Dune (64 page)

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're 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.

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?

 

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 forme
, 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.