The Winds of Dune (64 page)

C
arthag, the second most populous city on Dune, had been called “a pustule on the skin of the planet” by Planetologist Pardot Kynes. The former Harkonnen capital boasted a population of more than two million people, though such numbers were only estimates, because many of those who lived and worked in the city eluded census takers.

Lady Jessica had her own reasons to dislike Carthag. Even after so many years, the Harkonnen stench still lingered, but she had agreed to this secret meeting. Besides, her news was good, and Bronso would be glad to hear that Tessia had been placed on a Guildship under an assumed name. By now, she was on her way to Caladan, armed with the name of someone on the Atreides homeworld, who would help her start a new life for herself under an assumed identity. Tessia was a strong woman, obviously damaged and scarred by tragedy, but greatly healed. She would have to relearn how to live as a normal person, but Caladan was the place for her to begin that effort.

During their secret discussions out in the desert, Bronso had arranged the time and place for this meeting; since then, though, Duncan and Gurney had recently returned with their supposedly triumphant news of progress with the Spacing Guild, which had imposed widespread crack-downs
among the Wayku stewards. Jessica just had to trust Gurney to do his best to delay the inevitable.

After losing his Wayku allies, Bronso would no longer have an effective method of distributing his material, but his ideas would not be silenced. Over the years, his constant questions and challenges to Muad’Dib’s mythology had gained their own momentum. Other critics had taken up the effort as well, raising further questions and collecting additional data on the numerous atrocities. Many people were cautious, but others less timid; they had begun to write their own analyses, targeting the errors and the lack of objectivity in Irulan’s reports, especially those that had been published since Paul’s death. The die had been cast. . . .

At the appointed time in late afternoon, wearing nondescript clothes, Jessica rode a small, rickety taxi through one of the city’s slums. With its narrow, cluttered streets and dilapidated buildings, Carthag had grown even more tarnished and tattered since the defeat of the Harkonnens.

Her hood pulled forward to hide her face, she had removed her noseplugs to keep her senses alert. With her sense of smell, she searched the odors of the old city, absorbing her surroundings.

Many of the stained, blocky buildings—architecturally simple prefab structures erected for Harkonnen spice workers and the support industry—had grown like diseased organisms, patched and expanded with random and irregular sheets of metal and plaz. Dirty children played amidst junk and vermin.

Making a snort of either disbelief or disapproval, the escort driver stopped the small taxi. “Your destination, ma’am.” While driving her along, the man had studied her on the rearview screen, trying to see through the façade of her worn clothing and her serviceable but faded stillsuit, as if he sensed Jessica might be someone more important than she was letting on. “Watch out for yourself around here. Would you like me to stay with you? I could walk you wherever you need to go—no extra charge.”

“That’s very generous of you, and gallant, but I can take care of myself.” Her tone left no doubt that she could. She paid him a generous gratuity.

Looking up, Jessica saw a six-story building that might have toppled
over from the weight of its decay, if not for adjacent structures propping it up. She stepped out onto broken pavement and walked along, seeming to ignore—yet intently aware of—shadowy figures lurking in doorways, watching her.

Bronso’s instructions had told her to go through a metalloy gate on a side street. She pushed it open with a creak that sounded like a small, panicked scream, then climbed a plazcrete stairway to an upper level and turned right into a dark hallway. The odors of a poorly sealed body-reclamation still oozed into the confined space. The Fremen believed that evil smells were bad omens; at the very least, this one showed sloppy water discipline.

Before she could rap on a scarred door, it opened, and Bronso rushed her inside, out of sight. He closed the door quickly.

Just before sunset, Duncan Idaho stepped out of a groundcar down the street from the target building in Carthag; Gurney followed close behind him. Uniformed men and women closed around the two men from their stakeout positions, moving from street to street. Gurney had insisted on participating in this operation, and the ghola did not seem to suspect that the two of them had entirely different agendas.

Though he knew the truth, Gurney felt trapped in a great Coriolis storm of events, and he didn’t know how he could salvage the situation. Duncan and his troops were closing in.

The tracer on Bronso’s ’thopter had pinpointed his location. For three days now, a ten-block radius around his dwelling had been kept under close military scrutiny. Only moments before, the hidden watchers had seen a disguised fellow conspirator hurry inside to see him, and Duncan was about to spring the trap.

Though the visitor’s features had been largely concealed, Gurney felt sick, sure he knew who the woman was, though Duncan did not seem to suspect. Alia’s soldiers, intent on capturing Bronso, would swarm inside, and the trap would close around Lady Jessica as well as the Ixian. Gurney worked his jaw, clenched his fists, struggled to find any possible solution, but he could think of no way to save her. If Jessica’s collusion
with Bronso were exposed, not only would it defeat everything she—and
Paul
—had hoped to accomplish, but she would undoubtedly face death. Without question, Alia would order the execution of her own mother.

Gurney’s greatest fear was for Jessica’s safety. If faced with the choice between saving her or the Ixian . . . she was more important than anything to him.
How can I protect you from this, my Lady?

Duncan had all of his troops in place and ready.

At the forefront of the operation, the two men entered a dilapidated building across the street from the target structure. A lean military officer in a sandy camouflage uniform met them, identifying himself as Levenbrech Orik. With gestures made jerky by his excitement over the culmination of the long hunt, Orik led Gurney and Duncan past anxious soldiers to the crumbling stairwell. On the sixth floor, they crossed a littered hallway out to a wide-open room with a small balcony. Black scanlight bathed the area to prevent anyone outside from seeing them.

From there, the levenbrech pointed out the veiled window to a building across the narrow alley. “Bronso Vernius’s hideout is two floors below the roof of that building. The ’thopter we’ve traced is on the roof, hidden by some sort of Ixian camouflage.” Orik’s voice held an angry sneer. “Our engineers have already dropped a riley-ramp into place, so we can cross as soon as we’re ready for the assault.”

Gurney peered into the deepening shadows of dusk, but saw only clutter on the flat rooftop. “Won’t they see us coming?”

“We’re protected by scanlight all the way, and there are noise-suppression systems in place, though sounds are harder to veil. Ixian technology against Ixian technology. He’s only one man, and he can’t match our resources.”

Gurney was aware that to help capture the fugitive, the Ixian Confederacy had provided Alia with many new devices that used innovative technologies. Apparently, the Ixians wanted Bronso stopped as much as Alia did.

“Before we move, we should search every room over there,” Gurney said. “Remove the innocents, in case there’s violence.”
Give Bronso more time
.

“We move now.” Duncan looked at his wristchron, all business. “Let’s close the net. Bronso has already eluded us too many times.”

Bronso brought spice coffee for himself and Jessica on a silver tray, handed her a steaming cup. He had been waiting a long time for this meeting. “Now that my mother is away from Wallach IX, I have begun to rethink my role, Lady Jessica. For the past seven years, I have done exactly what Paul asked. I did it because he convinced me of the necessity—attacking the reputation of a great man, my friend. I have planted my seeds, and we will see if Time’s fertile ground allows them to grow.”

He looked down at his hands, then up at Jessica. “But now the Spacing Guild has cracked down on my distribution network. Thanks to Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck, my Wayku friends have been arrested and my documents destroyed.” His voice hitched, and he shook his head. “Oh, I shudder to think of the danger to which I’ve exposed my allies. My friends.”

Jessica saw his pain and felt a similar sadness in her own heart. “When Paul charged you with this task, he didn’t foresee that your work would still be necessary, all these years later. He’s gone, Bronso.”

“Then my job is finished?” The Ixian’s voice took on a pleading tone. “Do I maintain my criticisms, or can I stop now? How much is enough? Paul said he didn’t want to be a god, or a messiah . . . but how can I take
everything
from him? Vermillion Hells, there should be something left of his noble legacy! He was still a great man, despite what has happened.”

Jessica felt torn between wanting her son to be revered and beloved and preventing the damage his memory and martyrdom could cause if left untarnished. “You think I can answer those questions? Oh, Bronso. Try to imagine how it must hurt me, as his mother.” She suddenly realized what he was asking. “You want my blessing for you to stop, don’t you?”

“It’s exhausted my heart, my mind, and my soul. I have already said what I needed to say. I think I have accomplished the task that Paul gave me. The more Regent Alia tries to suppress my writings, the more credence she gives to my statements. Do I keep saying the same things,
over and over? The doubts I have raised will thrive—with or without me.” He stared down at his cup of spice coffee; he had not taken a sip. “Please tell me it’s enough, my Lady. Tell me I can rest at last and make a new life with my mother. Have I accomplished what Paul wanted?”

“Of course.” Her voice cracked. “You have already done all that Paul asked—and more. You built a levee against the flood of the Jihad, directing the channel of history in a different direction. Only time will tell how successful you have been.” She felt a great relief growing within her. Yes, she could release him. “You eluded us for a long time when you and Paul were just boys. I suggest you vanish now, create a new future for yourself. Slip away, leave Dune, and find a place of safety on one of the outer worlds, where I can send your mother to join you one day.”

His eyes were bright with a sparkle of tears. “I always make sure I have a way to escape in a matter of seconds. My ’thopter is camouflaged on the roof, and if that route is blocked, I’ve installed an Ixian high-speed lift tube that leads below street level and into a whole network of underground passageways the Harkonnens built. I have learned how to stay safe.”

“Always having an escape is not the same thing as being safe.” Jessica was unable to shake the uneasy feeling. “I don’t feel safe here.”

Bronso gave her a wan smile. “That is quite understandable. After all, you are an Atreides, and there are Harkonnen ghosts in this city.”