Princess of Dune, page 11
Bosh joined other officers at one of the tables, though his clothing made him stand out.
Shaking his head in dismay, Zenha said, “The Emperor needs us, because we are the competent ones, and he knows it. We may criticize the peacock officers because their foolishness is a detriment to the Imperium, but we remain loyal to the Imperium. Would any of you deny that?”
A murmur of concurrence passed through the room.
“Everyone knows we are the capable officers, that we hold everything together. With that in mind, and in honor of the oaths we took, I say this to you this evening—” Now Zenha reached down to take his drink. “Even after what has happened to me, I still give this toast to our Emperor Shaddam Corrino. And to the Imperium, may we always serve honorably and bravely.”
After a moment of awkward hesitation, Staff Captain Nedloh returned to his place with Zenha, as did Sellew and Horon. Patting Zenha on the shoulder, Nedloh said, “This is the bravest man of all of us. Who among you would have dared to ask for the hand of Princess Irulan?”
Laughter and applause filled the air. “For all the good it did him!”
“Our friend here was sent woefully unprepared to Otak, without the military intelligence or forces he needed. He accepted his assignment out of duty, then returned to take responsibility for his failure and face punishment. Moko Zenha is not a man who runs from anything.”
“Well said!” a man shouted. “Give that man a promotion—again!”
“Give us all promotions!” shouted another to louder laughter. “That way, we’ll outrank the popinjays!”
Zenha knew they all secretly wanted to keep the useless superior officers occupied at gala military balls and showpiece parades, so long as they could make no decisions where actual lives were on the line. The audacious idea of outranking them generated even more applause, along with foot stomping and shouts for more drinks, and stronger ones.
Then Bosh rose to his feet, showing clear military bearing even in his civilian clothes. “Leftenant Zenha, by rights you should hold a substantially higher rank—even higher than Fleet Captain. I applaud your actions, and we are inspired by your grace in accepting your demotion and censure. But there is something I must tell you.”
Now the room grew quiet, as if the men already knew something Zen- ha did not.
“As Staff Captain Sellew told you, sir, I am an arranger, a fixer, and I have many contacts at all levels of government and the military services.” He paused. “This does not come easily, but it must be said. And you must know.”
A chill of dread went down Zenha’s spine.
“I found intelligence files regarding the situation on Otak that were not revealed to you before you left—the number and status of the rebels, a complete psychological profile of the Navachristian leader Qarth, and a full analysis of the level of fanaticism, the number of deaths already recorded in prior uprisings on Otak.” Bosh’s expression was stony. “And intelligence reports that prove it was known the ruling family had already been captured and likely killed, not in safe exile, and that the fanatics had stolen the family atomics.”
Zenha gasped, but could find no words.
“This information was intentionally redacted from the dossier you were given. The summary with which you prepared your task force was inaccurate and misleading.”
Zenha’s throat went dry. “So the dossier I read was worthless.”
“You were given a severely abridged document, with information that was missing, or willfully incorrect. Emperor Shaddam sent you to Otak so you would fail and, presumably, all your troops would die.”
“Just because … because I asked for his daughter’s hand.” His heart was pounding. “Thousands of our soldiers died, not to mention all the inhabitants in the capital city. And now Sardaukar are using my failure as an excuse to launch a bloody punitive strike, which will kill countless more, obliterate other cities.”
“The punishment for being impertinent,” Horon growled. Others muttered in horror and disbelief.
Zenha sat down, enraged and indignant. “You merely confirmed what I already suspected.” He knotted his fists, inhaled deeply, exhaled. His vision was filled with black static, but he forced it to clear. He said in a deep, steely voice, “We are Imperial military officers, and no matter what, we keep our sacred oath to the Imperium.”
He got up and left his party, the thoughts roaring in his head. The words of the oath sounded hollow, but he had pointedly not said he would keep his oath to the Emperor himself.
Violence begets violence, but peace does not always beget peace.
—Imperial archives, Lessons of History
Wensicia moved toward her restricted suite in the southeast wing of the palace, her own private domain where she could make personal choices without bowing to politics or expectations.
This wing of the palace had been reconstructed six centuries ago following a devastating fire that killed the Emperor’s beautiful concubine and a Sardaukar officer. Their bodies had been found in bed together. Always fascinated by history, Wensicia had studied the scandalous details in a narrated filmbook and was both shocked and titillated to learn that her own bedchamber was where the illicit lovers had died, though the rooms themselves had been remodeled since then.
As she entered her personal reception area, she was surprised to see Chalice waiting for her.
“Oh, Wensicia! I need your help!”
Wensicia struggled to keep the annoyance from her face, forging a friendly smile. She had left her sister only an hour earlier, after the droning chatter gave her a headache. “I told you earlier, dear, I don’t feel very well, and I have many things to get done.” She just wanted time alone to study more filmbooks.
“I’m so sorry, but this will only take a few minutes. It’s extremely important.”
Wensicia quelled her exasperated sigh, but did not invite her sister inside the main chambers. She needed to maintain strong ties and a solid alliance with her, but Chalice was becoming too clingy, begging Wensicia’s help to lay out a personal schedule, and even to select her daily attire, jewelry, and perfume. Wensicia had been supportive, providing proper guidance to her older sister, but that had worked too well, and Chalice felt increasingly uncertain of even the most innocuous decisions.
Wensicia did not bother with an opinion on every imaginable detail. Now she blocked her sister from entering the bedchamber. “You have to make some decisions for yourself. What could possibly be so important?”
Chalice beamed as if she were in her own world. “I might ask Father if I could have a pet. Don’t you think a dog would be nice to have around?”
“Father used to have a little dog himself, so I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. But why don’t you ask your head lady-in-waiting? She’d be the one to take care of an animal for you. Or maybe one of the chamberlains? Such a decision need not go to Father.”
Asking the Emperor of the Known Universe about a dog!
“An excellent idea! I hadn’t thought of that.” Chalice gasped. “What do you think is the best breed? How big a dog? Should I get a male or a female, and—”
Wensicia placed a finger on her sister’s lips, forcing her to stop talking. “Choose one of each, if it makes you happy. But I really do have a terrible headache and just need to rest.”
Chalice dithered. “Should I bring some of your favorite pastries to help you feel better?”
“I had enough to eat at breakfast. Now if you will please excuse me—” She ducked into her main chambers and closed the door firmly but softly, then headed straight for her private study. Her purported headache immediately felt better once she was away from Chalice’s constant chatter.
The spacious room had a large window with a view of the ornate Lion Fountain outside, four gleaming golden lions circling a pool, spewing water from roaring mouths. She let out a long sigh as she turned to face her library of filmbooks, ridulian crystal volumes, and shigawire spools.
For years, she had studied Imperial records of the Butlerian Jihad and the thrilling military history from thousands of years ago, the old battles of Faykan Butler and his brothers—great heroes of the Jihad who led the overthrow of thinking machines and founded the Corrino dynasty.
Even though she hadn’t received Irulan’s deep Bene Gesserit training, Wensicia made up for it by learning everything she could in other ways. She had often used her special Corrino access to look into deep classified files, which made the most interesting reading. In the process she had discovered numerous details censored from official Imperial military history and command systems. She didn’t think even her father had bothered to dig deep enough to find the loopholes and truths.
Finally alone, she decided to learn more about the old story of the tragic fire in this wing. She found the right shigawire spool, which she had extracted from dusty and long-sealed records in an archives vault, and spun it up on the reader. Here were the names of the two victims, and she saw clear images of their burned bodies. The Emperor’s concubine, Triga Yan, and her lover, the Sardaukar Burseg Hindor Evoc. Some details of the scandal had been muddied intentionally at the time, but part of the sealed chronicle implied that the lovers were murdered by a jealous cuckolded Emperor, who had sent a team of henchmen to assassinate them, then set fire to the chambers. Since both the concubine and the Sardaukar came from powerful families, some nobles raised a great hue and cry.
The scandal pitted the hedonistic Emperor Sheff Corrino II against a Landsraad military alliance that threatened to attack the capital world if a trial were not held. After two inconclusive deep-space skirmishes, the Emperor acquiesced and granted a trial. During the court proceedings on Kaitain, Sheff presented evidence that his own Empress, Akkana, had started the fire in a rage against the adulterous concubine, a woman she believed her husband cared about too much. Despite Akkana’s protestations of innocence, as well as threats of military retaliation from her own influential noble family, the Empress was convicted and publicly executed.
Wensicia kept digging into the story. Many decades after those dramatic events, rumors surfaced that Akkana had been wrongfully accused, that the Emperor had fabricated evidence and used his Empress as a convenient scapegoat, but by that time, any trail of clues had grown cold. And they were even colder now.
It all made Wensicia wonder what had truly happened so long ago. The bloodline of Empress Akkana and Emperor Sheff Corrino carried through to her and her sisters.
She mused that another Corrino “love story” had just gone awry, although she knew there was more of politics and ambition in Fleet Captain Zenha’s marriage proposal than romance. Still, she hoped for the ambitious officer’s sake that he did not lose more than Irulan’s hand.
With enhanced prescience, a Navigator can explore the infinite web of possible futures that spread out as consequences from any event. But one does not need prescience to imagine dire troubles ahead. One only needs a healthy level of skepticism and paranoia.
—STARGUIDE SERELLO of the Spacing Guild, internal memo
At Arrakis, the Heighliner prepared to receive House Harkonnen’s regular shipment of spice, which included a substantial payment to the Guild and significant tonnage to CHOAM. Another portion of the cargo was designated for Imperial taxes and tariffs. The wealth was enormous, and the people’s craving for spice was even greater.
Once the enormous vessel settled into stable orbit, Starguide Serello boarded a small spherical ship, which he sometimes used for his own purposes. Receiving coded clearance, he dropped out of the Heighliner hold so he could travel by himself, unnoticed. A Starguide was often the center of attention, the diplomatic face of the Spacing Guild, but now he was insignificant among the flurry of frigates, cargo haulers, and crew transports filled with new indentured spice workers. With two small Guild corvettes flying nearby to protect him, he guided his private ship away from the traffic, to where he could more easily observe Arrakis.
He watched as whalelike water tankers dropped out of the open hold, filled with a resource that was almost free on many planets, but here every liter of water was worth its weight in solaris. The supply ships descended under heavy military escort to be delivered to Carthag and the older city of Arrakeen. Smaller portions of the liquid cargo would be distributed to outlying towns and cities.
The shipments of melange, also under heavy guard and worth even more than the water, rose from the surface to be taken aboard.
Serello piloted his ship to a higher, empty orbital lane, where he would be undisturbed. As he peered through the curved windowports, a plaz focal layer magnified the view so that he could study the hellish arid lands. At the equator, he saw swirling Coriolis storms, monstrous dry hurricanes that ripped across the desert and threatened spice-harvesting operations.
A network of weather satellites would have made operations much more efficient, allowing Harkonnen crews to predict the dangers and reroute their excavations, but thanks to the Fremen spice bribe, Arrakis remained one big, arid blind spot.
Serello honored the long-standing secret agreement. The Fremen paid the Guild more than the Harkonnens did, and the Fremen would always be there, while the ruling noble families shifted according to Imperial whim.
With his hyper-focused mind, Serello analyzed the landscape, tracing lines of storm systems. He saw deceptively soft tans in the vast sea of dunes, interspersed with mountainous lines like black scabs. He concentrated, using new pathways in his mind, following thoughts and consequences. With the whole desert world below, he received insight and a general sense of inspiration, but no further answers to the mystery that troubled him.
What had those Fremen youths actually seen?
As the culmination of the solemn funeral, the Navigator’s body had been delivered to this sacred place, the origin of spice. His great-grandfather’s melange-saturated body had joined a pre-spice mass, where his flesh could become part of Arrakis. It upset Serello that outside eyes had witnessed the ceremony, but he should have realized that the Fremen had eyes everywhere on their desert.
Far more disturbing was the idea that an unknown marauder had stolen the Navigator’s body. Incomprehensible, and unconscionable! Outwardly, Serello had hidden his reaction when the boastful young Fremen reported what they had seen. He doubted their claims, but had a way of testing them.
Many years ago, after surviving his ordeal and emerging with an expanded mind, Serello had trained at the Mentat school under the auspices of the Guild, learning Mentat techniques, how they were able to organize data and make projections. Because of his partial spice transformation, Serello could supplement their human-computer calculations with faint Starguide prescience, thus developing accurate extrapolations and better views into the future. After two years, though, the Mentats could teach him no more, and Serello had returned to Junction, where he became fully ordained as a Starguide.
At first, the story of the young Fremen had seemed improbable, maybe even impossible … but why would they make up anything like that? Using his enhanced Mentat skills, he analyzed all available data (including the manner of speaking and demeanor of the desert people), and determined that it was indeed possible. The body had been stolen! But who had done it, and why?
Now as he stared down at the desert planet, he revisited his Mentat skills, going an important additional step. He let his eyes roam over the swirling storm systems and asked the question and tested many different answers. Who would have taken a Navigator body, and for what purpose?
Recently, he had dispatched a group of discreet surveillance ships equipped with the best Ixian technology. Using methodical search patterns, they combed the vast wasteland of sand and rock, looking for any evidence of a secret facility that could hide the mysterious thieves. But the Guild scout ships had not found any evidence.
From orbit, Serello could see no hidden facility, but with his Mentat projection abilities and his limited prescience, he knew it had to be down there. Somewhere.
He lifted his private craft higher from the shipping lanes and in doing so passed unexpectedly close to an unmarked and unidentified satellite. He lurched as he avoided the obstacle, then approached for a better view. It was a sphere coated with stealth alloys and sensor-blurring projectors. Though his controls gave only uncertain readings, Serello had his own senses.
The Guild strictly prohibited observation satellites over Arrakis! This construct should not be here.
With the two small corvettes still nearby, he maneuvered his craft closer to the mysterious satellite, which hung in orbit like a cancerous tumor that needed to be removed. Serello’s ship had minor defensive capabilities, but he needed one of the corvettes to do what he had in mind here. He took numerous images as he circled the large secret satellite. He would need to show his superiors the proof when he brought this back to Junction.
In total concentration, Serello concluded that the enigmatic construct was a communications recorder, an unsophisticated satellite that could receive coded transmissions and store them for later retrieval. Numerous lenses and observation systems, even Richesian mirrors, were directed down at the desert.
At first he wondered if this might be a secret observation device launched by Baron Harkonnen. His House had the most to gain from being able to observe the desert planet, to map the weather patterns and also document smuggler traffic out in the open bled. Serello knew the Baron’s ambition and ever-increasing need for profits, as well as his complete lack of morals.
But this did not feel like a Harkonnen thing. Serello studied closer.
Applying Mentat abilities, he recalled details that he knew from thousands of academic routines, and thus concluded that the design was of Tleilaxu origin. Somehow, the vile Tleilaxu had put this unauthorized satellite in orbit over Arrakis.
Now his Mentat projections clicked into place.
CHOAM Ur-Director Malina Aru had provided the fundamental clue. He once again recalled his meeting with Tleilaxu Master Giblii, and the man’s unorthodox insistence on shaking Serello’s hand, the roughness of his palm, as if the contact had scraped some of his skin loose.
