“Do these words come from the Emperor or from you, Count Fenring?” Rulla demanded in a tone that irritated him. “Will you pocket a part of the profits for yourself?”
She seemed to realize he disliked her, but didn’t seem to care. Though he was a deadly assassin, the woman apparently felt protected here. But it was not wise to make an enemy of Count Hasimir Fenring, and he decided that Rulla would bear closer watching. He tamped down his indignant reaction. “It makes no difference. I speak for Shaddam.”
Esmar shot his wife a sharp glance, then turned back to Fenring. “This will hamstring us. The Emperor needs to give us more leeway.”
“The Emperor has made clear what he needs. So far I have convinced him it is in his best interest to ignore your operations, because I personally find you useful—at times. But your freedom is merely an illusion.” He glanced pointedly from Esmar to his wife. “I can cancel your trading network whenever I wish.” Under his sharp gaze, Rulla looked away.
“The smugglers perform a unique service for the Emperor,” Staban, the son, interjected. “We provide crucial information on the Harkonnen fief-holder, report whispers from the edges that even you did not know about.”
Fenring smiled. “And because your information has proved valuable in the past, we are lenient with you, as a cost of doing business, although it greatly frustrates Baron Harkonnen.” He narrowed his gaze. “But there is a limit to what the Emperor will allow. Never forget that, and never try to take advantage of him, or of me. You will meet the additional surtax. I will require even more detailed and doubly verified accountings of all your production and shipments.”
While Rulla glowered at him, keeping a hand on the curvature of her belly, Esmar gave a reluctant but deferential nod. “Is this surtax temporary? Our normal operations can resume when this crisis wanes?”
“The tax will last only until it pays the deficit in Shaddam’s treasury after the expense of the Corrino museum and the expansion of his Sardaukar corps.”
“How long will that be? When has a temporary tax ever remained temporary?” Rulla asked, sounding shrill. “What do the cost analyses and projections say?”
“Hmmm-ahh, it will take as long as it needs to take.” He hardened his voice. “And the smugglers will pay what they need to pay.”
He saw the remark hit home. Rulla looked fearful, for only a moment, but that was enough.
* * *
IN HIS CARTHAG office, Baron Harkonnen watched as his twisted Mentat entered.
Piter de Vries moved forward with mincing steps that made him look both effeminate and predatory. “You summoned me, my dear Baron?” His voice was more lilting and musical than usual.
“That is a stupid question,” the Baron replied as the Mentat folded his lean body into a chair in front of the ellipsoid desk. “I am not happy—no, I am outraged—about the spice surtax the Emperor expects me to pay. I will pass the costs along, but the price can only be raised so much. We have already pushed our customers close to the limits of what they can pay, and I cannot squeeze more without losing some accounts. Many of those not addicted will simply turn to other drugs. I need a way around this! Find me an answer, Mentat.”
“Ah, a challenge!” De Vries removed a vial of sapho juice from his pocket and swallowed the red liquid. After a moment, his gaze grew distant as he pondered the challenge. “The obvious solution is for us to produce more spice. And sell more spice.”
The Baron growled his displeasure. “If we produce more spice, we will be taxed more! The Emperor profits, but House Harkonnen does not.”
The Mentat’s eyes took on a calculating look. “Not if we produce spice that appears in no accounting records, my Baron. This planet is vast, and the deserts have much melange. No one can keep track of it all.”
The Baron puffed his cheeks. “You mean operate like the dirty smugglers? Perhaps work with them to sell more spice? I suspect the smugglers already have secret connections with Count Fenring, and thus the Imperium—though I can’t prove it. Give me a different projection.”
De Vries fell silent again, and the Baron felt he was taking too long. This problem needed to be solved now.
The Mentat blinked. “Move a step beyond the smugglers. Our official operations produce and sell melange, which is administered by the Imperium. Such operations are already heavily taxed and monitored closely. That sanctioned melange is distributed through the CHOAM Company. Through special contract, the Spacing Guild receives its direct allotment of spice, which is also heavily taxed. The smugglers move their spice offworld, presumably also through CHOAM, and therefore they must pay significant bribes … which go back to the Imperial treasury.”
“And still Shaddam claims he needs to wring more money from us!” The Baron snorted. He remained impatient. “I understand basic economics. What is your suggestion?”
“Create another independent channel, a new and secret path to get undocumented spice off-planet. We could sell a certain amount of spice directly to CHOAM, which would appear on no balance sheet, a private closed-loop distribution. That would eliminate the middle tier and be financially beneficial to House Harkonnen and to the CHOAM Company.”
The Baron hesitated. “That is taking a tremendous risk.” But he needed to survive this abominable new surcharge.…
De Vries continued, “I suspect CHOAM would be happy to have an alternative that does not depend on Imperial oversight. If we create the plan, I believe they would welcome it.”
The Baron let this idea sink in, then smiled craftily. “Piter, I believe I will let you live a little while longer.”
Unfortunately, in extreme cases, a medical treatment can be as fatal as the ailment itself.
—Suk Medical Practicum
The sky of Otorio was smeared with smoke and ash. Fires continued to burn through the devastation because no one was there to put them out. Eventually, the isolated planet would quell itself.
Weeks after the impact, Jaxson Aru had to observe with his own eyes the results of what he had done. Not caring about the resulting horror, he allowed himself a faint smile.
In the aftermath of the attack, some humanitarian aid and salvage operations went to Otorio, and Jaxson managed to infiltrate them. The do-gooders who came to help “those poor injured people” did not realize that Otorio had done just fine for centuries without Imperial interference. As a purported aid worker, Jaxson obtained a private short-range flyer and traveled to the outskirts of the impact site.
Even though the heavy dump boxes had partly vaporized in the air, shock waves had ripped across the Imperial structures, uprooting and flattening them. Scavenger camps surrounded the rim of the crater, groups sifting through the rubble for anything of value. Maybe he would purchase some material from these scavengers: lumps of impact glass as souvenirs to mark his great victory, the first real blow for the Noble Commonwealth. He had jolted the Imperium awake, that was for certain.
The blackened, wrecked landscape was not how he wanted to remember this peaceful, beautiful place. He closed his eyes and brought to mind images of the serene Otorio where he had spent so many years. His mother had sent him away when he was young, disturbed by his volatile nature. Of Malina’s three children, Jaxson was the least known, considered unfit for diplomacy like his brother and sister. Rather than thinking of it as an exile, Jaxson had been happy to stay with his father, with whom he had a very close relationship.