Fenring kept his voice low. “Do not consider them all sycophants, Sire. Some are worth noting … as enemies or potential allies.”
The engraved metal doors of the accelerated lift opened. The first noble to step out was dressed in a green-and-black cape with a hawk insignia on his chest. His gray eyes met the Emperor’s, and he gave a nod of acknowledgment. Shaddam knew this man well.
Duke Leto Atreides.
The ability to survive is the ability to face and overcome unexpected dangers.
—Bene Gesserit axiom
Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had never considered himself fat, though others had called him that—at great personal risk, if he ever found out. He was a large man, a very large man, and sheer size implied power.
Because of his demeanor and reputation, people could not avoid being intimidated by the Baron. When he moved through a chamber or corridor, buoyed up by suspensors, everyone moved out of his path, even the high officials of other noble houses. Perhaps one day, given the proper circumstances, a Harkonnen might even occupy the Golden Lion Throne. Someday.
That person would not be his crude and unpolished nephew Glossu Rabban. No, that was inconceivable. Rabban’s younger brother, however … Feyd-Rautha, such a lovely boy. He was a definite possibility to wear Imperial robes.
The Baron kept this at the front of his mind as he prepared to depart Arrakis for Shaddam’s gala celebration on some backwater world. It was good to be seen in the Imperial presence.
Wearing his suspensor belt, the Baron glided with ungainly grace through a dusty tunnel beneath the city of Carthag on his secret way to the spaceport. His departure would not be announced, and he expected no one to stop him. Before receiving the ostentatious invitation, the Baron had never even heard of the planet Otorio.
Khaki-uniformed guards jogged ahead, with personal attendants beside and behind him. Members of his entourage moved large trunks of the Baron’s clothing for the expedition offworld. He had left the Harkonnen mansion in the fortified core of his capital, and would catch a shuttle to a waiting Guild Heighliner.
The Baron wore a long, black overcoat with a blue griffin on the lapel, the symbol of House Harkonnen. He felt the gentle airflow of cooling fans within his voluminous garment. He wiped perspiration and grit from his fleshy face, looking forward to when he could be comfortable again aboard the shuttle.
This desert world was called “Dune” by the natives, a weak nickname, although they uttered the word as if it had spiritual or mystical meaning. He preferred the Imperial name of Arrakis, which sounded more crisp and proper, a thing that could be known and controlled. Arrakis was an unpleasant place, though, dirty and dusty, unlike the sweet, civilized odors of his homeworld, Giedi Prime. But as the sole source of the vital spice melange, Arrakis was an extremely profitable fief, and the Baron could tolerate the discomforts by remembering how many solaris it earned for the Harkonnen treasury.
A diligent attendant sprayed mist in front of him as he moved down the illuminated tunnel. He inhaled the moist air, motioned for the attendant to add more. Refreshed, the Baron proceeded, and attendants alternated mists to help him breathe. The secret tunnel seemed to go on for miles, but at least it kept him unseen.
Finally, the tunnel sloped upward to where it ended at a set of double doors. The Spacing Guild set its own rigid schedules, and he did not want the Heighliner to depart without him.
Before emerging into the open air, the Baron took a welcome sip from the moisture tube beside his mouth. His entourage hurried him across a short distance of furnace-hot hardpan and aboard the waiting shuttle. Once inside the posh private compartment, attendants removed his outer clothing, and the Baron relaxed in the coolness at last.
Rabban filled the doorway, thick-boned and fleshy. “We are ready to take off, my lord Baron. I am your pilot today.” His nephew was overly proud of his ability.
“Get on with it. The Padishah Emperor awaits.”
The burly man whirled to cover his flushed expression and left.
* * *
WHEN HE REACHED the piloting deck, Rabban waved at a scanner to enter the cockpit. The panel flashed orange, refusing to grant him access, and the door remained locked.
To his shock, he felt the deck vibrate as the engines activated—without him! The shuttle was preparing to take off! He pounded on the door with his beefy hands and threw his entire body weight against the barrier. The metal shuddered, but the door did not open.
Hearing the commotion, two Harkonnen guards rushed to help as the shuttle lifted off from the Carthag spaceport. The big men, all armed with blades and shield belts, slammed into the door together, finally breaching the seal. The barricade gave inward with a great crashing noise.
Inside the piloting compartment, Rabban was shocked to discover several desert people in dusty tan cloaks, outnumbering the Harkonnens. A lean woman had commandeered the shuttle controls, guiding the ship in its liftoff. She slashed a glance at Rabban, shouted a command to her companions in their gibberish language. These were far different from the downtrodden city people in Carthag. They had a fire in their blue-tinted eyes, a hardness that came from the deep desert. Local spice workers? Maybe even the mysterious Fremen?
A swarthy man lunged at Rabban with a curved knife. He stabbed but missed when Rabban slipped out of the way and activated his personal shield in a single gesture. Other desert fighters rushed toward him, each with a deadly blade in one hand and a primitive Maula pistol in the other. His Harkonnen guards drew their own weapons, ready to fight in the close quarters.
One of the rebels fired his spring-wound pistol, but the projectile struck harmlessly against the shield. Four desert men fell as they fought for control of the captured craft, but both of Rabban’s Harkonnen guards collapsed, each with a poison dart in his throat, slow-darts able to pass through the field. The piloting compartment was crowded with bodies. Rabban narrowly escaped the same fate, ducking as a dart ricocheted from the bulkhead, close to his neck.
Before the attackers could fire again, he lurched back out of the compartment, shoving the damaged door back in place. The shuttle rose higher from the landing zone, lurching and rattling.
Rabban bellowed for more guards, but none appeared. He glanced out the windowport to see that the shuttle had turned, accelerating overland toward the open desert rather than heading up to orbit.
From the plushly appointed passenger compartment, he heard his uncle bellowing, demanding answers. Rabban could not bother with him now.
Suddenly, the shuttle made a hairpin turn and sped in the opposite direction, now straight back toward the city. A knot formed in his gut as he realized what the desert rebels had in mind. They would crash the vessel somewhere in Carthag, maybe even into the Harkonnen headquarters. And Harkonnen ground security would not dare open fire on the shuttle with the Baron on board.
The wallscreen flickered, and his uncle’s image appeared, showing blood streaming down into his dark eyes. The Baron gripped one of his wrists, which hung at an odd angle, obviously broken. “What is happening? I need medical help!”
Five more guards charged down the corridor to help Rabban, seeing the damaged door to the control deck. Together, they lunged forward and slammed back into the piloting compartment. Now that he had reinforcements, Rabban pushed past them. He had to regain control of the craft. As they all pushed into the compartment, blades drawn, Rabban hacked at one rebel, then the next. The desert people fell hard.