The Bene Gesserit shuttle descended to the dark side of Giedi Prime, landing in the well-guarded Harko City spaceport just before midnight, local time.

Concerned about what the damned witches wanted from him now that he had come home from the desert hellhole of Arrakis, the Baron went to a shielded upper balcony of Harkonnen Keep to watch the lights of the arriving craft.

Around him, the monolithic blackplaz-and-steel towers shone garish lights into the smoke-smeared darkness. Walkways and roads were covered by corrugated awnings and filtered enclosures to protect pedestrians from industrial waste and acid rain. Given a little more imagination and attention to detail during its construction, Harko City could have been striking. Instead, the place looked stricken.

“I have the data for you, my Baron,” said a nasal but sharp voice behind him, as close as an assassin.

Startled, the Baron turned, flexing his well-muscled arms. He scowled. The gaunt-robed form of his personal Mentat, Piter de Vries, stood at the doorway to the balcony.

“Don’t ever sneak up on me, Piter. You slither like a worm.” The comparison brought to mind his nephew Rabban’s desert hunting expedition and its embarrassing results. “Harkonnens kill worms, you know.”

“So I’ve heard,” de Vries answered dryly. “But sometimes moving silently is the best way to acquire information.” A wry smile formed on his lips, which were stained red from the cranberry-colored sapho juice Mentats drank in order to increase their abilities. Always seeking physical pleasures, curious to experiment with additional addictions, the Baron had tried sapho himself, but found it to be bitter, vile stuff.

“It’s a Reverend Mother and her entourage,” de Vries said, nodding toward the lights of the shuttle. “Fifteen Sisters and acolytes, along with four male guards. No weapons that we could detect.”

De Vries had been trained as a Mentat by the Bene Tleilax, genetic wizards who produced some of the Imperium’s best human computers. But the Baron hadn’t wanted a mere data-processing machine with a human brain— he’d wanted a calculating and clever man, someone who could not only comprehend and compute the consequences of Harkonnen schemes, but who could also use his corrupt imagination to assist the Baron in achieving his aims. Piter de Vries was a special creation, one of the infamous Tleilaxu “twisted Mentats.”

“But what do they want?” the Baron muttered, gazing at the landed shuttle. “Those witches seem damned confident coming here.” His own blue-uniformed troops marched out like a wolf pack before any of the passengers emerged from the ship. “We could erase them in an instant with our most trivial House defenses.”

“The Bene Gesserit are not without weapons, my Baron. Some say they themselves are weapons.” De Vries raised a thin finger. “It’s never wise to incur the wrath of the Sisterhood.”

“I know that, idiot! So, what’s the Reverend Mother’s name and what does she want?”

“Gaius Helen Mohiam. As to what she wants . . . her Sisterhood has refused to say.”

“Damn them and their secrets,” the Baron grumbled, as he spun about on the plaz-enclosed balcony. He strode toward the corridor to go meet the shuttlecraft.

Piter de Vries smiled after him. “When a Bene Gesserit speaks, she often does so in riddles and innuendos, but her words also hold a great deal of truth. One simply needs to excavate it.”

The Baron responded with a deep grunt, kept going. Intensely curious himself, Piter followed.

On the way, the Mentat reviewed his knowledge of these black-robed witches. The Bene Gesserit occupied themselves with numerous breeding schemes, as if farming humanity for their own obscure purposes. They also commanded one of the greatest storehouses of information in the Imperium, using their intricate libraries to look at the broad movements of peoples, to study the effects of one person’s actions amidst interplanetary politics.

As a Mentat, de Vries would have loved to get his hands on that storehouse of knowledge. With such a treasure trove of data he could make computations and prime projections— perhaps enough to bring down the Sisterhood itself.

But the Bene Gesserit allowed no outsiders into their archives, not even the Emperor himself. Hence there wasn’t much on which even a Mentat could base his calculations. De Vries could only guess at the arriving witch’s intentions.

The Bene Gesserit liked to manipulate politics and societies in secret, so that few people could trace the exact patterns of influence. Nevertheless, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam knew how to plan and execute a spectacular entrance. With black robes swishing, flanked by two immaculately dressed male guards and followed by her troop of acolytes, she strode into the reception hall of the ancestral Harkonnen Keep.

Seated at a gleaming blackplaz desk, the Baron waited to receive her, accompanied by his twisted Mentat, who stood on one side with a few handpicked personal guards. To exhibit his utter contempt and lack of interest for these visitors, the Baron wore a sloppy, casual robe. He had prepared no refreshments for them, no fanfare, no ceremony whatsoever.

Very well, Mohiam thought, perhaps it’s best we keep this encounter a private matter anyway.

In a strong, firm voice she identified herself, then took one step closer to him, leaving her entourage behind. She had a plain face that showed strength rather than delicacy— not ugly, but not attractive either. In profile her nose, while unremarkable from the front, was revealed to be overlong. “Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, my Sisterhood has business to discuss with you.”

“I’m not interested in doing business with witches,” the Baron said, resting his strong chin on his knuckles. His spider-black eyes looked the assemblage over, assessing the physiques and physical appearance of her male guards. The fingers of his free hand tapped a nervous rhythm against his thigh.

“Nevertheless, you will hear what I have to say.” Her voice was iron.

Seeing the blustering rage building within the Baron, Piter de Vries stepped forward. “Need I remind you, Reverend Mother, where you are? We did not invite you to come here.”

“Perhaps I should remind you,” she snapped at the Mentat, “that we are capable of running a detailed analysis of all Harkonnen spice-production activities on Arrakis— the equipment used, the manpower expended, compared with spice production actually reported to CHOAM, as opposed to our own precise projections. Any anomalies should be quite . . . revealing.” She raised her eyebrows. “We’ve already done a preliminary study, based upon firsthand reports from our”— she smiled—“sources.”

“You mean spies,” the Baron said, indignantly.

She could see that he regretted these words as soon as they were uttered, for they hinted at his culpability.

The Baron stood up, flexing his arm muscles, but before he could counter Mohiam’s innuendo, de Vries interjected, “Perhaps it would be best if we made this a private meeting, just between the Reverend Mother and the Baron? There’s no need to turn a simple conversation into a grand spectacle . . . and matter of record.”

“I agree,” Mohiam said quickly, assessing the twisted Mentat with a glint of approval. “Why don’t we adjourn to your chambers, Baron?”

He pouted, his generous lips forming a dark rose. “And why should I take a Bene Gesserit witch into my private quarters?”

“Because you have no choice,” she said in a low, hard voice.

In shock, the Baron mused at her audacity, but then he laughed out loud. “Why not? We can’t get any less pretentious than that.”

De Vries watched them both with narrowed eyes. He was reconsidering his suggestion, running data through his brain, figuring probabilities. The witch had jumped too quickly at the idea. She wanted to be alone with the Baron. Why? What did she have to do in private?

“Allow me to accompany you, my Baron,” de Vries said, already strutting toward the door that would take them through halls and suspensor tubes to the Baron’s private suite.

“This matter is best kept between the Baron and myself,” Mohiam said.

Baron Harkonnen stiffened. “You don’t command my people, witch,” he said in a low, menacing tone.

“Your instructions then?” she asked, insolently.

A moment’s hesitation, and: “I grant your request for a private audience.”

She tipped her head in the slightest of bows, then glanced behind her at her acolytes and guards. De Vries caught a flicker of her fingers, some sort of witch hand signal.

Her birdlike eyes locked on to his, and de Vries drew himself up as she said, “There is one thing you can do, Mentat. Be so kind as to make certain my companions are welcomed and fed, since we won’t have time to stay for pleasantries. We must return posthaste to Wallach IX.”

“Do it,” Baron Harkonnen said.

With a look of dismissal toward de Vries, as if he were the lowest servant in the Imperium, she followed the Baron out of the hall. . . .

Upon entering his chambers, the Baron was pleased to note that he had left his soiled clothes in a pile. Furniture lay in disarray, and a few red stains on the wall had not been sufficiently scrubbed. He wanted to emphasize that the witch did not deserve fine treatment or a particularly well-planned welcome.

Placing his hands on his narrow hips, he squared his shoulders and raised his firm chin. “All right, Reverend Mother, tell me what it is you want. I have no time for further word games.”

Mohiam released a small smile. “Word games?” She knew that House Harkonnen understood the nuances of politics . . . perhaps not the kindhearted Abulurd, but certainly the Baron and his advisors. “Very well, Baron,” she said simply. “The Sisterhood has a use for your genetic line.”

She paused, relishing the look of shock on his hard face. Before he could splutter a response, she explained carefully chosen parts of the scenario. Mohiam herself didn’t know the details or the reasons; she simply knew to obey. “You are no doubt aware that for many years the Bene Gesserit have incorporated important bloodlines into our Sisterhood. Our Sisters represent the full spectrum of noble humanity, containing within us the desirable traits of most of the Great and Minor Houses in the Landsraad. We even have some representatives, many generations removed, of House Harkonnen.”

“And you want to improve your Harkonnen strain?” the Baron asked, warily. “Is that it?”

“You understand perfectly. We must conceive a child by you, Vladimir Harkonnen. A daughter.”

The Baron staggered backward, then chuckled as he brushed a tear of mirth from his eyes. “You’ll have to look elsewhere, then. I have no children, nor is it likely I’ll ever have any. The actual procreation process, involving women as it does, disgusts me.”

Knowing full well the Baron’s sexual preferences, Mohiam made no response. Unlike many nobles, he had no offspring, not even illegitimate ones lurking among planetary populations.

“Nevertheless, we want a Harkonnen daughter, Baron. Not an heir, or even a pretender, so you need not worry about any . . . dynastic ambitions. We have studied the bloodlines carefully and the desired mix is quite specific. You must impregnate me.”

The Baron’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Why, under all the moons of the Imperium, would I want to do that?” He raked his gaze up and down her body, dissecting her, sizing her up. Mohiam was rather plain-looking, her face long, her brown hair thin and unremarkable. She was older than he, near the end of her childbearing years. “Especially with you.”

“The Bene Gesserit determine these things through genetic projections, not through any mutual or physical attraction.”

“Well, I refuse.” The Baron turned about and crossed his arms over his chest. “Go away. Take your little slaves with you and get off Giedi Prime.”

Mohiam stared at him for a few more moments, absorbing the details of his chambers. Using Bene Gesserit analytical techniques, she learned many things about the Baron and his personality from the way he maintained this odorous private warren, a space that was not groomed and decorated for the view of formal visitors. He unknowingly exhibited a wealth of information about his inner self.

“If that is your wish, Baron,” she said. “My shuttle’s next stop will be Kaitain, where we have a meeting already scheduled with the Emperor. My personal data library on the ship contains copies of all the records that give evidence of your spice-stockpiling activities on Arrakis, and documentation of how you have altered your production deliberately to hide your private stores from CHOAM and House Corrino. Our preliminary analysis contains enough information to initiate a full-scale Guild bank audit of your activities and revocation of your temporary CHOAM directorship.”

The Baron stared back at her. An impasse, neither of them budging. But he saw behind her eyes the truth in her words. He did not doubt the witches had used their diabolical intuitive methods to determine exactly what he had done, how he had been making a secret fool out of Elrood IX. He also knew that Mohiam would not hesitate to follow through with her threat.

Copies of all the records . . . Even destroying this ship would do no good. The infernal Sisterhood obviously had other copies elsewhere.

The Bene Gesserit probably had blackmail material on Imperial House Corrino as well, perhaps even embarrassing data on the important but surreptitious dealings of the Spacing Guild and the powerful CHOAM Company. Bargaining chips. The Sisterhood was good at learning the weaknesses of potential enemies.

The Baron hated the Hobson’s choice she gave him, but he could do nothing about it. This witch could destroy him with a word, and in the end still force him to give her his bloodline.

“To make things easier on you, I have the ability to control my bodily functions,” Mohiam said, sounding reasonable. “I can ovulate at will, and I guarantee that this unpleasant task will not need to be repeated. From a single encounter with you, I can guarantee the birth of a girl-child. You need not worry about us again.”

The Bene Gesserit always had plans afoot, wheels within wheels, and nothing with them was ever as clear as it seemed. The Baron frowned, running through the possibilities. With this daughter they wanted so badly, did the witches— in spite of their denials— intend to create an illegitimate heir and claim House Harkonnen in the following generation? That was preposterous. He was already grooming Rabban for that position, and no one would question it.

“I . . .” He fumbled for words. “I need a moment to consider this, and I must speak with my advisors.”

Reverend Mother Mohiam all but rolled her eyes at the suggestion, but granted him leave, gesturing for the Baron to take his time. Tossing aside a bloodstained towel, she lounged back on the divan, comfortable to wait.

Despite his despicable personality, Vladimir Harkonnen was an attractive man, well built with pleasant features: reddish hair, heavy lips, pronounced widow’s peak. However, the Bene Gesserit instilled in all their Sisters the critical belief that sexual intercourse was a mere tool for manipulating men and for obtaining offspring to add to the genetically connected web of the Sisterhood. Mohiam never intended to enjoy the act, no matter her orders. Nevertheless, she did find it pleasurable to have the Baron under her thumb, to be able to force him into submission.

The Reverend Mother sat back, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the flow and ebb of hormones in her body, the inner workings of her reproductive system . . . preparing herself.

She knew what the Baron’s answer had to be.

“Piter!” the baron strode down the halls. “Where’s my Mentat?”

De Vries slipped out of an adjoining hall, where he’d been intending to use the hidden observation holes he’d placed in the Baron’s private chambers.

“I’m here, my Baron,” he said, then swigged from a tiny vial. The sapho taste triggered responses in his brain, firing his neurons, stoking his mental capabilities. “What did the witch request? What is she up to?”

The Baron wheeled, finally finding an appropriate target for his rage. “She wants me to impregnate her! The sow!”

Impregnate her? de Vries thought, adding this to his Mentat database. At hyper speed he reassessed the problem.

“She wants to bear my girl-child! Can you believe it? They know about my spice stockpiles, too!”

De Vries was in Mentat mode. Fact: The Baron would never have children any other way. He loathes women. Besides, politically, he is too careful to spread his seed indiscriminately.

Fact: The Bene Gesserit have broad genetic records on Wallach IX, numerous breeding plans, the results of which are open to interpretation. Given a child by the Baron— a daughter instead of a son?— what could the witches hope to accomplish?

Is there some flaw— or advantage— in Harkonnen genetics they wish to exploit? Do they simply wish to do this because they consider it the most humiliating punishment they can inflict upon the Baron? If so, how has the Baron personally offended the Sisterhood?

“The thought of it disgusts me! Rutting with that broodmare,” the Baron growled. “But I’m nearly mad with curiosity. What can the Sisterhood possibly want?”

“I’m unable to make a projection, Baron. Insufficient data.”

The Baron looked as if he wanted to strike de Vries, but refrained. “I’m not a Bene Gesserit stud!”

“Baron,” de Vries said calmly, “if they truly have information about your spice-stockpiling activities, you cannot afford to have that exposed. Even if they were bluffing, your reaction has no doubt already told them all they need to know. If they offer proof to Kaitain, the Emperor will bring his Sardaukar here to exterminate House Harkonnen and set up another Great House in our stead on Arrakis, just as they removed Richese before us. Elrood would like that, no doubt. He and CHOAM can withdraw their contracts from any of your holdings at any time. They might even give Arrakis and the spice production to, say, House Atreides . . . just to spite you.”

“Atreides!” The Baron wanted to spit. “I’d never let my holdings fall into their hands.”

De Vries knew he had struck the right chord. The feud between Harkonnen and Atreides had started many generations before, during the tragic events of the Battle of Corrin.

“You must do as the witch demands, Baron,” he said. “The Bene Gesserit have won this round of the game. Priority: Protect the fortunes of your House, your spice holdings, and your illicit stockpiles.” The Mentat smiled. “Then get your revenge later.”

The Baron looked gray, his skin suddenly blotched. “Piter, from this instant forward I want you to begin erasing the evidence and dispersing our stockpiles. Spread them to places where no one will think to look.”

“On the planets of our allies, too? I wouldn’t recommend that, Baron. Too many complexities setting it up. And alliances change.”

“Very well.” His spider-black eyes lit up. “Put most of it on Lankiveil, right under the nose of my stupid half brother. They’ll never suspect Abulurd’s collusion in any of this.”

“Yes, my Baron. A very good idea.”

“Of course it’s a good idea!” He frowned, looked around. Thinking of his half brother had reminded him of his cherished nephew. “Where is Rabban? Maybe the witch can use his sperm instead.”

“I doubt it, Baron,” de Vries said. “Their genetic plans are usually specific.”

“Well, where is he anyway? Rabban!” The Baron spun about and paced the hall, as if looking for something to stalk. “I haven’t seen him in a day.”

“Off on another one of his silly hunts, up at Forest Guard Station.” De Vries suppressed a smile. “You are on your own here, my Baron, and I think you’d better get to your bedchamber. You have a duty to perform.”