Three of the rebels remained alive, dodging behind consoles. They fired their clumsy Maula pistols, aiming wildly, damaging some of the controls even when the projectiles could not penetrate the shields. His guards attacked, while the female pilot continued to drive the shuttle straight toward the tall buildings of the city. When their Maula and dart pistols were expended, the desert rebels fought with knives.
Rabban moved quickly, stepping over bodies, dodging while keeping the Harkonnen guards in front of him. A dagger flew past Rabban’s head. Two more of his men dropped.
The rebels seemed to have an endless supply of knives, which they produced from their desert cloaks, but Rabban and his remaining guards had greater strength, and body shields, and soon enough, the rest of the desert rabble lay dead, strewn about the deck near damaged consoles.
The pilot slumped over the controls, thick, dark blood oozing from her mouth. She was still alive, and her intense blue eyes were wild as she reached for the controls to slam the shuttle into a death dive.
Rabban fired one shot from his projectile weapon, splashing her blood all over the front windowport. The sound of the shuttle engines took on a deeper roar as the ship decelerated and plunged toward the city buildings.
Rabban stepped over corpses, smearing blood under the soles of his boots as he lurched to the piloting console. He fought them, trying to get the shuttle to respond. One of the grids sparked and hissed. Many of the systems had been ruined by the projectile fire. Though he struggled mightily, the ship fought back. They were dropping fast, and the central structures of Carthag looked very tall.
Time … would he have enough time? He shouted at the controls, swiped a hand sideways to clear a long pool of blood from the rebel pilot. He activated auxiliary systems, striving for thrust to push them higher. Finally, with a strong burst from attitude jets, he altered course and arced away from the city center. He managed to bring the shuttle out of its death dive only a few meters above the ground, then roared back toward the spaceport.
The shuttle was by no means under his complete control, but he did push them back toward an open hardpan apron beyond the designated landing zones. He needed to get the Baron to safety.
A gust of wind hit the shuttle, and he had to struggle to set it down on the hardpan. The shuttle skidded, plowing up a spray of dust and sand. It slewed and finally came to rest. Rabban could only hear a roar of adrenaline and his own pounding heartbeat.
Furious, the Baron floated through the damaged bulkhead hatch into the piloting compartment. Blood continued to stream down his face from a scalp wound, and he grimaced in pain from his swelling left wrist.
Guards flooded in behind him, weapons drawn, but by now, the rebels were all dead.
“I am in control, Uncle,” Rabban said.
The Baron glowered at all the bodies on the deck. One man twitched, and the Baron leaned over, partially weightless on his suspensor belt, and slashed the man’s throat with a dagger in his good hand.
Rabban completed the shutdown sequence and silenced the still-flashing engine alarms, then turned to grin at the Baron. “I did well, Uncle. Did I not?”
The big man was loath to give compliments. “I am injured. Many of my guards are dead, and my shuttle is ruined. Now how will I make it to orbit before the Heighliner departs?”
Disappointed at the lack of praise, Rabban stepped up to the dead pilot and gave her body a hard kick in the gut. She rolled against a bulkhead, and he felt marginally better.
The guard captain holstered his sidearm, adjusted his personal knife in its sheath. He was shaking and sweating, clearly intimidated by the Baron. In a sudden move, the Baron lashed out and plunged the dagger into the captain’s throat. He fell like a broken rag doll, and the remaining guards stood stiffly, afraid to look at the Baron.
“You are fortunate that I have decided to execute someone else, nephew.” The grudging sound in his voice was the only acknowledgment that Rabban had redeemed himself, at least fractionally.
The Baron touched his sticky red forehead and shouted to the remaining guards. “Out! All of you! Get me transport back to headquarters!”
They ran to do his bidding.
The Baron rolled his eyes in pain, though his suspensor belt would not allow him to fall. “Now I cannot attend Shaddam’s gala celebration on Otorio.”
Rabban remained at rigid attention. “Shall I send a note to the Emperor?”
“You shall not! I will have someone write it in a polished way. We don’t need to tell him that I was nearly killed by a group of dirty desert rats.” Rabban could tell that his uncle would continue to vent. “You should have made certain the shuttle was safe before I boarded. For that failing, you are at fault, Rabban.”
“But I saved you. I saved both of us.”
Baron Harkonnen grudgingly sighed. “You can indeed fight and kill, and you do have a certain crude mastery of applying brute force, but that was only viable in this instance because you were cornered. You must learn to plan several moves ahead and be consistent. Learn to play a strategy game, instead of wielding a cudgel.” The Baron’s blood-smeared face took on a calculating expression. “Do you even know how to play pyramid chess?”
Rabban shook his head.
“It is a game of many complex moves, and life is just such a game. In both, you must learn to think ahead, to consider the consequences of your actions and avoid pitfalls.”
“I will learn, Uncle. I promise.” Rabban began to realize how much was on the line, here and now.
With an odd mood shift, the Baron put his good hand on his nephew’s arm. “I don’t know if that sort of wisdom can be taught to someone like you.”
Rabban tried to be earnest and forced himself to accept the insult. “I will get smarter. I promise.”
As if speaking through a wall of boulders, the Baron rumbled, “For now, I want you to crack down on the desert rabble. That is in your particular skill set.” He paused. “And get me a doctor!”
Some say that contentment with one’s station leads to a lack of ambition. On the other hand, I have observed that ambition can become a cancer that eats a person from within. A true leader must find the proper balance.
—DUKE LETO ATREIDES, private notes to his son, Paul
Upon entering the Emperor’s crowded reception, Leto felt like a combat animal turned loose in an arena, and this was not his sort of battle.
His mother, Helena, had taught him how to be successful at court, since her own ambitions were lofty. Now, he paused to absorb the whirlwind of colors, sounds, and smells from the guests, the fine foods, and the items on display. His father had thrived on public spectacles, hosting fêtes on Caladan, especially spectacular bullfights, one of which had killed him in the end. That tragedy had given Leto the ducal title when he was not much older than Paul was now.…
Shaddam caught his gaze and Leto stepped ahead of the other nobles who emerged from the lift, jockeying for position. They wanted to be first, but sensed something about this Duke.
Leto gave Shaddam a formal bow, and the Emperor acknowledged him. “Duke Leto Atreides, cher cousin. It means a great deal for me to see you here. Sometimes it is difficult to pry you from Caladan.”
“I devote my attention to my world and my people, Sire … all in the name of the Imperium. I am proud to represent House Atreides.” He couched his words in a more complimentary tone. “Your new museum complex is the most impressive presentation I have ever seen. One could not possibly absorb everything in a single visit.”