In an effort to understand how the Sisterhood had short-circuited his demands, the Baron and Piter de Vries huddled in the metal-walled conference room of the Harkonnen military frigate. The ship orbited Wallach IX, weapons ready . . . but with no target. For two days, hourly comlink messages had been sent to the Bene Gesserit, without any response.

For once the Mentat had no answers as to where or how the witches had hidden; no probabilities, projections, or summations. He had failed. The Baron, who accepted no excuses for failure (and de Vries had failed him), was prepared to kill someone in a most unpleasant manner.

Feeling like an outsider, a brooding Glossu Rabban sat to one side watching them, wishing he could offer some insight. “They’re witches after all, aren’t they?” he finally said, but no one seemed interested in the comment. No one ever listened to his ideas.

Disgusted, Rabban left the conference room, knowing his uncle was glad to see him go. Why were they even discussing the situation? Rabban couldn’t tolerate sitting around, getting nowhere. It made them all appear weak.

As the Baron’s heir-presumptive, Rabban thought he had done well for House Harkonnen. He’d overseen spice operations on Arrakis, had even launched the first surreptitious strike in what should have been an all-out Atreides-Tleilaxu war. Time and time again he had proven himself, but the Baron always treated him as if he were slow-witted, even calling him “a muscle-minded tank brain” to his face.

If they had let me go down to the witches’ school, I could have smelled them out.

Rabban knew exactly what needed to be done. He also knew better than to ask permission. The Baron would only say no . . . and the Baron would be wrong to deny him. Rabban would solve the problem himself and claim his reward. At long last his uncle would see his capability.

In heavy black boots, the burly man strode through the frigate corridors, intent on his mission. Around him the armed ship droned along in the silent embrace of gravity. He heard snatches of conversation as he passed cabins and duty stations. Men in blue uniforms hurried by, performing their duties, always deferential to him.

When he gave his command, the men dropped their tasks and hurried to slide open a bulkhead wall. Rabban stood with his hands on his hips, satisfied to gaze upon the hidden chamber that held a sleek, highly polished vessel, a one-man warcraft.

The experimental no-ship.

He had flown the invisible fighter inside a Guild Heighliner more than a decade ago, and the ship had performed its duty impeccably . . . completely silent and unseen. His pilotry had been flawless, though the scheme had ultimately failed. Too much planning had been the fatal error before. And Leto Atreides— damn him— had refused to behave as expected.

This time, though, Rabban’s plan would be simple and direct. The ship and its contents were invisible. He could go anywhere, observe anything— and no one would suspect. He would spy on what the witches were up to, and then he could wipe out the entire Mother School if he wished.

He engaged the whisper-quiet engines of the attack craft, and it dropped through the bottom of the orbiting frigate. With increasing anticipation, Rabban activated the no-field generator— and the ship vanished in open space.

During his descent toward the planet, all ship’s systems functioned properly. The glitches from recent test flights had been repaired. High over a range of grass-covered hills, he banked toward the stucco and sienna-roofed buildings of the Mother School. So, the witches thought they could just disappear when the Baron demanded an audience? Were they snickering at their own cleverness? Now, the witches refused to answer repeated demands for a conference. How long did they imagine they could avoid the issue?

Touching a sensor button, Rabban armed the weapons. A massive, unexpected strike would engulf libraries and rectories and museums in flames, leveling them all to rubble.

That’ll get their attention.

He wondered if the Baron had even discovered his departure yet.

As the silent craft swooped toward the school complex, he saw shifting crowds of women outside the clustered buildings, foolishly confident that they no longer needed to hide. The witches thought they could thumb their noses at House Harkonnen.

Rabban cruised lower. His weapons system grew hot; targeting screens glowed. Before he wrecked the main buildings, perhaps he would pick off a few of the vulturelike females one at a time, just for sport. With his silent and unseen ship, it would seem like a fiery finger of God striking them down for their arrogance. The no-ship came into range.

Suddenly the witches all looked up at him.

He felt something press against his mind. As he watched, the women shimmered and vanished. Then his vision blurred, and he felt his head throbbing . . . hurting. He pushed a hand against his temple, trying to focus. But the pressure within his skull increased like a bull elephant rampaging against his forehead.

Below, the images shimmered. The crowds of Bene Gesserit flickered into view again, then dissolved into afterimages. The buildings, the landmarks, the planetary surface, all wavered. Rabban could barely see the controls.

Disoriented, his head splitting with agony, Rabban grasped the piloting console. The no-ship squirmed like a living thing beneath him, and the vessel went into a spin. Rabban let out a gargling, befuddled cry, not even realizing his danger until crash-foam and restraint webbing slammed around him.

The no-ship caromed into an apple orchard, ripping a long brown furrow across the ground, then tumbled over onto its back. After a groaning pause, the ruined craft skidded down an embankment and into a shallow creek.

The mangled engines caught fire, and greasy blue smoke filled the cockpit. Rabban heard the hiss of fire-suppression systems as he clawed himself free of the foam and protective restraints.

Choking on bitter smoke, blinking acid tears from his eyes, Rabban activated an escape hatch in the belly of the ship and crawled from the wreckage. He tumbled off the hot, slippery metal and landed on his hands and knees in the steaming water of the creek. Befuddled, he shook his head. Looking back at the no-ship, he saw that its hull flickered in and out of visibility.

Behind him, women swarmed down the embankment, like black-robed locusts. . . .

When Baron Harkonnen received the unexpected comlink message from Mother Superior Harishka, he wanted to strangle her. For days, his shouts and threats had gone unanswered. Now, though, as he paced the floor of the frigate’s command bridge, the old crone initiated contact herself. She appeared on the oval system screen.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t available when you visited, Baron, and I apologize that our comsystems were down. I know that you have something to discuss with me.” Her tone was maddeningly pleasant. “But I wonder if you might like to have your nephew returned first?”

Seeing her thin lips smile beneath those evil almond eyes, he knew his corpulent face must reflect his utter confusion. He spun to look at his troop captain, then at Piter de Vries. “Where is Rabban?” Both men shook their heads, as surprised as he was. “Bring me Rabban!”

Mother Superior gestured, and a few Sisters brought the burly man into view on the screen. Despite bloody scrapes and gashes on his face, Rabban appeared defiant. One of his arms hung limp at his side; his trousers were ripped at the knees, revealing jagged wounds beneath.

The Baron cursed under his breath. What has that idiot done now?

“He suffered some sort of mechanical malfunction in his vessel. Was he coming to visit us, I wonder? Perhaps to spy . . . or even to attack?” Next, a video image of the wrecked no-ship appeared on the screen, still smoldering at the edge of a ruined orchard. “He was flying a most interesting craft. Note how it phases in and out of view. Some sort of a damaged invisibility mechanism? Most ingenious.”

The Baron’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Gods below, we’ve lost the no-ship, too! Not only had his stupid nephew been caught by the Sisterhood, he had let the no-ship— the Harkonnens’ most powerful secret weapon— fall into the hands of the witches.

Moving silently, Piter de Vries whispered in his ear, trying to calm him. “Take slow, deep breaths, my Baron. Would you like me to continue negotiations with the Mother Superior?”

With a supreme effort, the Baron composed himself, then stepped away and turned back to the screen. He would deal with Rabban later. “My nephew is a complete dolt. He did not have my permission to take the ship.”

“A convenient explanation.”

“I assure you he will be severely punished for his brash actions. Of course we will also pay for any damages he caused to your school.” He grimaced, chagrined at how easily he had conceded defeat.

“A few apple trees. No reason to file a claim . . . or report to the Landsraad— if you cooperate.”

“Cooperate!” His nostrils flared, and he reeled backward, nearly losing his balance. He had evidence against them. “And would your report include a summary of how your Reverend Mother unleashed a biological weapon upon my person, in violation of the Great Convention?”

“Actually, our report would include a bit of speculation,” Harishka said with a vise-tight smile. “You may recall an interesting incident a few years back when two Tleilaxu vessels were mysteriously fired upon inside a Guild Heighliner. Duke Leto Atreides was accused of the atrocity, but denied the charges— which seemed preposterous at the time, since no other ship was nearby. No visible ship, at least. We have confirmed that there was also a Harkonnen frigate in the vicinity, en route to Emperor Shaddam’s coronation.”

The Baron forced himself to remain motionless. “You have no proof.”

“We have the ship, Baron.” The image of the flickering wreckage appeared on the screen again. “Any competent court would come to the same conclusion. The Tleilaxu and the Atreides will be most interested in this development. Not to mention the Spacing Guild.”

Piter de Vries looked from the Baron to the comscreen, wheels turning in his intricate mind, but he could find no acceptable solution.

“You’re talking yourself into a death sentence, witch,” the Baron said in a low growl. “We have proof that the Bene Gesserit unleashed a harmful biological agent. One word from me, and—”

“And we have proof of something else, don’t we?” Harishka said. “What do you think, Baron— do two proofs cancel each other out? Or is our proof far more interesting?”

“Provide me with the cure for my disease, and I’ll consider withdrawing my accusations.”

On the screen Harishka looked at him wryly. “My dear Baron, there is no cure. The Bene Gesserit use permanent measures. Nothing can be reversed.” She seemed mockingly sympathetic. “On the other hand, if you keep our secrets, we will keep yours. And you may have your troublesome nephew back— before we do anything else that might be irreversible.”

De Vries interrupted, knowing the Baron was about to explode. “In addition, we insist on the return of our crashed vessel.” They could not allow the Sisterhood access to the no-field technology, though the Harkonnens themselves did not understand it.

“Impossible. No civilized person would want to see such an attack craft repaired. For the sake of the Imperium, we must take steps to arrest the development of this deadly technology.”

“We have other ships!” the Baron said.

“She is a Truthsayer, my Baron,” de Vries whispered. The old Bene Gesserit looked at them deprecatingly while the Baron sweated for a better response.

“What will you do with the wreckage?” The Baron clenched his fists together so hard that his knuckles cracked.

“Why . . . make it disappear, of course.”

When Rabban returned, the Baron gave him a cane thrashing and locked him in his stateroom for the duration of the trip back to Giedi Prime. Despite all his foolish impulsiveness, the burly man remained the heir-presumptive of House Harkonnen.

For now.

The Baron paced the floor and pounded on the walls, trying to imagine the worst punishment he could inflict upon his nephew, an appropriate penalty for the incredible damage Rabban’s clumsy attack had caused. Finally, it came to him, and he smiled tightly.

Immediately upon returning home, Glossu Rabban was sent to the remote planet of Lankiveil, where he would live with his weakling father Abulurd.