Dune

To attempt an understanding of Muad’Dib without understanding his mortal enemies, the Harkonnens, is to attempt seeing Truth without knowing Falsehood. It is the attempt to see the Light without knowing Darkness. It cannot be.

—FROM “MANUAL OF MUAD’DIB”

BY THE PRINCESS IRULAN

It was a relief globe of a world, partly in shadows, spinning under the impetus of a fat hand that glittered with rings. The globe sat on a freeform stand at one wall of a windowless room whose other walls presented a patchwork of multicolored scrolls, filmbooks, tapes and reels. Light glowed in the room from golden balls hanging in mobile suspensor fields.

An ellipsoid desk with a top of jade-pink petrified elacca wood stood at the center of the room. Veriform suspensor chairs ringed it, two of them occupied. In one sat a dark-haired youth of about sixteen years, round of face and with sullen eyes. The other held a slender, short man with effeminate face.

Both youth and man stared at the globe and the man half-hidden in shadows spinning it.

A chuckle sounded beside the globe. A basso voice rumbled out of the chuckle: “There it is, Piter—the biggest mantrap in all history. And the Duke’s headed into its jaws. Is it not a magnificent thing that I, the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, do?”

“Assuredly, Baron,” said the man. His voice came out tenor with a sweet, musical quality.

The fat hand descended onto the globe, stopped the spinning. Now, all eyes in the room could focus on the motionless surface and see that it was the kind of globe made for wealthy collectors or planetary governors of the Empire. It had the stamp of Imperial handicraft about it. Latitude and longitude lines were laid in with hair-fine platinum wire. The polar caps were insets of finest cloudmilk diamonds.

The fat hand moved, tracing details on the surface. “I invite you to observe,” the basso voice rumbled. “Observe closely, Piter, and you, too, Feyd-Rautha, my darling: from sixty degrees north to seventy degrees south—these exquisite ripples. Their coloring: does it not remind you of sweet caramels? And nowhere do you see blue of lakes or rivers or seas. And these lovely polar caps—so small. Could anyone mistake this place? Arrakis! Truly unique. A superb setting for a unique victory.”

A smile touched Piter’s lips. “And to think, Baron: the Padishah Emperor believes he’s given the Duke your spice planet. How poignant.”

“That’s a nonsensical statement,” the Baron rumbled. “You say this to confuse young Feyd-Rautha, but it is not necessary to confuse my nephew.”

The sullen-faced youth stirred in his chair, smoothed a wrinkle in the black leotards he wore. He sat upright as a discreet tapping sounded at the door in the wall behind him.

Piter unfolded from his chair, crossed to the door, cracked it wide enough to accept a message cylinder. He closed the door, unrolled the cylinder and scanned it. A chuckle sounded from him. Another.

“Well?” the Baron demanded.

“The fool answered us, Baron!”

“Whenever did an Atreides refuse the opportunity for a gesture?” the Baron asked. “Well, what does he say?”

“He’s most uncouth, Baron. Addresses you as ‘Harkonnen’—no ‘Sire et Cher Cousin,’ no title, nothing.”

“It’s a good name,” the Baron growled, and his voice betrayed his impatience. “What does dear Leto say?”

“He says: ‘Your offer of a meeting is refused. I have ofttimes met your treachery and this all men know.’”

“And?” the Baron asked.

“He says: ‘The art of kanly still has admirers in the Empire.’ He signs it: ‘Duke Leto of Arrakis.’” Piter began to laugh. “Of Arrakis! Oh, my! This is almost too rich!”

“Be silent, Piter,” the Baron said, and the laughter stopped as though shut off with a switch. “Kanly, is it?” the Baron asked. “Vendetta, heh? And he uses the nice old word so rich in tradition to be sure I know he means it.”

“You made the peace gesture,” Piter said. “The forms have been obeyed.”

“For a Mentat, you talk too much, Piter,” the Baron said. And he thought: I must do away with that one soon. He has almost outlived his usefulness. The Baron stared across the room at his Mentat assassin, seeing the feature about him that most people noticed first: the eyes, the shaded slits of blue within blue, the eyes without any white in them at all.

A grin flashed across Piter’s face. It was like a mask grimace beneath those eyes like holes. “But, Baron! Never has revenge been more beautiful. It is to see a plan of the most exquisite treachery: to make Leto exchange Caladan for Dune—and without alternative because the Emperor orders it. How waggish of you!”

In a cold voice, the Baron said: “You have a flux of the mouth, Piter.”

“But I am happy, my Baron. Whereas you…you are touched by jealousy.”

“Piter!”

“Ah-ah, Baron! Is it not regrettable you were unable to devise this delicious scheme by yourself?”

“Someday I will have you strangled, Piter.”

“Of a certainty, Baron. Enfin! But a kind act is never lost, eh?”

“Have you been chewing verite or semuta, Piter?”

“Truth without fear surprises the Baron,” Piter said. His face drew down into a caricature of a frowning mask. “Ah, hah! But you see, Baron, I know as a Mentat when you will send the executioner. You will hold back just so long as I am useful. To move sooner would be wasteful and I’m yet of much use. I know what it is you learned from that lovely Dune planet—waste not. True, Baron?”

The Baron continued to stare at Piter.

Feyd-Rautha squirmed in his chair. These wrangling fools! he thought. My uncle cannot talk to his Mentat without arguing. Do they think I’ve nothing to do except listen to their arguments?

“Feyd,” the Baron said. “I told you to listen and learn when I invited you in here. Are you learning?”

“Yes, Uncle.” The voice was carefully subservient.

“Sometimes I wonder about Piter,” the Baron said. “I cause pain out of necessity, but he…I swear he takes a positive delight in it. For myself, I can feel pity toward the poor Duke Leto. Dr. Yueh will move against him soon, and that’ll be the end of all the Atreides. But surely Leto will know whose hand directed the pliant doctor…and knowing that will be a terrible thing.”

“Then why haven’t you directed the doctor to slip a kindjal between his ribs quietly and efficiently?” Piter asked. “You talk of pity, but—”

“The Duke must know when I encompass his doom,” the Baron said. “And the other Great Houses must learn of it. The knowledge will give them pause. I’ll gain a bit more room to maneuver. The necessity is obvious, but I don’t have to like it.”

“Room to maneuver,” Piter sneered. “Already you have the Emperor’s eyes on you, Baron. You move too boldly. One day the Emperor will send a legion or two of his Sardaukar down here onto Giedi Prime and that’ll be an end to the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen.”

“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 Harkonnen, 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 Imperial 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 labor pool.

“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.”