Dune (61 page)

“The Padishah Emperor turned against House Atreides because the Duke’s
Warmasters Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho had trained a fighting force — a
small fighting force — to within a hair as good as the Sardaukar. Some of them
were even better. And the Duke was in a position to enlarge his force, to make
it every bit as strong as the Emperor’s.“

The Baron weighed this disclosure, then: ”What has Arrakis to do with this?“

”It provides a pool of recruits already conditioned to the bitterest
survival training.“

The Baron shook his head. ”You cannot mean the Fremen?“

”I mean the Fremen.“

”Hah! Then why warn Rabban? There cannot be more than a handful of Fremen
left after the Sardaukar pogrom and Rabban’s oppression.“

Hawat continued to stare at him silently.

”Not more than a handful!“ the baron repeated. ”Rabban killed six thousand
of them last year alone!“

Still, Hawat stared at him.

”And the year before it was nine thousand,“ the baron said. ”And before they
left, the Sardaukar must’ve accounted for at least twenty thousand.“

”What are Rabban’s troop losses for the past two years?“ Hawat asked.

The Baron rubbed his jowls. ”Well, he has been recruiting rather heavily, to
be sure. His agents make rather extravagant promises and –“

”Shall we say thirty thousand in round numbers?“ Hawat asked.

”That would seem a little high,“ the baron said.

”Quite the contrary,“ Hawat said. ”I can read between the lines of Rabban’s
reports as well as you can. And you certainly must’ve understood my reports from
our agents.“

”Arrakis is a fierce planet,“ the Baron said. ”Storm losses can –“

”We both know the figure for storm accretion,“ Hawat said.

”What if he has lost thirty thousand?“ the Baron demanded, and blood
darkened his face.

”By your own count,“ Hawat said, ”he killed fifteen thousand over two years
while losing twice that number. You say the Sardaukar accounted for another
twenty thousand, possibly a few more. And I’ve seen the transportation manifests
for their return from Arrakis. If they killed twenty thousand, they lost almost
five for one. Why won’t you face these figures, Baron, and understand what they
mean?“

The Baron spoke in a coldly measured cadence: ”This is your job, Mentat.
What do they mean?“

”I gave you Duncan Idaho’s head count on the sietch he visited,“ Hawat said.
”It all fits. If they had just two hundred and fifty such sietch communities,
their population would be about five million. My best estimate is that they had
at least twice that many communities. You scatter your population on such a
planet.“

”Ten million?“ The Baron’s jowls quivered with amazement.

”At least.“

The Baron pursed his fat lips. The beady eyes stared without wavering at
Hawat. Is this true Mentat computation? he wondered. How could this be and no
one suspect?

”We haven’t even cut heavily into their birth-?rate-?growth figure,“ Hawat
said. ”We’ve just weeded out some of their less successful specimens, leaving
the strong to grow stronger — just like on Salusa Secundus.“

”Salusa Secundus!“ the Baron barked. ”What has this to do with the Emperor’s
prison planet?“

”A man who survives Salusa Secundus starts out being tougher than most
others,“ Hawat said. ”When you add the very best of military training –“

”Nonsense! By your argument, I could recruit from among the Fremen after the
way they’ve been oppressed by my nephew.“

Hawat spoke in a mild voice: ”Don’t you oppress any of your troops?“

”Well . . . I . . . but –”
“Oppression is a relative thing,” Hawat said. “Your fighting men are much
better off than those around them, heh? They see unpleasant alternative to being
soldiers of the Baron, heh?”

The Baron fell silent, eyes unfocused. The possibilities — had Rabban
unwittingly given House Harkonnen its ultimate weapon?

Presently he said: “How could you be sure of the loyalty of such recruits?”

“I would take them in small groups, not larger than platoon strength,” Hawat
said. “I’d remove them from their oppressive situation and isolate them with a
training cadre of people who understood their background, preferably people who
had preceded them from the same oppressive situation. Then I’d fill them with
the mystique that their planet had really been a secret training ground to
produce just such superior beings as themselves. And all the while, I’d show
them what such superior beings could earn: rich living, beautiful women, fine
mansions . . . whatever they desired.”

The Baron began to nod. “The way the Sardaukar live at home.”

“The recruits come to believe in time that such a place as Salusa Secundus
is justified because it produced them — the elite. The commonest Sardaukar
trooper lives a life, in many respects, as exalted as that of any member of a
Great House.”

“Such an idea!” the Baron whispered.

“You begin to share my suspicions,” Hawat said.

“Where did such a thing start?” the Baron asked.

“Ah, yes: Where did House Corrino originate? Were there people on Salusa
Secundus before the Emperor sent his first contingents of prisoners there? Even
the Duke Leto, a cousin on the distaff side, never knew for sure. Such questions
are not encouraged.”

The Baron’s eyes glazed with thought. “Yes, a very carefully kept secret.
They’d use every device of –”

“Besides, what’s there to conceal?” Hawat asked. “That the Padishah Emperor
has a prison planet? Everyone knows this. That he has –”

“Count Fenring!” the Baron blurted.

Hawat broke off, studied the Baron with a puzzled frown. “What of Count
Fenring?”

“At my nephew’s birthday several years ago,” the Baron said. “This Imperial
popinjay. Count Fenring, came as official observer and to . . . ah, conclude a
business arrangement between the Emperor and myself.”

“So?”

“I . . . ah, during one of our conversations, I believe I said something
about making a prison planet of Arrakis. Fenring –”

“What did you say exactly?” Hawat asked.

“Exactly? That was quite a while ago and –”

“My Lord Baron, if you wish to make the best use of my services, you must
give me adequate information. Wasn’t this conversation recorded?”

The Baron’s face darkened with anger. “You’re as bad as Piter! I don’t like
these –”

“Piter is no longer with you my Lord,” Hawat said. “As to that, whatever did
happen to Piter?”

“He became too familiar, too demanding of me,” the Baron said.

“You assure me you don’t waste a useful man,” Hawat said. “Will you waste me
by threats and quibbling? We were discussing what you said to Count Fenring.”

Slowly, the Baron composed his features. When the time comes, he thought,
I’ll remember his manner with me. Yes. I will remember.

“One moment,” the Baron said, and he thought back to the meeting in his
great hall. It helped to visualize the cone of silence in which they had stood.
“I said something like this,” the Baron said. “The Emperor knows a certain
amount of killing has always been an arm of business.’ I was referring to our
work force losses. Then I said something about considering another solution to
the Arrakeen problem and I said the Emperor’s prison planet inspired me to
emulate him.“

”Witch blood!“ Hawat snapped. ”What did Fenring say?“

”That’s when he began questioning me about you.“

Hawat sat back, closed his eyes in thought. ”So that’s why they started
looking into Arrakis,“ he said. ”Well, the thing’s done.“ He opened his eyes.
”They must have spies all over Arrakis by now. Two years!“

”But certainly my innocent suggestion that –“

”Nothing is innocent in an Emperor’s eyes! What were your instructions to
Rabban?“

”Merely that he should teach Arrakis to fear us.“

Hawat shook his head. ”You now have two alternatives, Baron. You can kill
off the natives, wipe them out entirely, or –“

”Waste an entire work force?“

”Would you prefer to have the Emperor and those Great Houses he can still
swing behind him come in here and perform a curettement, scrape out Giedi Prime
like a hollow gourd?“

The Baron studied his Mentat, then: ”He wouldn’t dare!“

”Wouldn’t he?“

The Baron’s lips quivered. ”What is your alternative?“

”Abandon your dear nephew, Rabban.“

”Aband . . . “ The Baron broke off, stared at Hawat.

”Send him no more troops, no aid of any kind. Don’t answer his messages
other than to say you’ve heard of the terrible way he’s handled things on
Arrakis and you intend to take corrective measures as soon as you’re able. I’ll
arrange to have some of your messages intercepted by Imperial spies.“

”But what of the spice, the revenues, the –“

”Demand your baronial profits, but be careful how you make your demands.
Require fixed sums of Rabban. We can –“

The Baron turned his hands palms up. ”But how can I be certain that my
weasel nephew isn’t –“

”We still have our spies on Arrakis. Tell Rabban he either meets the spice
quotas you set him or he’ll be replaced.“

”I know my nephew,“ the Baron said. ”This would only make him oppress the
population even more.“

”Of course he will!“ Hawat snapped. ”You don’t want that stopped now! You
merely want your own hands clean. Let Rabban make your Salusa Secundus for you.
There’s no need even to send him any prisoners. He has all the population
required. If Rabban is driving his people to meet your spice quotas, then the
Emperor need suspect no other motive. That’s reason enough for putting the
planet on the rack. And you, Baron, will not show by word or action that there’s
any other reason for this.“

The Baron could not keep the sly tone of admiration out of his voice. ”Ah,
Hawat, you are a devious one. Now, how do we move into Arrakis and make use of
what Rabban prepares?“

”That’s the simplest thing of all, Baron. If you set each year’s quota a bit
higher than the one before, matters will soon reach a head there. Production
will drop off. You can remove Rabban and take over yourself . . . to correct the
mess.“

”It fits,“ the Baron said. ”But I can feel myself tiring of all this. I’m
preparing another to take over Arrakis for me.“

Hawat studied the fat round face across from him. Slowly the old soldier-?spy
began to nod his head. ”Feyd-?Rautha,“ he said. ”So that’s the reason for the
oppression now. You’re very devious yourself, Baron. Perhaps we can incorporate
these two schemes. Yes. Your Feyd-?Rautha can go to Arrakis as their savior. He
can win the populace. Yes.”
The Baron smiled. And behind his smile, he asked himself: Now, how does this
fit in with Hawat’s personal scheming?

And Hawat, seeing that he was dismissed, arose and left the red-?walled room.
As he walked, he could not put down the disturbing unknowns that cropped into
every computation about Arrakis. This new religious leader that Gurney Halleck
hinted at from his hiding place among the smugglers, this Muad’Dib.

Perhaps I should not have told the Baron to let this religion flourish where
it will, even among the folk of pan and graben, he told himself. But it’s well
known that repression makes a religion flourish.

And he thought about Halleck’s reports on Fremen battle tactics. The tactics
smacked of Halleck himself . . . and Idaho . . . and even of Hawat.

Did Idaho survive? he asked himself.

But this was a futile question. He did not yet ask himself if it was
possible that Paul had survived. He knew the Baron was convinced that all
Atreides were dead. The Bene Gesserit witch had been his weapon, the Baron
admitted. And that could only mean an end to all — even to the woman’s own son.

What a poisonous hate she must’ve had for the Atreides, he thought.
Something like the hate I hold for this Baron. Will my blow be as final and
complete as hers?

= = = = = =

There is in all things a pattern that is part of our universe. It has symmetry,
elegance, and grace — those qualities you find always in that which the true
artist captures. You can find it in the turning of the seasons, in the way sand
trails along a ridge, in the branch clusters of the creosote bush or the pattern
of its leaves. We try to copy these patterns in our lives and our society,
seeking the rhythms, the dances, the forms that comfort. Yet, it is possible to
see peril in the finding of ultimate perfection. It is clear that the ultimate
pattern contains its own fixity. In such perfection, all things move toward
death.
-from “The Collected Sayings of Muad’Dib” by the Princess Irulan

Paul-?Muad’Dib remembered that there had been a meal heavy with spice
essence. He clung to this memory because it was an anchor point and he could
tell himself from this vantage that his immediate experience must be a dream.

I am a theater of processes, he told himself. I am a prey to the imperfect
vision, to the race consciousness and its terrible purpose.

Yet, he could not escape the fear that he had somehow overrun himself, lost
his position in time, so that past and future and present mingled without
distinction. It was a kind of visual fatigue and it came, he knew, from the
constant necessity of holding the prescient future as a kind of memory that was
in itself a thing intrinsically of the past.

Chani prepared the meal for me, he told himself.

Yet Chani was deep in the south — in the cold country where the sun was hot
– secreted in one of the new sietch strongholds, safe with their son, Leto II.

Or, was that a thing yet to happen?

No, he reassured himself, for Alia-?the-?Strange-?One, his sister, had gone
there with his mother and with Chani — a twenty-?thumper trip into the south,
riding a Reverend Mother’s palanquin fixed to the back of a wild maker.

He shied away from thought of riding the giant worms, asking himself: Or is
Alia yet to be born?