Dune: House Atreides (21 page)

He popped the date into his mouth, licked his sticky fingers, and swallowed the smooth, sweet fruit. "Still nothing."

"Then my father should increase the reward," Shaddam said. "He's not trying hard enough."

Fenring studied his neatly clipped nails, then raised his overlarge eyes to meet Shaddam's. "Or could it be that old Elrood IX isn't willing to consider all the necessary alternatives?"

"He's incompetent, but not entirely stupid. Why would he do that?"

"Suppose someone were to suggest using . . . the Bene Tleilax, for example? As the only possible solution?" Fenring leaned against a stone pillar to observe Shaddam's reaction.

A ripple of disgust crossed the Crown Prince's face. "The filthy Tleilaxu! Why would anyone want to work with them?"

"Because they might provide the answer we seek."

"You must be joking. Who can trust anything the Tleilaxu say?" He pictured the gray-skinned race, their oily hair and dwarfish stature, their beady eyes, pug noses, and sharp teeth. They kept to themselves, isolating their core planets, intentionally digging a societal ditch in which they could wallow.

The Bene Tleilax were, however, true genetic wizards, willing to use unorthodox and socially heinous methods, dealing in live or dead flesh, in biological waste. With their mysterious yet powerful axlotl tanks they could grow clones from live cells and gholas from dead ones. The Tleilaxu had a slippery, shifty aura about them. How can anyone take them seriously?

"Think about it, Shaddam. Are the Tleilaxu not masters of organic chemistry and cellular mechanics, hm-m-m-m-ah?" Fenring sniffed. "Through my own web of spies I've learned that the Bene Tleilax, despite the distaste with which we view them, have developed a new technique. I have certain . . . technical skills myself, you know, and I believe this Tleilaxu technique could be applicable to the production of artificial melange . . . our own source." He fixed his bright birdlike eyes on Shaddam's. "Or are you unwilling to consider all alternatives, and let your father maintain control?"

Shaddam squirmed, hesitating to answer. He would much rather have been playing a game of shield-ball. He didn't like to think of the gnomelike men; religious fanatics, the Bene Tleilax were intensely secretive and did not invite guests.

Heedless of how other worlds regarded them, they sent their representatives out to observe and to make deals at the highest levels for unique bioengineered products. Rumor held that no outsider had ever seen a Tleilaxu woman. Never.

He thought they must be either wildly beautiful . . . or incredibly ugly.

Seeing the Crown Prince shudder, Fenring pointed a finger at him. "Shaddam, don't fall into the same trap as your father. As your friend and advisor, I must investigate unseen opportunities, hm-m-m-m-ah? Put aside such feelings and consider the possible victory if this works -- a victory over the Landsraad, the Guild, CHOAM, and the scheming House Harkonnen. How amusing to think that all the strings the Harkonnens pulled to gain Arrakis after the downfall of Richese would be for naught."

His voice became softer, infinitely reasonable. "What difference does it make if we have to deal with the Tleilaxu? So long as House Corrino breaks the spice monopoly and establishes an independent source?"

Shaddam looked at him, turning his back on the teaching machine. "You're sure about this?"

"No, I'm not sure," Fenring snapped. "No one can be sure until it is done. But we must at least consider the idea, give it a chance. If we don't, somebody else will . . . eventually. Maybe even the Bene Tleilax themselves. We need to do this for our own survival."

"What will happen when my father hears about it?" Shaddam asked. "He won't like the idea."

Old Elrood never could think for himself, and Fenring's chaumurky had already begun to fossilize his brain. The Emperor had always been a pathetic pawn, shifted around by political forces. Perhaps the senile vulture had made a deal with House Harkonnen to keep them in control of the spice production. It wouldn't surprise Shaddam if the young and powerful Baron had old Elrood wrapped around his little finger. House Harkonnen was fabulously wealthy, and their means of influence were legion.

It would be good to bring them to their knees.

Fenring put his hands on his hips. "I can make all of this happen, Shaddam. I have contacts. I can bring a Bene Tleilax representative here without anybody knowing. He can state our case before the Imperial Court -- and then if your father turns him down, we might be able to find out who's controlling the throne

. . . the trail would be fresh. Hmmm-ahh, shall I set it up?"

The Crown Prince glanced back at the teaching machine that obliviously continued to instruct a nonexistent pupil. "Yes, yes, of course," he said impatiently, now that he had come to a decision. "Let's not waste more time. And stop making that noise."

"It'll take a while for me to get all the pieces in place, but the investment will be worth it."

From the next room came a high-pitched moan; then a thin squeal of ecstasy built higher and higher until it seemed that the walls themselves must crumble.

"Our tutor must have learned how to pleasure his little pet," Shaddam said with a scowl. "Or perhaps she's just faking."

Fenring laughed and shook his head. "That wasn't her, my friend. That was his voice."

"I wish I knew what they were doing in there," Shaddam said.

"Don't worry. It's all being recorded for your later enjoyment. If our beloved tutor cooperates with us and causes no trouble, we'll simply watch it for amusement. If, however, he proves difficult, we'll wait until after your father's been given this concubine for his own private toy -- then we'll show Emperor Elrood a glimpse of those images."

"And we'll have what we want anyway," Shaddam said.

"Exactly, my Prince."

The working Planetologist has access to many resources, data, and projections.

However, his most important tools are human beings. Only by cultivating ecological literacy among the people themselves can he save an entire planet.

-PARDOT KYNES, The Case for Bela Tegeuse

As he gathered notes for his next report to the Emperor, Pardot Kynes encountered increasing evidence of subtle ecological manipulations. He suspected the Fremen. Who else could be responsible out there in the wastelands of Arrakis?

It became clear to him that the desert people must be present in far greater numbers than the Harkonnen stewards imagined -- and that the Fremen had a dream of their own . . . but the Planetologist in him wondered if they had developed an actual plan to accomplish it.

While delving into the geological and ecological enigmas of this desert world, Kynes came to believe that he had the power at his fingertips to breathe life into these sunblistered sands. Arrakis was not merely the dead lump it appeared to be on the surface; instead, it was a seed capable of magnificent growth . . .

provided the environment received the proper care.

The Harkonnens certainly wouldn't expend the effort. Though they had been planetary governors here for decades, the Baron and his capricious crew behaved as if they were unruly houseguests with no long-term investment in Arrakis. As Planetologist, he could see the obvious signs. The Harkonnens were plundering the world, taking as much melange as they could as quickly as possible, with no thought to the future.

Political machinations and the tides of power could quickly and easily shift alliances. Within a few decades, no doubt, the Emperor would hand control of the spice operations to some other Great House. The Harkonnens had nothing to gain by making long-term investments here.

Many of the other inhabitants were also indigents: smugglers, water merchants, traders who could easily pull up stakes and fly to another world, a different boomtown settlement. No one cared for the planet's plight -- Arrakis was merely a resource to be exploited, then discarded.

Kynes thought the Fremen might have a different mind-set, though. The reclusive desert dwellers were said to be fierce to their own ways. They had wandered from world to world in their long history, been downtrodden and enslaved before making Arrakis their home -- a planet they had called Dune since ancient times.

These people had the most at stake here. They would suffer the consequences caused by the exploiters.

If Kynes could only enlist Fremen aid -- and if there were as many of these mysterious people as he suspected -- changes might be made on a global scale.

Once he accumulated more data on weather patterns, atmospheric content, and seasonal fluctuations, he could develop a realistic timetable, a game plan that would eventually sculpt Arrakis into a verdant place. It can be done!

For a week now, he had concentrated his activities around the Shield Wall, an enormous mountain range that embraced the northern polar regions. Most inhabitants settled in rocky guarded terrain where, he supposed, the worms could not go.

To see the land up close, Kynes chose to travel slowly in a one-man groundcar.

He puttered around the base of the Shield Wall, taking measurements, collecting specimens. He measured the angle of strata in the rocks to determine the geological turmoil that had established such a mountainous barrier.

Given time and meticulous study, he might even find fossil layers, limestone clumps with petrified seashells or primitive ocean creatures from the planet's much wetter past. Thus far, the subtle evidence for primordial water was clear enough to the trained eye. Uncovering such a cryptozooic remnant, though, would be the keystone of his treatise, incontrovertible proof of his suspicions ....

Early one morning Kynes drove in his trundling groundcar, leaving tracks on loose material that had eroded from the mountain wall. In this vicinity all villages, from the largest to the most squalid settlements, were carefully marked on the charts, undoubtedly for purposes of Harkonnen taxation and exploitation. It was a relief to have accurate maps for a change.

He found himself near a place called Windsack, the site of a Harkonnen guard station and troop barracks that lived in an uneasy alliance with the desert dwellers. Kynes continued along, rocking with the uneven terrain. Humming to himself, he stared up at the cliffsides. The putter of his engines served as a lullaby, and he lost himself in thought.

Then, as he came over a rise and rounded a finger of rock, he was startled to encounter a small, desperate battle. Six muscular, well-trained soldiers stood in full Harkonnen livery, cloaked in body-shields. The bravos held ceremonial cutting weapons, which they were using to toy with three Fremen youths they had cornered.

Kynes brought the groundcar to a lurching halt. The deplorable scene reminded him of how he had once watched a well-fed Laza tiger playing with a mangy ground rat on Salusa Secundus. The satisfied tiger had no need for additional meat, but simply enjoyed playing the predator; it trapped the terrified rodent between some rocks, scratching with long, curved claws, opening painful, bloody wounds .

. . injuries that were, intentionally, not fatal. The Laza tiger had batted the ground rat around for many minutes as Kynes observed through high-powered oil lenses. Finally bored, the tiger had simply bitten off the creature's head and then sauntered away, leaving the carcass for carrion feeders.

By contrast, the three Fremen youths were putting up more of a fight than the ground rat, but they had only simple knives and stillsuits, no body-shields or armor. The desert natives had no chance against the fighting skills and weaponry of Harkonnen soldiers.

But they did not surrender.

The Fremen snatched at the ground and threw sharp rocks with deadly aim, but the projectiles bounced harmlessly off the shimmering shields. The Harkonnens laughed and pressed closer.

Out of sight, Kynes climbed from his groundcar, fascinated by the tableau. He adjusted his stillsuit, loosening binders to give him more freedom of movement.

He made sure the face mask was in place but not sealed. At the moment, he didn't know whether to observe from a distance, as he had done with the Laza tiger . . . or whether he should aid in some way.

The Harkonnen troops outnumbered the Fremen two to one, and if Kynes came to the defense of the youths, he would likely find himself either wounded or at least charged with interference by Harkonnen officials. A sanctioned Imperial Planetologist wasn't supposed to meddle in local events.

He rested his hand near the weapon blade at his waist. In any event, he was ready, but hopeful that he would see no more than an extended exchange of insults, escalating threats, and perhaps a scuffle that would end in hard feelings and a few bruises.

But in a moment, the character of the confrontation changed -- and Kynes realized his stupidity. This was not a mere taunting game, but a deadly serious standoff. The Harkonnens were out for a kill.

The six soldiers waded in, blades flashing, shields pulsing. The Fremen youths fought back. Within seconds, one of the natives was down, gushing bright foaming blood from a severed neck artery.

Kynes was about to shout, but swallowed his words as anger turned his vision red. While he'd been driving along, he had made grandiose plans of using the Fremen as a resource, a true desert people with whom he could share ideas. He had dreamed of adapting them as a grand workforce for his sparkling scheme of ecological transformation. They were to be his willing allies, enthusiastic assistants.

Now these blockheaded Harkonnens were -- for no apparent reason -- trying to kill his workers, the tools with which he intended to remake the planet! He could not let that happen.

While the third member of their band lay bleeding to death on the sands, the other two Fremen, with only primitive milky blue knives and no shields, attacked in a wild frenzy that astounded Kynes. "Taqwa!" they screamed.

Two Harkonnens fell under the surprise rally, and their four remaining comrades were slow in coming to their aid. Hesitantly, the blue-uniformed soldiers moved toward the youths.