry, creating new patterns he could not discern.

Grant my request, I beg of you, Sire.

It is such a minor thing, Sire.

However, once his long-awaited Project Amal reached completion-the artificial spice
secretly being developed on Ix -he would change the face of the Imperium. "Amal." Such
a magical sound to the word. But names were one thing, and realities quite another.

The latest reports from Ix were heartening. At last, the damned Tleilaxu claimed success
with their experiments, and he was awaiting the final proof, and samples. Spice... all of
the puppet strings in the vast Imperium were made of spice. Soon I shall have my own
source, and Arrakis can rot, for all I care.

Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica would never dare to make baseless claims.
Nonetheless, Shaddam's boyhood friend and philosophical foil, Count Hasimir Fenring,
had been sent to Ix to check it out.

My fate is in your hands, Sire.

All hail the benevolent Emperor!

As he sat on the crystal throne, Shaddam allowed himself a mysterious smile, which
made the supplicants flinch with uncertainty.

Behind him, two copper-skinned women dressed in garments of golden silkscales
climbed the steps and lit the ion torches flanking his throne. The crackling flames were
balls of harnessed lightning: blue and green, shot through with veins of light too bright to
behold. The air carried a thunderstorm scent of ozone and the hiss of consuming flames.

After the customary pomp and ceremony, Shaddam had arrived in the throne room nearly
an hour late-his small way of reminding these pitiful beggars how little importance he
placed on their visits. By contrast, all supplicants were required to arrive precisely on
time or have their appointments canceled.

Court Chamberlain Beely Ridondo had stepped before the throne and extended his sonic
staff. When he struck it against the polished stone floor, the staff sent out a ringing tone
that made the Palace foundations tremble. Bald and high-browed, Ridondo called out
Shaddam's interminably long name and titles, proclaiming the court to be in session. He
then glided backward up the dais steps without missing a beat.

Leaning forward, his narrow face wearing a stern expression, Shaddam had begun
another day on the throne. . . .

The morning progressed exactly as he feared, an endless recital of petty matters. But
Shaddam forced himself to appear compassionate, a great ruler. He had already
commissioned several historians to ensure that the appropriate details of his life and reign
were recorded and emphasized.

During a short recess, Chamberlain Ridondo paused to go over the long list of matters on
the Imperial docket. Shaddam sipped from his cup of potent spice coffee, felt the electric
rush of melange. For once, the cook had prepared it properly. The intricately decorated
cup was carefully painted, one of a kind, so delicate it seemed to be made of eggshell.
Each cup Shaddam used was destroyed after he drank from it, so that no one else could
have the privilege of using the same china.

"Sire?" Ridondo stared at the Emperor with a disconcerting expression is 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 tat 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, ceasing spice production and forcing Baron Harkonnen to
crack ra. The Baron would then request Sardaukar reinforcements, and from…”
Shaddam raised his well-manicured hand. "Enough! I see your point." His Chamberlain
always cycled through more consequences than an emperor needed to hear. "Let him in.
But clean the dirt off of him first."

Lm H? Tff immense Imperial Palace impressive, but he was arThan A3 h **
*F™*™ ^^ could be more pi lar 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

?Page missing?

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 show the pale sunrise of
hope.

With a calculated precision involving twitches of electrofluid muscle, 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 transpiration stood out on his waxy forehead. He wore
a short, loose robe; the lapel glimmered a purple-and-copper helix, proud symbol of the
en 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.