Dune 07 - House Atreides

Dune: House Atreides

Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

October 1999

This book is for our mentor, Frank Herbert, who was every bit as fascinating and

complex as the marvelous Dune universe he created.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Ed Kramer, for being the bridge that brought us together in the first place.

Rebecca Moesta Anderson, for her unflagging imagination, brainstorming, and

plain hard work to make this novel the best it could be.

Jan Herbert, for allowing the creation of this project to continue during a

wedding-anniversary trip to Europe, and for so much more.

Pat LoBrutto, our editor at Bantam Books, for helping us achieve the best

possible focus and clarity in this book.

Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer of the William Morris Agency, Mary Alice Kier

and Anna Cottle of Cine/Lit Representation, for their faith and dedication,

seeing the potential of the entire project.

Irwyn Applebaum and Nita Taublib at Bantam Books, for their support and

enthusiasm in such an enormous undertaking.

Penny and Ron Merritt, whose enthusiastic support made this project possible.

Beverly Herbert, for brainstorming and editorial contributions on the Dune books

written by Frank Herbert.

Marie Landis-Edwards, for her encouragement.

The Herbert Limited Partnership, including David Merritt, Byron Merritt, Julie

Herbert, Robert Merritt, Kimberly Herbert, Margaux Herbert, and Theresa

Shackelford.

At WordFire, Inc., special thanks to Catherine Sidor, who put in many hours of

hard work in preparing and revising the manuscript, and Sarah Jones, for her

help in converting many old books and documents into a usable form.

And to the millions of devoted DUNE fans, who have kept the original novel

popular for three and a half decades.

Transmission to the galactic merchandizing conglomerate "Combine Honnete Ober

Advancer Mercantiles" (CHOAM) from the Spacing Guild:

Our specific charge in this unofficial mission has been to search the

uninhabited worlds to find another source of the precious spice melange, upon

which so much of the Imperium depends. We have documented the journeys of many

of our Navigators and Steersmen, searching hundreds of planets. To date,

however, we have had no success. The only source of melange in the Known

Universe remains the desert world of Arrakis. The Guild, CHOAM, and all other

dependents must continue in thrall of the Harkonnen monopoly.

However, the value of exploring outlying territories for new planetary systems

and new resources bears its own fruit. The detailed surveys and orbital maps on

the attached sheets of ridulian crystal will no doubt be of commercial import

for CHOAM.

Having completed our contract to the specifications upon which we previously

agreed, we hereby request that CHOAM deposit the required payment in our

official Guild Bank headquarters on Junction.

To His Royal Highness, the Padishah Emperor Elrood IX, Ruler of the Known

Universe:

From His Faithful Subject the Siridar Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, Planetary

Governor of Arrakis, titular head of House Harkonnen and Overlord of Giedi

Prime, Lankiveil, and allied planets.

Sire, let me once again affirm my commitment to serving you faithfully on the

desert planet Arrakis. For seven years after my father's death, I am ashamed to

say that my incompetent half brother Abulurd has allowed spice production to

falter. Equipment losses have been high, while exports fell to abysmal levels.

Given the dependence of the Imperium on the spice melange, this bottleneck could

have had dire consequences. Be assured that my family has taken action to

rectify the unfortunate situation: Abulurd has been removed from his duties

and relegated to the planet of Lankiveil. His noble title has been removed,

though he may reclaim a district governorship one day.

Now that I am the direct overseer of Arrakis, allow me to give you my personal

guarantee that I will use whatever means necessary -- money, dedication, and an

iron hand -- to ensure that melange production meets or exceeds previous record

levels.

As you so wisely have commanded, the spice must flow!

Melange is the financial crux of CHOAM activities. Without this spice, Bene

Gesserit Reverend Mothers could not perform feats of observation and human

control, Guild Navigators could not see safe pathways across space, and billions

of Imperial citizens would die of addictive withdrawal. Any simpleton knows

that such dependence upon a single commodity leads to abuse. We are all at

risk.

-CHOAM Economic Analysis of Materiel Flow Patterns

Lean and muscular, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen hunched forward next to the

ornithopter pilot. He peered with spider-black eyes through the pitted

windowplaz, smelling the ever-present grit and sand.

As the armored 'thopter flew high overhead, the white sun of Arrakis dazzled

against unrelenting sands. The sweeping vista of dunes sizzling in the day's

heat made his retinas burn. The landscape and sky were bleached of color.

Nothing soothed the human eye.

Hellish place.

The Baron wished he could be back in the industrialized warmth and civilized

complexity of Giedi Prime, the central world of House Harkonnen. Even stuck

here, he had better things to do back at the local family headquarters in the

city of Carthag, other diversions to suit his demanding tastes.

But the spice harvesting must take precedence. Always. Especially a huge

strike such as the one his spotters had reported.

In the cramped cockpit, the Baron lounged with well-postured confidence,

ignoring the buffet and sway of air currents. The 'thopter's mechanical wings

beat rhythmically like a wasp's. The dark leather of his chestpiece fit tightly

over well-toned pectorals. In his mid-forties, he had rakish good looks; his

reddish gold hair had been cut and styled to exacting specifications, enhancing

his distinctive widow's peak. The Baron's skin was smooth, his cheekbones high

and well sculpted. Sinewy muscles stood out along his neck and jaw, ready to

contort his face into a scowl or a hard smile, depending on circumstances.

"How much farther?" He looked sideways at the pilot, who had been showing

signs of nervousness.

"The site is in the deep desert, m'Lord Baron. All indications are that this is

one of the richest concentrations of spice ever excavated."

The flying craft shuddered on thermals as they passed over an outcropping of

black lava rock. The pilot swallowed hard, focusing on the ornithopter's

controls.

The Baron relaxed into his seat and quelled his impatience. He was glad the new

hoard was far from prying eyes, away from Imperial or CHOAM corporate officials

who might keep troublesome records. Doddering old Emperor Elrood IX didn't need

to know every damned thing about Harkonnen spice production on Arrakis. Through

carefully edited reports and doctored accounting journals, not to mention

bribes, the Baron told the off-planet overseers only what he wanted them to

know.

He swiped a strong hand across the sheen of sweat on his upper lip, then

adjusted the 'thopter's environment controls to make the cockpit cooler, the air

more moist.

The pilot, uncomfortable at having such an important and volatile passenger in

his care, nudged the engines to increase speed. He checked the console's map

projection again, studied outlines of the desert terrain that spread as far as

they could see.

Having examined the cartographic projections himself, the Baron had been

displeased by their lack of detail. How could anyone expect to find his way

across this desert scab of a world? How could a planet so vital to the

economic stability of the Imperium remain basically uncharted? Yet another

failing of his weak younger demibrother, Abulurd.

But Abulurd was gone, and the Baron was in charge. Now that Arrakis is mine,

I'll put everything in order. Upon returning to Carthag, he would set people to

work drawing up new surveys and maps, if the damned Fremen didn't kill the

explorers again or ruin the cartography points.

For forty years, this desert world had been the quasi-fief of House Harkonnen, a

political appointment granted by the Emperor, with the blessing of the

commercial powerhouse CHOAM -- the Combine Honnete Ober Advancer Mercantiles.

Though grim and unpleasant, Arrakis was one of the most important jewels in the

Imperial crown because of the precious substance it provided.

However, upon the death of the Baron's father, Dmitri Harkonnen, the old Emperor

had, through some mental deficiency, granted the seat of power to the

softhearted Abulurd, who had managed to decimate spice production in a mere

seven years. Profits plunged, and he lost control to smugglers and sabotage.

In disgrace, the fool had been yanked from his position and sent off without

official title to Lankiveil, where even he could do little damage to the self-

sustaining whale-fur activities there.

Immediately upon being granted the governorship, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had

set out to turn Arrakis around. He would make his own mark, erase the legacy of

mistakes and bad judgment.

In all the Imperium, Arrakis -- a hellhole that some might consider a punishment

rather than a reward -- was the only known source of the spice melange, a

substance worth far more than any precious metal. Here on this parched world,

it was worth even more than its weight in water.

Without spice, efficient space travel would be impossible . . . and without

space travel, the Imperium itself would fall. Spice prolonged life, protected

health, and added a vigor to existence. The Baron, a moderate user himself,

greatly appreciated the way it made him feel. Of course, the spice melange was

also ferociously addictive, which kept the price high ....

The armored 'thopter flew over a seared mountain range that looked like a broken

jawbone filled with rotted teeth. Up ahead the Baron could see a dust cloud

extending like an anvil into the sky.

"Those are the harvesting operations, m'Lord Baron."

Hawklike attack 'thopters grew from black dots in the monochrome sky and swooped

toward them. The communicator pinged, and the pilot sent back an identification

signal. The paid defenders -- mercenaries with orders to keep out unwelcome

observers -- circled away and took up protective positions in the sky.

So long as House Harkonnen maintained the illusion of progress and profits, the

Spacing Guild didn't need to know about every particular spice find. Nor did

the Emperor, nor CHOAM. The Baron would keep the melange for himself and add it

to his huge stockpiles.

After Abulurd's years of bumbling, if the Baron accomplished even half of what

he was capable of, CHOAM and the Imperium would see a vast improvement. If he

kept them happy, they wouldn't notice his substantial skim, would never suspect

his secret spice stashes. A dangerous stratagem if discovered . . . but the

Baron had ways of dealing with prying eyes.

As they approached the plume of dust, he took out a pair of binoculars and

focused the oil lenses. The magnification permitted him to see the spice

factory at work. With its giant treads and enormous cargo capacity, the

mechanical monstrosity was incredibly expensive -- and worth every solari

expended to maintain it. Its excavators kicked up cinnamon-red dust, gray sand,

and flint chips as they dug down, scooping up the surface of the desert, sifting

for aromatic spice.

Mobile ground units ranged across the open sand in the vicinity of the factory,

dipping probes beneath the surface, scraping samples, mapping the extent of the

buried spice vein. Overhead, heavier machinery borne by jumbo ornithopters

circled, waiting. Peripherally, spotter craft cruised up and down the sands

with alert watchers searching for the telltale ripples of wormsign. One of the

great sandworms of Arrakis could swallow their entire operation whole.

"M'Lord Baron," the pilot said and handed the communicator wand over to him,

"the captain of the work crew wishes to speak with you." This is your Baron."

He touched his ear to listen to the pickup. "Give me an update. How much have

you found?"

Below on the sands, the crew captain answered, his voice gruff, his manner

annoyingly unimpressed with the importance of the man to whom he was speaking.

"Ten years working spice crews, and this deposit's beyond anything I've ever

seen. Trouble is, it's buried deep. Normally, you know, we find the spice

exposed by the elements. This time it's densely concentrated, but . . ."

The Baron waited for only a moment. "Yes, what is it?"

"Something strange going on here, sir. Chemically, I mean. We've got carbon

dioxide leaking from below, some sort of a bubble beneath us. The harvester's

digging through outer layers of sand to get at the spice, but there's also water

vapor."

"Water vapor!" Such a thing was unheard-of on Arrakis, where the moisture

content of the air was nearly unmeasurable, even on the best of days.

"Could have stumbled on an ancient aquifer, sir. Maybe buried under a cap of

rock."

The Baron had never imagined finding running water beneath the surface of

Arrakis. Quickly he considered the possibilities of exploiting a free-flowing

water resource by selling it to the populace. That was sure to upset the

existing water merchants, who had grown too swollen with self-importance anyway.

His basso voice rumbled. "Do you think it's contaminating the spice somehow?"

"Not able to say, sir," said the crew captain. "Spice is strange stuff, but

I've never seen a pocket like this before. It doesn't seem . . . right

somehow."

The Baron looked over at the 'thopter pilot. "Contact the spotters. See if

they've picked up any wormsign yet."

"No wormsign, m'Lord," the pilot said, scanning the reply. The Baron noticed

sparkles of sweat on the man's forehead.

"How long has the harvester been down there?"

"Nearly two standard hours, sir."

Now the Baron scowled. One of the worms should definitely have come before now.

Inadvertently, the pilot had left the comsystem open, and the crew captain

gruffly acknowledged over the speaker. "Never had this much time either, sir.

The worms always come. Always. But something's going on down here. Gases are

increasing. You can smell it in the air."

Taking a deep breath of the recycled cabin air, the Baron detected the musky

cinnamon smell of raw melange scooped from the desert. The ornithopter flew in

a holding pattern now, several hundred meters from the main harvester.

"We're also detecting vibrations underground, some kind of a resonance. I don't

like it, sir."

"You're not paid to like it," the Baron replied. "Is it a deep worm?"

"I don't think so, sir."

He scanned the estimates being transmitted from the spice harvester. The

numbers boggled his mind. "We're getting as much from this one excavation as a

month's production on my other sites." He drummed his fingers on his right

thigh in a rhythmic pattern.

"Nevertheless, sir, I suggest that we prepare to pack up and abandon the site.

We could lose --"

"Absolutely not, Captain," the Baron said. "There's no wormsign, and you've

already got nearly a full factory load. We can bring down a carryall and give

you an empty harvester if you need it. I'm not leaving behind a fortune in

spice just because you're getting nervous . . . just because you have an uneasy

feeling. Ridiculous!"

When the work leader tried to push his point, the Baron interrupted, "Captain,

if you're a nervous coward, you're in the wrong profession and in the employ of

the wrong House. Carry on." He switched off the communicator and made a

mental note to remove that man from his position as soon as possible.

Carryalls hovered above, ready to retrieve the spice harvester and its crew as

soon as a worm appeared. But why was it taking so long for one to come? Worms

always protected the spice.

Spice. He tasted the word in his thoughts and on his lips.

Veiled in superstition, the substance was an unknown quantity, a modern

unicorn's-horn. And Arrakis was inhospitable enough that no one had yet

deciphered the origin of melange. In the vast canvas of the Imperium, no

explorer or prospector had found melange on any other planet, nor had anyone

succeeded in synthesizing a substitute, despite centuries of attempts. Since

House Harkonnen held the planetary governorship of Arrakis, and therefore

controlled all spice production, the Baron had no wish to see a substitute

developed, or any other source found.

Expert desert crews located the spice, and the Imperium used it -- but beyond

that, the details didn't concern him. There was always risk to spice workers,

always the danger that a worm would attack too soon, that a carryall would

malfunction, that a spice factory would not be lifted away in time. Unexpected

sandstorms could come up with startling speed. The casualty rate and the

equipment losses to House Harkonnen were appalling . . . but melange paid off

nearly any cost in blood or money.

As the ornithopter circled in a steady, thrumming rhythm, the Baron studied the

industrial spectacle below. Baking sun glinted off the spice factory's dusty

hull. Spotters continued to prowl the air, while groundcars cruised beneath

them, taking samples.

Still no sign of a worm, and every moment allowed the crew to retrieve more

spice. The workers would receive bonuses -- except for that captain -- and

House Harkonnen would become richer. The records could be doctored later.

The Baron turned to the pilot. "Call our nearest base. Summon another carryall

and another spice factory. This vein seems inexhaustible." His voice trailed

off. "If a worm hasn't shown up by now, there just might be time . . . ."

The ground crew captain called back, broadcasting on a general frequency since

the Baron had shut down his own receiver. "Sir, our probes indicate that the

temperature is rising deep below -- a dramatic spike! Something's going on

down there, a chemical reaction. And one of our ground-roving teams just broke

into a swarming nest of sandtrout."

The Baron growled, furious with the man for communicating on an unencrypted

channel. What if CHOAM spies were listening? Besides, no one cared about

sandtrout. The jellylike creatures deep beneath the sand were as irrelevant to

him as flies swarming around a long-abandoned corpse.

He made a mental note to do more to this weakling captain than just remove him

from the work crews and deny him a bonus. That gutless bastard was probably

handpicked by Abulurd.

The Baron saw tiny figures of scouts tracking through the sands, running about

like ants maddened with acid vapor. They rushed back to the main spice factory.

One man leaped off his dirt-encrusted rover and scrambled toward the open door

of the massive machine.

"What are those men doing? Are they abandoning their posts? Bring us down

closer so I can see."

The pilot tilted the ornithopter and descended like an ominous beetle toward the

sand. Below, the men leaned over, coughing and retching as they tried to drag

filters over their faces. Two stumbled on the shifting sand. Others were

rapidly battening down the spice factory.

"Bring the carryall! Bring the carryall!" someone cried.

The spotters all reported in. "I see no wormsign."

"Still nothing."

"All clear from here," said a third.

"Why are they evacuating?" the Baron demanded, as if the pilot would know.

"Something's happening," the crew captain yelled. "Where's that carryall? We

need it now!"

The ground bucked. Four workers stumbled and pitched facefirst onto the sand

before they could reach the ramp to the spice factory.

"Look, m'Lord!" The pilot pointed downward, his voice filled with awe. As the

Baron stopped focusing on the cowardly men, he saw the sand trembling all around

the excavation site, vibrating like a struck drumhead.

The spice harvester canted, slipped to one side. A crack opened in the sands,

and the whole site began to swell from beneath the ground, rising in the air

like a gas bubble in a boiling Salusan mudpot.

"Get us out of here!" the Baron shouted. The pilot stared for a fraction of a

second, and the Baron swept his left hand with the speed of a cracked whip,

striking the man hard on the cheek. "Move!"

The pilot grabbed the 'thopter controls and wrenched them into a steep ascent.

The articulated wings flapped furiously.

On the terrain below, the swollen underground bubble reached its apex -- then

burst, hurling the spice harvester, the mobile crews, and everything else up off

the surface. A gigantic explosion of sand sprayed upward, carrying broken rock

and volatile orange spice. The mammoth factory was crushed and blasted to

pieces, scattered like lost rags in a Coriolis storm.

"What the devil happened?" The Baron's dark eyes went wide in disbelief at the

sheer magnitude of the disaster. All that precious spice gone, swallowed in an

instant. All the equipment destroyed. The loss in lives hardly occurred to

him, except for the wasted costs of crew training.

"Hang on, m'Lord," the pilot cried. His knuckles turned white on the controls.

A hammer-blast of wind struck them. The armored ornithopter turned end over end

in the air, wings flailing. The engines whined and groaned, trying to maintain

stability. Pellets of high-velocity sand struck the plaz windowports. Dust-

clogged, the 'thopter's motors made sick, coughing sounds. The craft lost

altitude, dropping toward the seething maw of the desert.

The pilot shouted unintelligible words. The Baron clutched his crash

restraints, saw the ground coming toward them like an inverted bootheel to

squash an insect.

As head of House Harkonnen, he had always thought he would die by a treacherous

assassin's hand . . . but to fall prey to an unpredictable natural disaster

instead -- the Baron found it almost humorous.

As they plunged, he saw the sand open like a festering sore. The dust and raw

melange were being sucked down, turned over by convection currents and chemical

reactions. The rich spice vein of only moments before had turned into a leprous

mouth ready to swallow them.

But the pilot, who had seemed weak and distractible during their flight, became

rigid with concentration and determination. His fingers flew over sky rudder

and engine throttle controls, working to ride the currents, switching flow from

one motor to another to discharge dust strangulation in the air intakes.

Finally the ornithopter leveled off, steadied itself again, and cruised low over

the dune plain. The pilot emitted an audible sigh of relief.

Where the great opening had been ripped into the layered sand, the Baron now saw

glittering translucent shapes like maggots on a carcass: sandtrout, rushing

toward the explosion. Soon giant worms would come, too. The monsters couldn't

possibly resist this.

Try as he might, the Baron couldn't understand spice. Not at all.

The 'thopter gained altitude, taking them toward the spotters and the carryalls

that had been caught unawares. They hadn't been able to retrieve the spice

factory and its precious cargo before the explosion, and he could blame no one

for it -- no one but himself. The Baron had given them explicit orders to

remain out of reach.

"You just saved my life, pilot. What is your name?"

"Kryubi, sir."

"All right, then, Kryubi -- have you ever seen such a thing? What happened

down there? What caused that explosion?"

The pilot took a deep breath. "I've heard the Fremen talking about something

they call a . . . spice blow." He seemed like a statue now, as if the terror

had transformed him into something much stronger. "It happens in the deep

desert, where few people can see."

"Who cares what the Fremen say?" He curled his lip at the thought of the

dirty, nomadic indigents of the great desert. "We've all heard of spice blows,

but nobody's ever actually seen one. Crazy superstitions."

"Yes, but superstition usually has some kind of basis. They see many things out

in the desert." Now the Baron admired the man for his willingness to speak

out, though Kryubi must know of his temper and vindictiveness. Perhaps it would

be wise to promote him ....

"They say a spice blow is a chemical explosion," Kryubi continued, "probably the

result of a pre-spice mass beneath the sands."

The Baron considered this; he couldn't deny the evidence of his own eyes. One

day maybe someone would understand the true nature of melange and be able to

prevent disasters like this. So far, because the spice was seemingly

inexhaustible to those willing to make the effort, no one had bothered with a

detailed analysis. Why waste time on tests, when fortunes waited to be made?

The Baron had a monopoly on Arrakis -- but it was also a monopoly based on

ignorance.

He gritted his teeth and knew that once they returned to Carthag he would be

forced to blow off some steam, to release his pent-up tensions on "amusements,"

perhaps a bit more vigorously than he had earlier intended. He would have to

find a special candidate this time -- not one of his regular lovers, but someone

he would never have use for again. That would free him of restraint.

Looking down, he thought, No longer any need to hide this site from the Emperor.

They would record it, log it as a find, and document the destruction of the crew

and equipment. No need to manipulate the records now. Old Elrood would not be

pleased, and House Harkonnen would have to absorb this financial setback.

As the pilot circled around, the surviving spice crew assessed their damages on

the ground, and over the comlink reported losses of men, equipment, and spice

load. The Baron felt rage boiling within him.

Damn Arrakis! he thought. Damn the spice, and damn our dependence on it!

We are generalists. You can't draw neat lines around planetwide problems.

Planetology is a cut-and-fit science.

-PARDOT KYNES, Treatise on the Environmental Recovery of Post-Holocaust Salusa

Secundus

0n the Imperial planet Kaitain, immense buildings kissed the sky. Magnificent

sculptures and opulent tiered fountains lined the crystal-paved boulevards like

a dream. A person could stare for hours.

Pardot Kynes managed to catch only a glimpse of the urban spectacle as the royal

guards marched him at a rapid clip into the Palace. They had no patience for a

simple Planetologist's curiosity, nor any apparent interest in the city's

wonders. Their job was to escort him to the tremendous vaulted throne room,

without delay. The Emperor of the Known Universe could not be kept waiting for

mere sight-seeing.

The members of Kynes's escort wore gray-and-black uniforms, impeccably clean and

adorned with braids and medals, every button and bauble polished, every ribbon

straightened and pressed. Fifteen of the Emperor's handpicked staff, the

Sardaukar, surrounded him like an army.

Still, the splendor of the capital world overwhelmed Kynes. Turning to the

guard closest to him, he said, "I'm usually out in the dirt, or tromping through

swamps on a planet where nobody else wants to be." He had never seen, or even

Dune 07 - House Atreides

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