Paul of Dune

10

Men who are fundamentally weak look upon threats as the ultimate expressions of power. Men who are truly powerful, however, view threats as yet another vulnerability.

—BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN, Advice for Assassins

The Baron was furious and went out of his way to let Rabban see it. He also felt strangely unsettled, but he carefully hid any sign of that from his blundering nephew.

Only two days earlier, he had received a terse, cryptic note signed by Duke Leto Atreides. “We trust your nephew Rabban is recovering from his sword wound. A pity we could not spend more time with him on Grumman.”

The message offered no further explanation, and the Baron felt an ominous heaviness in his chest. So, Rabban had been identified. The Atreides Duke knew the Harkonnens were somehow involved in the conflict… though apparently he possessed no proof: otherwise the message would have been accompanied by a summons to the Landsraad Court. So, Leto simply wanted House Harkonnen to know that he knew.

Infuriating, yes, but no harm done. Let the Atreides stew over their inability to take action. If they dared declare kanly on such flimsy innuendo, then the Baron would play the wronged party.

This afternoon the Beast had finally made his way back to Giedi Prime, pushed past the household guards and presented himself to his uncle without delay. For all his considerable flaws, the man did have some good points. As one example, Rabban realized how much trouble he was in, and that his fate rested solely in the Baron’s hands. That demonstrated at least minimal intelligence. Apparently, the rest of the disguised Harkonnen troops had been killed.

Looking breathless and disheveled, Rabban stood in the Baron’s study. A bloodstained healing pad was secured to the side of his head, where a medic had also shaved some of his reddish hair short to treat the injury; it gave him a battered, off-balance appearance. A wound on his arm was tightly bound with healing tape. The sword cut Leto had alluded to?

“I tremble with anticipation to learn of your adventures.” The Baron’s basso voice dripped sarcasm as he sat at his dark, richly carved desk. Feyd sauntered in, eager to hear of his older brother’s escapades as well. The rangy young man glanced disdainfully at his muscular, thickheaded brother, who shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. Feyd lounged on a divan where he could watch.

In abrupt sentences with occasional contradictions, Rabban explained that he had been stranded with murderous Grumman soldiers, all of whom wanted his head due to their own military failures, and how the entire division of disguised Harkonnen soldiers had either fallen into the battlefield pits or been slain by vengeful Moritani barbarians. He told how he had been chased by Atreides soldiers but escaped with only a minor wound. Then, after the Vernius ships had arrived followed by the Imperial delegation, how he’d hidden in a warehouse and barely eluded capture.

His nephew wasn’t entirely without resources or imagination. Nonetheless, the Baron’s face darkened. “You were seen by Atreides soldiers. They recognized you.”

“How do you —”

The Baron slammed a beefy fist on his desk, then showed him the message from Duke Leto. “Do you understand that if you had been caught, or if you left behind any evidence of Harkonnen involvement, we would find ourselves mired in an impossible crisis?”

Rabban stood his ground. “I left no evidence, Uncle. If the Atreides Duke had any proof, he would have sent more than that message.”

The Baron smiled slightly, surprised at his nephew’s perceptive response. Feyd let out a rude noise, but made no other comment.

Rabban continued, “Fortunately, the Emperor brought such an army of retainers and servants with him that I was able to kill one and take his uniform and identification. In the confusion of his crackdown in the Ritka fortress, I slipped in among them, flew back with the Imperial entourage, then got passage back here.”

Feyd said in his most annoying tone, “So, you can be clever after all!”

The quaver had left Rabban’s voice and was replaced by confidence. “I thought I did rather well.”

“You did well getting away. You did not do well at the task I assigned you. Have you heard the Emperor’s recent announcement?”

“I heard that House Moritani has been stripped of its title and planet.”

“That isn’t the important part,” Feyd said, looking a little too knowledgeable. “Viscount Moritani was placed on a prison frigate bound for Kaitain so that he could be charged before a Landsraad Court. He vowed to testify and expose all his little secrets.”

Rabban flushed red. “You mean he’ll reveal his involvement with us?”

“Oh no, of course not,” the Baron said with treacly sarcasm. “Once he lost everything, his life on the line, and in total disgrace, we should expect the Viscount to keep our secrets because, after all, we’re such good friends.” He glowered at his nephew, and Rabban looked away.

Rabban was a first-order thinker: To him, actions were concrete, standing by themselves. If he threw a rock into a pond, he didn’t expect to see ripples. Rabban had his strengths, though the Baron rarely complimented him for them. He had various advantageous qualities. There were times when brute force was necessary, and Rabban had few peers in that arena. More important, he truly did not have any lofty ambitions. He wasn’t devious enough to seize more responsibility. The Baron didn’t have to fear a dagger in the back or poison in his drink from that nephew.

Feyd, on the other hand, had a sharp and nimble mind. It often darted from topic to topic, yet like a careful juggler, he never lost his grip on any one concept. Devious? Yes, perhaps. And for all his youth, he was already showing signs of impatience to be named the successor to House Harkonnen. The Baron didn’t need to announce his decision yet, but Feyd… lovely Feyd was the future of House Harkonnen. The Baron could see that by watching the earnest expression on the young man’s face, the shrewd eyes, the obvious eagerness to learn.

But could the young man be trusted?

“Moritani has no incentive to protect us,” Feyd pointed out. “In fact, there is every reason for him to exaggerate our participation.”

Looking at Rabban, the Baron let his older nephew stew for a few moments, then eased the man’s mind. “Fortunately, this is not a problem so great that it cannot be repaired. In fact, while you were taking your leisurely path back home, I set an alternative solution in motion.”

Rabban looked almost childishly relieved that his uncle had a plan. He didn’t even need to hear the Baron’s explanation of what he had done, only the simple comment that things would be all right.

The Baron withdrew a document from his private desk, a slender filmpaper scroll. “This came from an official news courier, telling of a tragic and mysterious incident. The prison frigate transporting Viscount Moritani was in transit aboard a Guild Heighliner, berthed alongside other passenger ships — even some leftover Imperial vessels withdrawing from Grumman. As you know, Heighliners do not pressurize their cargo holds. Alas, a freak accident depressurized several airlocks in the prison frigate and the Viscount was exposed to vacuum. I’m afraid he didn’t survive long, and his body was found bloated and frozen. The expression on his face must have been quite hideous.”

“And you arranged for this, Uncle?” Rabban said enthusiastically.

The Baron scowled at him.

Feyd snickered. “It was an accident.”

“You admire me, Feyd, I can tell,” the Baron nodded. “Someday — though not anytime soon — you will be just like me.”

Feyd’s retort was quick and surprising. “But not so fat, I trust.”