Dune: House Atreides (43 page)

The Reverend Mother's shuttle touched down at the same spaceport as before, with the same demand for "special services." But this time Baron Harkonnen had secretly vowed to do things differently.

Stepping in perfect rhythm, a stony-faced regiment of the Baron's household troops marched up to surround the Bene Gesserit shuttle -- more than sufficient to intimidate the witches.

The Burseg Kryubi, formerly a pilot on Arrakis and now head of Harkonnen house security, stood in front of the shuttle-debarkation ramp, two steps ahead of his nearest troops. All were dressed in formal blue.

Mohiam appeared at the top of the ramp, engulfed in her Bene Gesserit robes and flanked by acolyte retainers, personal guards, and other Sisters. She frowned with disdain at the Burseg and his men. "What is the meaning of this reception?

Where is the Baron?"

Burseg Kryubi looked up at her. "Do not attempt your manipulative Voice on me or there will be a . . . dangerous . . . reaction from the troops. My orders state that you alone are allowed to see the Baron. No guards, no retainers, no companions. He awaits you in the formal hall of the Keep." He nodded toward the attendants behind her in the shuttle. "None of these others may enter."

"Unthinkable," Mohiam said. "I request formal diplomatic courtesy. All of my party must be received with the respect they are due."

Kryubi did not flinch. "I know what the witch wants," the Baron had said. "And if she thinks she can show up here to rut with me on a regular basis, she's sadly mistaken!" -- whatever that meant.

The Burseg stared her down, eye to eye. "Your request is denied." He was far more frightened of the Baron's punishments than of anything this woman could do to him. "You are free to leave if this does not meet with your approval."

With a snort, Mohiam started down the ramp, flashing a glance at those who remained in the ship. "For all his perversions, the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is somewhat prudish," she said mockingly, more for the benefit of the Harkonnen troops than for her own people. "Especially when it comes to matters of sexuality."

Kryubi, who had not been apprised of the situation, was intrigued by this reference. But he decided that certain things were best left unknown.

"Tell me, Burseg," the witch said to him in an irritating tone, "how would you even know if I was using Voice on you?"

"A soldier never reveals his full arsenal of defenses."

"I see." Her tone was soothing, sensual. Kryubi didn't feel threatened by it, but wondered if his bluff had worked.

Unknown to this foolish soldier, Mohiam was a Truthsayer capable of recognizing nuances of falsehood and deception. She allowed the pompous Burseg to lead her across an overpass on a walkway tunnel. Once inside Harkonnen Keep, the Reverend Mother put on her best air of aloof confidence, gliding along with feigned nonchalance.

But every one of her heightened senses was attuned to the slightest anomaly.

The Baron made her extremely suspicious. She knew he was up to something.

PACING RESTLESSLY IN the Great Hall, Baron Harkonnen looked around, his black eyes flashing and intent. The room was large and cold, the harsh light too bright from unfiltered glowglobes clustered in the corners and along the ceiling. As he walked in pointed black boots, his footsteps echoed, making the entire hall sound hollow, empty -- a good place for an ambush.

Though the residential portion of the Keep might appear vacant, the Baron had stationed guards and electronic spy-eyes in various alcoves. He knew he couldn't fool the Bene Gesserit whore for long, but it didn't matter. Even if she learned they were being watched, it might give her pause and prevent her from pulling her insidious tricks. The caution might at least gain him a few seconds.

Since he planned to be in control this time, the Baron wanted his people to watch. He'd give them a very good show, something they'd talk about in their barracks and troop ships for years to come. Best of all, it would put the witches in their place. Blackmail me, indeed!

Piter de Vries came up behind him, moving so swiftly and silently that he startled the Baron, who snapped, "Don't do that, Piter!"

"I've brought what you asked, my Baron." The twisted Mentat extended his hand, offering two small plugs, white-noise transmitters. "Insert these deeply into your ear canals. They're designed to distort any Voice she might try to use.

You can still hear normal conversation, but the plugs will scramble the unwanted, preventing it from reaching your ears."

The Baron heaved a deep breath and flexed his muscles. The preparations had to be perfect.

"You just take care of your part, Piter. I know what I'm doing." He went to a small alcove, snatched up the decanter of kirana brandy, and took a long deep swig directly from the bottle. Feeling the brandy burn in his chest, he wiped his mouth and the top of the bottle.

The Baron had already imbibed more alcohol than was usual for him, perhaps more than was wise considering the ordeal he was about to face. De Vries, who recognized the Baron's anxiety, looked at his master as if laughing at him.

With a scowl, the Baron took another deep swallow, just to spite the Mentat.

De Vries scuttled about, relishing their joint plan, eager to participate.

"Perhaps, Baron, the witch is returning here because she enjoyed her first encounter with you so much." He cackled. "Do you think she's been lusting after you ever since?"

The Baron scowled at him again -- this time sharply enough that the Mentat wondered if he had pushed too far. But de Vries always managed to talk his way out of reprisals.

"Is that the best prime projection my Mentat can offer? Think, damn you! Why would the Bene Gesserit want another child from me? Are they just trying to twist the knife deeper, to make me hate them even more than I already do?" He snorted, wondered if that could be possible.

Maybe they needed two daughters for some reason. Or maybe something was wrong with the first one . . . . The Baron's generous lips curved upward in a slight smile. This child would certainly be the last.

No evidence remained for the Bene Gesserit to use as blackmail.

Lankiveil now hid the largest treasure of Harkonnen melange right under Abulurd's nose. The fool had no inkling of how he was being used to cover the Baron's secret activities. But though softhearted and softheaded, Abulurd was still a Harkonnen. Even if he discovered the deception, he wouldn't dare expose it for fear of destroying his own family holdings. Abulurd revered the memory of their father too much for that.

The Baron walked away from the kirana brandy, and the sweet burning taste turned sour in the back of his mouth. He wore a loose maroon-and-black pajama top tightly sashed across his flat stomach. The pale blue griffin crest of House Harkonnen emblazoned the left breast. He'd left his arms bare to show off his biceps. His reddish hair was cut short, tousled for a rakish look.

He looked hard at de Vries. The Mentat gulped from a small bottle of deep red sapho juice. "Are we ready, my Baron? She's waiting outside."

"Yes, Piter." He lounged back in a chair. His silky pants were loose, and the prying eyes of the Reverend Mother would be able to detect no bulge of a weapon

-- no expected weapon. He smiled. "Go and send her in."

WHEN MOHIAM PASSED into the main hall of the Keep, Burseg Kryubi and his troops closed the doors behind her, remaining outside. The locks sealed with a click.

Immediately on her guard, she noted that the Baron had orchestrated every detail of this encounter.

The two of them seemed to be alone in the long room, which was austere and cold, awash in glaring light. The entire Keep conveyed the impression of square corners and unsoftened harshness the Harkonnens loved so well; this place was more an industrial conference room than a sumptuous palace hall.

"Greetings again, Baron Harkonnen," Mohiam said with a smile that overlaid politeness on top of her scorn. "I see you've been anticipating our meeting.

Perhaps you're even eager?" She looked away, glancing at her fingertips. "It's possible I shall allow you a bit more pleasure this time."

"Maybe so," the Baron said, affably.

She didn't like the answer. What is his game? Mohiam looked around, sensing the air currents, peering into shadows, trying to hear the heartbeat of some other person lying in wait. Someone was there . . . but where? Did they plan to murder her? Would they dare? She monitored her pulse, prevented it from accelerating.

The Baron definitely had more in mind than simple cooperation. She had never expected an easy victory over him, especially not this second time. The heads of some Minor Houses could be crushed or manipulated -- the Bene Gesserit certainly knew how to do it -- but this wouldn't be the fate of House Harkonnen.

She looked at the Baron's stygian eyes, straining with her Truthsayer abilities, but unable to see what he was thinking, unable to unravel his plans. Mohiam felt a twinge of fear deep inside, barely recognized. Just how much would the Harkonnens dare? This Baron couldn't afford to refuse the Sisterhood's demand, knowing what information the Bene Gesserit held against him. Or would he risk the possibility of heavy Imperial penalties?

Of equal import, would he risk a Bene Gesserit punishment? That, too, was no small matter.

At another time she might have enjoyed playing games with him, mental and physical sparring with a strong opponent. He was slippery and could bend and twist far more easily than he could break. But right now the Baron fell beneath her contempt, serving as a stud whose genes were required by the Sisterhood.

She didn't know why, or what importance this daughter might hold, but if Mohiam returned to Wallach IX with her mission unfulfilled, she would receive a severe reprimand from her superiors.

She decided not to waste any additional time. Summoning the full Voice talents the Bene Gesserit had taught her, word and tone manipulations that no untrained human could resist, she said curtly, "Cooperate with me." It was a command she expected him to obey.

The Baron just smiled. He didn't move, but his eyes flicked to one side.

Mohiam was so startled at the ineffectiveness of Voice that she realized too late the Baron had set a different trap for her.

The Mentat Piter de Vries had already launched himself out of a hidden alcove.

She turned, battle-ready, but the Mentat moved as swiftly as any Bene Gesserit could.

The Baron took it all in, and enjoyed what he was seeing.

De Vries held a crude but effective weapon in his hands. The old-fashioned neural scrambler would serve as a brutal high-powered stunning device. He fired a volley before she could move. The crackling waves slammed into her, short-circuiting her mind/muscle control.

Mohiam fell backward, twitching and wrenching with painful spasms, every square centimeter of her skin alive with imaginary biting ants.

Such a delightful effect, the Baron thought as he watched.

She dropped to the polished-stone floor, arms and legs akimbo, as if she had been squashed by a giant foot. Her head struck the hard tiles, and her ears rang from the blow. Unblinking, her eyes stared up at the vaulted ceiling.

Even with extreme prana-bindu muscular control, she couldn't move.

Finally the mocking face of the Baron loomed over her, pushing itself into her limited field of view. Her arms and legs jittered with random nerve impulses.

She felt warm wetness and realized that her bladder had let go. A thin line of spittle trickled from the corner of her lip down her cheek, weaving a path to the base of her ear.

"Now then, witch," the Baron said, "that stunner will do no permanent damage.

In fact, you'll have bodily control again in about twenty minutes. Time enough for us to get to know one another." He walked around her, smiling, passing in and out of her peripheral vision.

Raising his voice so that electronic pickups would transmit everything to the hidden observers, he continued. "I know what false blackmail material you have fabricated against House Harkonnen, and my lawyers are prepared to deal with it in any court of the Imperium. You have threatened to use it if I don't grant you another child, but that is a toothless threat from toothless witches."

He paused, then smiled as if an idea had just occurred to him. "Still, I don't mind giving you the additional daughter you desire. Really, I don't. But know this, witch, and take my message back to your Sisterhood: You cannot twist Baron Vladimir Harkonnen to your purpose without suffering the consequences."

Using all of her training to focus on the output of certain nerves and muscles, Mohiam reconnected her eyes so that she could at least move them to look around.

The neural scrambler had been incredibly effective, though, and the rest of her body lay helpless.

Fighting his revulsion, the Baron reached down and tore at her skirts. What a disgusting form she had, without the male muscle patterns he so admired and desired. "My, it looks like you've had a little accident here," he said, frowning at the urine-wet fabric.

Piter de Vries stood over her from behind, looking down at her broad, slack face. She saw the red-stained lips and the half-mad glint in the Mentat's eyes.

Below, the Baron knocked her legs apart and then fumbled at his loose-fitting black pants.

She couldn't see what he was doing, didn't want to.

Giddy with the success of his plan, the Baron had no difficulty maintaining an erection this time. Flushed in the afterglow of the brandy he had drunk, he stared down at the unattractive woman, imagined her as a withered old crone that he had just sentenced to the most brutal of the Harkonnen slave pits. This woman, who fancied herself so great and powerful, now lay completely helpless .

. . at his mercy!

The Baron took enormous pleasure in raping her -- the first time he could ever recall enjoying himself with a woman, though she was just a limp piece of meat.

During the violence of the attack, Mohiam lay supine on the cold floor, furious and impotent. She could feel every movement, every touch, every painful thrust, but she still had no control over her voluntary muscles. Her eyes remained open, although she thought she might have been able to blink if she worked hard enough at it.