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Shaddam IV, but knew not to ask too many questions. "Would you like me to
summon a light lunch, Master Fenring?"
"Go away," Fenring said without looking over his shoulder, "or I will have you
assigned to the Harkonnen headquarters in Carthag."
Willowbrook left promptly.
Fenring sat back with the message in his hands, flash-memorized every word, and
then destroyed the tough paper. He would very much enjoy relaying the news to
the Emperor. At last. His thin lips curled in a smile.
Even before the death of Shaddam's father, this plan had been set in motion.
Now, after decades, that work had finally come to fruition.
"Count Fenring, we are pleased to report that the final sequence of development
appears to meet our expectations. We are confident that Project Amal has
succeeded, and the next round of rigorous tests will prove it. We expect to go
into full-scale production within a few months.
"Soon, the Emperor will have his own inexpensive and inexhaustible supply of
melange -- a new monopoly that will place the great powers of the Imperium at
his feet. All spice-harvesting operations on Arrakis will become irrelevant."
Trying to suppress his satisfied grin, Fenring stepped to the window and gazed
out onto the dusty streets of Arrakeen, at the impossible aridity and heat. In
the masses of people, he picked out blue-uniformed Harkonnen troops, brightly-
attired water merchants and grimy spice crews, haughty preachers and ragged
beggars, an economy based solely on one commodity. Spice.
Soon, none of that would matter to anyone. Arrakis, and natural melange, would
become an obsolete historical curiosity. No one would care about this desert
planet anymore . . . and he could move on to other, more important things.
Fenring drew a long, deep breath. It would be good to get off this rock.
Though death will cancel it, life in this world is a glorious thing.
-DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
A MAN SHOULD NOT have to attend the funeral of his own child.
Standing erect on the bow of the Atreides funeral barge, Duke Leto wore a formal
white uniform, stripped of all insignia to symbolize the loss of his only son.
At his side, Jessica had draped herself in a black Bene Gesserit robe, but it
could not hide her beauty.
Behind them a cortege of boats followed the funeral barge, all of them decked in
colorful flowers and ribbons to celebrate the life of a boy whose days had been
cut tragically short. Atreides soldiers lined the decks of the escort boats,
holding ceremonial metal shields that flashed when the sun broke through the
cloud-scudded sky.
Sadly, Leto gazed past the gilded hawk prow, shading his eyes to look across the
waters of Caladan. Victor had loved the oceans. In the distance, where the sea
faded into the curved horizon, Leto saw flickering storms and bright sky-
sparkles, perhaps a congregation of elecrans come to usher the lad's soul to a
new place beneath the waves. . . .
For generations of Atreides, life itself had been revered as the ultimate
blessing. The Atreides counted what a man did when he was alive -- events he
could experience with clarity and enjoy with all of his senses. A person's
accomplishments held far more significance than any shadowy afterlife. The
tangible was more important than the intangible.
Oh, how I miss you, my son.
In the brief years he had shared with Victor, he'd tried to instill strength in
the boy, just as his own father had done for him. Each person must have the
ability to rely on himself, to help his comrades but never to lean on them too
much.
I need all my strength today.
A man should not have to attend the funeral of his own child. The natural order
had been disrupted. Though Kailea had not been his wife, and Victor had not
been the official ducal heir, Leto could not think of a more terrible thing to
befall a person. Why had he been the one to survive, the one to endure the
knowing, the awful sense of loss?
The cortege of boats set course for the coral gem beds far offshore, where Leto
and Rhombur had gone diving years ago, where Leto would have taken his own son
one day. But Victor hadn't been given enough time; Leto could never fulfill all
the promises he'd made to the boy, both in words and in his heart. . . .
The Atreides funeral barge rose several tiers high, an impressive floating
monument. On the top level, giant kabuzu shell cressets, fifteen meters tall,
burned whale oil. Up there Victor's body lay in a golden coffin surrounded by
his favorite things -- a stuffed Salusan bull toy, a feathered vara lance with a
rubber tip, filmbooks, games, seashells he had collected from the shore.
Representatives of many Great Houses had also sent wrapped gifts. The baubles
and keepsakes nearly engulfed the child's tiny, preserved body.
Bright flowers, green-and-black pennants, and long ribbons decorated the gilded
tiers. Donated paintings and artists' renderings depicted a proud Duke Leto
holding his newborn son high overhead, then later teaching the boy how to
bullfight . . . fishing with him on one of the docks . . . protecting him from
the attack of the elecran. Other images showed Victor on his mother's lap,
doing school lessons, or running while holding a whistle-kite by its string.
And then, poignantly, several empty panels, left blank to represent what Victor
had not done in his life and never would.
Reaching the reefs, crewmen set anchors to keep the barge in place. The boats
took up positions encircling the funeral barge; Duncan Idaho piloted a small
motorboat around to the bow and tied up alongside.
Atreides soldiers began clanging their ceremonial shields in a mounting
crescendo that carried across the waves. Duke Atreides and Jessica stood
together with their heads bowed. The brisk wind blew in their faces, stinging
Leto's eyes, ruffling Jessica's dark robe.
After a long moment the Duke straightened and drew a deep breath of sea air to
drive back a tide of tears. He looked up at the top level of the barge, where
his son lay. A shaft of bright sunlight flashed on the golden coffin.
Slowly, Leto raised his hands to the heavens. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]