“We did not all eat the same thing,” Gurney pointed out. “We caught moonfish, but we each ate our own. And Paul’s was different…”
Yueh looked up, blinking. “The spawning female! A moonfish in the reproductive stage could well exude unusual hormones or toxins.” He rummaged in his medkit, found another autoinjector, and slapped it against Paul’s neck. “Food poisoning can cause such a violent reaction. Perhaps we were looking too hard for an insidious answer.”
Leto knelt and rested his hand on Paul’s shoulder, stroked his son’s dark hair away from his forehead. Beads of sweat glistened there, but Paul had calmed, was resting more easily. His breathing was even.
Yueh took another set of readings. “Temperature returning to normal.” He breathed a long, slow sigh of relief. “We may be past the crisis. Let the boy rest, and we’ll watch him closely.”
Leto stared down. Every planetary leader, every head of a House Major or House Minor was always on guard for his or her life. Poison snoopers and shields, self-defense, and spies were a way of life in the Imperium.
Could it truly be possible that Paul’s sickness had nothing to do with treachery or an assassination attempt? Just tainted fish?
Yueh looked up at him. Gurney stood guarded, alarmed, and watchful, but he had allowed himself to relax his imminent killing stance. The Suk doctor double-checked his readings. “I cannot say with absolutely certainty, Sire, but sometimes a fever is just a fever, and food poisoning is just an accident.”
“Thank you, Yueh.” Leto let out a shuddering sigh. “I will leave Paul’s life in your hands.”
Unfortunately, the most evil personalities often possess extraordinary intellectual skills that enable them to advance their dark agendas.
—PRINCESS IRULAN, In My Father’s House
Two men stepped away from the Harkonnen ornithopter onto loose, sparkling sand. Heat devils wavered over the desert, but Rabban was most interested in the rusty red stain of melange on the landscape.
He and Piter de Vries stared at a battered spice harvester, a dangerous and groaning wreck that should have been removed from service long ago. It lumbered its way across the open dune field, scooping and sifting sand to separate out melange. The harvester would work here until its vibrations summoned a worm, and then it was supposed to be lifted out of danger in the nick of time. The giant machine had done this many times before.
The crew, however, did not know that this particular unit had been removed from all Harkonnen equipment records five runs earlier. Any spice it produced now would not appear on production manifests or tax records, because this particular factory no longer existed on any inventory.
It was a ghost. A profitable one.
Rabban saw spotter aircraft circling over a wide range of the sky, pilots ready to call out wormsign. This harvester had been dropped down onto the spice sands by a carryall only minutes before his own ’thopter landed.
The noises of closer aircraft thrummed in the sky as a squadron of secret mercenary craft hovered directly overhead, awaiting a signal from Rabban. Operated by men secretly transported here from Giedi Prime—outside of the Baron’s normal staff and military—these were pirate vessels, ready to snatch a load of spice and whisk it to safety.
It was a special operation that the crew of the doomed harvester knew nothing about. For several weeks, ever since the old wreck had been officially decommissioned, the crew had not been allowed back into Carthag, but rather were billeted at isolated Harkonnen outposts or the revived Orgiz processing facility, which also appeared on no maps.
The factory crew complained about terrible conditions aboard the barely functional spice factory, and had begun to disbelieve promises of higher and higher bonuses. Rabban knew the crew was played out and needed to be disposed of. He also judged that the factory would not last beyond today. Time to scuttle the whole operation—for real this time. Six full, undocumented loads of spice made a worthwhile profit.
Burly Rabban, a personification of brute force, looked to his Mentat companion, a far thinner, jittery man. Piter de Vries was a weapon of calculated plans, proud of his acuity and insight. Rabban found him annoying, though, with his wild hair, effeminate face, and acidic insults. His uncle tolerated the twisted Mentat only so long as he proved himself useful—as with this particular operation. Sooner or later, though—just like this lumbering factory—de Vries’s usefulness would end.
Rabban glanced at his nemesis. If my uncle decides to kill Piter, I hope he lets me do it.
He activated a headset, heard static and the chatter of voices over the line, the harvester crew, the supervisor urging his workers to keep the factory lumbering along for just a little longer. Rabban changed channels, heard his pirates talking, preparing for their part of the operation.
The twisted Mentat watched with clear distaste as the crippled, creaking factory wheezed forward. “Even my most generous projections did not envision the equipment lasting this long. The manufacturer is to be commended.”
“That harvester is even older than you are,” Rabban quipped. He chuckled at his joke.
The Mentat grimaced. “Perhaps it will last longer than you, unless you show me proper respect and recognize my worth.” His voice had a melodic, threatening quality, which managed to make Rabban feel inadequate.
Rabban flushed, inhaling deeply of the hot, dry air. “Your worth, in comparison to me? I am the Count of Lankiveil, recently named the Baron’s governor-designate of Arrakis.”
“And I am a very expensive Mentat, specially indoctrinated by the Tleilaxu per Harkonnen specifications.” He paused, sniffed. “The Baron has not told me about you being appointed governor here, official or unofficial.”
One day, Rabban would lose his temper and break Piter de Vries. “My uncle named me in his place when he went back to Giedi Prime on business, but even when he returns here to Arrakis, I will still be your superior.”
“Oh, my superior?” A cruel smile worked around the edges of his sapho-stained mouth. “A moment, while I try to visualize that.”
Rabban dismissed the insect. He had more important things to do, with the pirate operation here reaching its peak. He had to be more subtle, more patient.
“As I’ve told you before, life is a chess game,” the Baron had counseled. “You must think several moves ahead.”
Good advice, although not so easily heeded in the heat of the moment. This time, Rabban decided to ignore the Mentat’s provocation. Instead, he stared at the noisy, shaking harvester. “I prove my superiority each time our pirates slip away with another load of undocumented spice.” Continued successes like today would guarantee Rabban’s designation as the Baron’s heir. In that position, he would have plenty of time to dispose of the annoying twisted Mentat as he saw fit.
De Vries wisely held his tongue, for now, and the two watched from a distance while the machine crawled ahead to a better vein of spice, where it resumed harvesting. Rabban smelled the burning odor of dusty cinnamon, as well as smoke and sour exhaust from the laboring engines. At one time, this harvester had been considered lucky. Now it shook and clattered so noisily that Rabban’s ears ached, even from a safe distance.
One of the unmarked mercenary craft landed on the rocky flat adjacent to their ’thopter. A tall, grizzled man disembarked with the aircraft engines still thrumming. Though he wore no uniform, he saluted. “This is a good vantage from which to observe our operations, Count Rabban.”