Dune: House Atreides (68 page)

The young stableboy, Duncan Idaho, had removed one of Paulus's tall and ornately carved ceremonial swords from the rack. He held it, point downward, resting against the flagstoned floor. Though the long weapon was nearly as tall as the ten-year-old, Duncan gripped its pommel with determination. The inlaid rope pattern on the hilt gave him all the leverage he needed.

Duncan spun around, startled at being discovered here. Leto's voice caught in his throat in time to squelch a chiding speech. He meant to demand what the boy was doing here, unsupervised and without permission. Then Leto saw Duncan's wide eyes with the tracks of tears running like salty tributaries down his face.

Embarrassed but filled with pride, the young man stood up straighter. "I am sorry, m'Lord Duke." His voice was full of sorrow and much deeper than any child's had a right to be. He looked down at the sword and then through the arched columns into the dining hall, where the portrait of dashing Paulus Atreides hung on the far wall. The hawkish patriarch stared from the painting with burning green eyes; he wore his gaudy matador clothes as if nothing in the universe could knock him from his intended course.

"I miss him very much," Duncan said.

Feeling a lump in his throat that gradually expanded to become a leaden weight in his chest, Leto approached the boy.

Paulus had left his mark upon many lives. Even this youth who worked with the bulls, a mere boy who had somehow managed to outwit Harkonnen hunters and escape from Giedi Prime, felt the loss like a mortal wound.

I am not the only one who still feels the pain of my father's death, Leto realized. He clasped Duncan's shoulder, and in silence they spoke more than hours of conversation could have communicated.

Duncan finally pulled away and leaned on the tall sword as if it were a crutch.

His flushed skin returned to its normal tone, and he drew a deep breath. "I came . . . I came to ask you a question, m'Lord, before you go to Kaitain."

Pots clanged in the distance, and servants moved about. Before long, someone would come up to Leto's room bearing a breakfast tray. They would find his room empty. "Ask," he said.

"It's about the bulls, sir. With Yresk gone now, I've been tending them every day, me and some of the other stableboys -- but what do you mean to do with them? Will you fight the bulls just like your father?"

"No!" Leto said quickly, as a bolt of fear shot through him. He pushed the reflex away. "No," he repeated more calmly. "I think not. The days of bullfighting on Caladan are over."

"Then what shall I do, m'Lord?" Duncan said. "Do I still need to tend the animals?"

Leto tried not to laugh. At his age the boy should be playing, doing a few chores, and filling his head with imaginings of the grand adventures that awaited him in life.

But when Leto looked into Duncan's eyes, he saw that the person before him was far more than just a boy. He was much older inside. "You've eluded Harkonnens in their prison city, correct?"

Duncan nodded, biting his lower lip.

"You fought them in a forest preserve when you were only eight years of age.

You killed several, and if I remember your story right, you cut a tracking device out of your own shoulder and laid a trap for Harkonnen hunters. You humiliated Glossu Rabban himself."

Again Duncan nodded, not with pride, but simply confirming the summary of events.

"And you found your way across the Imperium, coming here to Caladan because this is where you wanted to be. Even the distance of several continents didn't divert you from our doorstep."

"All that is true, m'Lord Duke."

Leto indicated the large ceremonial sword. "My father used that blade for training. It's overlarge for you -- at least for now, Duncan -- but perhaps with some instruction, you could become a formidable fighter. A Duke is always in need of trustworthy guards and protectors." He pursed his lips, considering.

"Do you think you're fit to be one of mine?"

The boy's blue-green eyes shone and he grinned, crinkling his skin around the drying tracks of tears. "Will you send me to the weapon schools of Ginaz so I can become a swordmaster?"

"Ho, ho!" Leto gave a booming laugh that startled his own ears, because it sounded so much like his father's. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Duncan Idaho. We'll train you here to the limit of your abilities -- then we'll see if you're good enough for such a reward."

Duncan nodded solemnly. "I will be good enough."

As Leto heard servants bustling by in the dining room, he raised a hand to signal them over. He would breakfast with this boy and chat some more.

"You can count on me, my Duke."

Leto drew a long, deep breath. He wished he could share the unshakable confidence of this young man. "Yes, Duncan, I believe you."

Innovations seem to have a life and a sentience of their own. When conditions are right, a radical new idea -- a paradigm shift -- may appear simultaneously from many minds at once. Or it may remain secret in the thoughts of one man for years, decades, centuries . . . until someone else thinks of the same thing.

How many brilliant discoveries die stillborn, or lie dormant, never to be embraced by the Imperium as a whole?

-OMBUDSMEN OF RICHESE, Rebuttal to the Landsraad, The True Domain of the Intellect -- Private Property, or Resources for the Galaxy?

The tube transport dropped its two passengers into the depths of Harkonnen Keep and then, with programmed precision, shot them across an access rail.

The capsule, with the Baron and Glossu Rabban inside, raced toward the swarming morass of Harko City, a smoky blot on the landscape where buildings crowded together. To the Baron's knowledge, there was no detailed map of the city's underworld, since it continued to grow like a fungus. He wasn't sure exactly where they were going.

While scheming against the Atreides, he had insisted that Piter de Vries find extensive yet confidential laboratory space and fabrication facilities in the armpit of Harkonnen influence. The Mentat said he'd done so, and the Baron didn't ask further questions. This tube transport, dispatched by de Vries, was taking them there.

"I want to know the whole plan, Uncle," Rabban said, fidgeting next to him in the compartment. "Tell me what we're going to do."

Up front in the piloting cubicle, a deaf-mute vehicle specialist hurried them along. The Baron paid no attention to the dark and blocky buildings flashing by, the clouds of exhaust and residue spilling from the factories. Giedi Prime produced sufficient goods to pay for itself, and tidy sums came in from the whalefur trade on Lankiveil and mineral excavation on various asteroids. The really big profits for House Harkonnen, however -- dwarfing all the others combined -- were from spice exploitation on Arrakis.

"The plan, Rabban, is simple," he answered finally, "and I intend to offer you a key part in it. If you can handle it."

His nephew's heavy-lidded eyes lit up, and his thick lips twisted his generous mouth into a grin. Surprisingly, he knew enough to remain quiet and wait for the Baron to continue. Maybe, eventually, he'll learn . . . .

"If we succeed in this, Rabban, our fortunes will increase dramatically. Better still, we can take personal satisfaction in knowing that we have at last ruined House Atreides, after all these centuries of feuding."

Rabban rubbed his hands in delight, but the Baron's black stare became harder as he continued. "If you fail, however, I'll see to it that you're transferred back to Lankiveil, where you'll be trained any way your father wishes -complete with singalongs and the recitation of poems about brotherly love."

Rabban glowered. "I won't fail, Uncle."

The tube car arrived at an armored high-security laboratory, and the deaf-mute motioned for them to exit the vehicle. The Baron couldn't have found his way back to Harkonnen Keep if his life had depended upon it.

"What is this place?" Rabban asked.

"A research establishment," the Baron said, waving him forward "One where we are preparing a nasty surprise."

Rabban marched ahead, eager to see the facility. The place smelled of solder and waste oils, blown fuses, and sweat. From the cluttered, open floor, Piter de Vries came up to greet them, stained lips smiling. His mincing footsteps and slithery, jerky movements gave him the demeanor of a lizard.

"You've had weeks here already, Piter. This had better be good. I told you not to waste my time."

"Not to worry, my Baron," the Mentat answered, gesturing for them to come deeper into the building's high bay. "Our pet researcher Chobyn has outdone himself."

"And I always thought Richesians were better at cheap imitations than actual innovations," Rabban said.

"There are exceptions everywhere," the Baron said. "Let's see what Piter has to show us."

Filling most of the chamber was what de Vries had secretly promised the Baron: a modified Harkonnen warship, 140 meters in diameter. Sleek and highly polished, this craft had been used to good effect in conventional battles to strike hard and escape quickly. Now it had been converted according to Chobyn's exacting specifications, with the tail fins trimmed, the engine replaced, and a section of the troop cabin cut away to make room for the required technology.

All records of the craft's existence had been expunged from Harkonnen ledgers.

Piter de Vries was good at manipulations like that.

A rotund man with a bald pate and steel-gray goatee emerged from the engine compartment of the attack ship, stained with grease and other lubricants.

"My Baron, sir, I'm pleased you have come to see what I've accomplished for you." Chobyn tucked a tool into the pocket of his overalls. "Installation is complete. My no-field will operate perfectly. I've synchronized it with the machinery of this ship."

Rabban rapped his knuckles on the hull near the cockpit. "Why is it so big?

This hulk is large enough to carry an armored groundcar unit. How are we going to do any secret work with this?"

Chobyn raised his eyebrows, not recognizing the burly young man. "And you are .

. . ?"

"This is Rabban, my nephew," the Baron said. "He raises a valid question. I asked for a small stealth ship."

"This is the tiniest I could make it," Chobyn answered with a huff. "A hundred and forty meters is the smallest cloak of invisibility the no-field generator can project. The constraints are . . . incredible. I-"

The inventor cleared his throat, suddenly impatient. "You must learn to think beyond your preconceptions, sir. Realize what we have here. Naturally, the invisibility more than makes up for any diminished maneuvering capability." He wrinkled his brow again. "What difference does the size make, if no one can see it anyway? This attack craft will still fit easily inside the hold of a frigate."

"It will do, Chobyn," the Baron said. "If it works."

De Vries scuttled back and forth along the length of the ship. "If no one knows to look for the ship, Rabban, you won't be in any danger. Imagine the chaos you can create! You'll be like a killer ghost."

"Oh, yes!" Rabban paused as realization flooded across his face. "Me?"

Chobyn closed an access hatch behind the engines. "Everything is simple and functional. The ship will be ready by tomorrow when you depart for the Padishah Emperor's coronation."

"I have verified it, my Baron," de Vries said.

"Excellent," the Baron said. "You have proven yourself most valuable, Chobyn."

"I'm going to pilot it?" Rabban said again, as if he still couldn't believe the idea. His voice cracked with excitement. Baron Harkonnen nodded. His nephew, despite his shortcomings, was at least an excellent pilot and an excellent shot, along with being the Baron's heir apparent.

The inventor smiled. "I believe I made the correct choice in coming to you directly, Baron. House Harkonnen has immediately seen the possibilities of my discovery."

"When the new Emperor learns of this, he'll demand a no-ship for himself,"

Rabban pointed out. "He might even send the Sardaukar in to take it away from us."

"Then we must make sure Shaddam doesn't find out. At least not yet," Piter de Vries replied, rubbing his hands together.

"You must be a brilliant man, Chobyn," the Baron said. "Coming up with all this."

"Actually, I just adapted a Holtzman field to our uses. Centuries ago Tio Holtzman's mathematics were developed for shields and foldspace engines. I simply carried the principles several steps further."

"And now you expect to become wealthy beyond your wildest dreams?" the Baron mused.

"Deservedly so, would you not agree, Baron?" Chobyn said. "Look what I've done for you. If I'd stayed on Richese and gone through channels, I would have had to endure years of legalities, title searches, and patent investigations, after which my government would have taken the lion's share of profit derived from my own invention -- not to speak of the imitators who would set to work once they got wind of what I was doing. A minor adjustment here, another there, and then someone else has a different patent, one that accomplishes essentially the same thing."

"So you kept it a secret until you came to us?" Rabban said. "No one else knows of the technology?"

"I'd have been foolish to tell anyone else. You have the only no-field generators in the universe." Chobyn crossed his arms over his stained jumpsuit.

"Perhaps for the time being," the Baron said, "but the Ixians were a clever lot, and so are the Tleilaxu. Sooner or later someone else will have something like this, if they don't already."

Rabban maneuvered himself closer to the unwary Richesian.

"I see your point, Baron," Chobyn said, with a shrug. "I am not a greedy man, but I would like to profit from my own invention."

"You are a wise man," the Baron said, flashing a meaningful glance at his burly nephew. "And deserve to be paid in full."

"It's good to keep secrets about important things," Rabban chimed in.

He stood directly behind the rotund inventor, who beamed at the praise and wiped his hands on his pant legs.