Though Abulurd formally retained the title of subdistrict governor of Lankiveil, in name at least, Glossu Rabban controlled the planet and its economy. It amused him to let his father keep the title, as that didn’t change who was really in power.

What could the old fool do anyway, holed up in a cliffside monastery?

Rabban despised the planet’s dreary skies, cold temperatures, and primitive people with their smelly fish. He hated it because the Baron had forced him to spend years here after his botched mission on Wallach IX. But mostly, he hated the place because his father loved it so much.

Secure on Lankiveil, Rabban finally decided to inspect the remote spice stockpile they’d hidden decades before. He liked to check the hoards periodically, to be certain they were secure. All records had been erased, all witnesses eliminated. No proof existed that the Baron had secreted away so much melange during his early tenure on Arrakis.

Rabban mounted an expedition, coming out of orbit to set down on the northern landmass where he had spent two years in the industrial port cities and the whale fur–processing plants. Now, with ten of his soldiers, he navigated the

ice-choked northern seas in a boat commandeered from one of the fisheries. His scanners and technicians knew where to search for the artificial iceberg. Rabban let them do their work while he huddled in his cabin and drank too much kirana brandy. He would come out on deck when the goal was sighted, but he had no interest in smelling the salty fog or freezing his fingertips until it was necessary.

The synthetic iceberg was perfection to the naked eye, exactly like any other floating arctic block. When the boat anchored, Rabban shouldered his way to the front of his troops. He stepped aboard the polymer-based iceberg, operated the hidden hatch, and entered the hollow blue tunnels.

Only to find the enormous storehouse completely empty.

When Rabban let out a deep bellow, the sound echoed through the cold tunnels. “Who did this?”

Later, the boat roared off to the south, leaving the faux iceberg behind. Rabban stood at the bow, so hot with anger that the wet and cold no longer affected him. The craft raced down to the rocky fjords, where Harkonnen soldiers swarmed into pathetic little fishing villages. The settlements looked much nicer than Rabban remembered them: the houses new, the equipment shiny and functional. The fishing boats and tackle, as well as the storehouses, were modern and well cared for, full of off-world imports.

The soldiers wasted no time in grabbing villagers and torturing one after another until the same answer surfaced again and again. Rabban had suspected even before he heard the name uttered through bloody lips and broken teeth.

Abulurd.

He might have known.

In the cliff city of Veritas, a cold winter snap came on. The Buddislamic monks used fresh water from deep mountain springs to enhance the structure and beauty of their remarkable monastery.

Abulurd’s scarred heart had recovered as much as it ever would. Wearing warm robes and thick gloves, he held a flexible hose and spigot that sprayed a sparkling mist onto the edge of the cave opening.

His breath gushed out in a cloud of steam, and the skin of his cheeks felt so cold it was bound to crack. But he smiled as he sprayed the hose, adding to the prismatic sheetwall of ice. The barricade built up slowly, like a curtain around the front of their overhanging grotto. The translucent, milky-white barrier hung down, a dome that reflected and sparkled in sunlight, yet blocked the winds that whipped around the crags. Chimes and weathervanes jangled outside the grotto and up along the cliffs, gathering power and making music at the same time.

Abulurd shut off the water flow and pulled back on the spigot so that monks could run forward with broken chunks of colored glass, which they positioned in the freezing water to create a kaleidoscope of brilliant hues. They stepped back, and Abulurd sprayed water again, coating the colored glass chips. As the frozen curtain grew, the studded jewels added rainbows to the city under the overhang.

After the ice barrier had been extended another half meter, the abbot of Veritas sounded a gong, calling a halt to the efforts. Abulurd shut off the water and sat back, exhausted but proud of what he had accomplished.

He stripped off his thick gloves and slapped the padded jacket to break away the crusting of ice. Then he opened his body covering to let out the warm steam-sweat and stepped into a portable dining enclosure with clearplaz windows.

When several monks arrived to feed the workers, Emmi came up to him carrying a stone bowl of hot soup. Abulurd patted the bench beside him, and his wife sat to share lunch with her husband. The broth was delicious.

Suddenly, through the dining enclosure he saw the ice curtain shatter inward with a blaze of lasgun fire. Broken shards crunched to the grotto floor, then slid down the outer cliff. After a second round of weapons fire, a Harkonnen attack craft became visible hovering in front of the overhang, weapons still smoking as it cleared away space so that it could drive under the shelf ceiling.

The monks scrambled about, yelling. One dropped a hose, and fresh water gushed across the cold stone floor.

Abulurd felt sick with a horrible sense of déjà vu. He and Emmi had come to Veritas to lead a life of peace, in secret. They wanted no contact with the outside world, especially not with the Harkonnens. Especially not with their elder son.

The attack craft scraped across the rock floor as it landed. The hatch hissed open, and Glossu Rabban was the first out, flanked by soldiers who bristled with weapons— though none of the monks in Veritas would ever have resorted to violence, not even to defend one of their own. Rabban wore his inkvine whip.

“Where is my father?” he demanded as he led his men toward the dining enclosure. His voice sounded like two rocks crashing together. The intruders ripped the thin plaz door open, allowing a cold wind inside.

Abulurd stood up, and Emmi grabbed him in a gesture so abrupt that she upended the bowl of hot soup. It tumbled to the polished floor and shattered. Steam rose from the spilled broth into the cold air.

“I’m here, Son,” Abulurd said, standing tall. “There’s no need to break anything else.” His mouth was dry with fear, his throat constricted. The monks backed away, and he was glad the others did not try to speak, because Glossu Rabban— his demonic son— had no qualms about opening fire on innocents.

The burly man swiveled as if his waist were on ball bearings. His heavy eyebrows furrowed, forming a hood that shadowed his face. He marched forward, fists coiled. “The spice stockpile— what have you done with it? We tortured the people in your fishing village.” His eyes danced with pleasure. “Everyone gave your name. And then we tortured some more, just to be sure of the matter.”

Abulurd stepped forward, putting distance between himself and Emmi and the other monks. His gray-blond hair hung limp over his ears with sweat from his labors. “I used the stockpile to help the people of Lankiveil. After all the hurt you’ve caused, you owe it to them.” He had intended to prepare for this eventuality, to set up an effective passive defense system that would protect them from Harkonnen rage. He’d hoped Rabban wouldn’t notice the missing spice until he’d had a chance to prepare the monks. But he hadn’t gotten around to it soon enough.

Emmi hurried across the floor, her face flushed, her straight black hair thrown back. “Stop this! Leave your father alone.”

Rabban didn’t even turn his head, didn’t take his eyes from Abulurd’s. Instead, he lashed out with one muscular arm and struck his mother squarely in the center of her face. She staggered back, clutching her nose as blood poured between her fingers and down her cheeks.

“How dare you strike your mother!”

“I’ll strike whomever I please. You don’t seem to understand who has the power here. You don’t know how pathetically weak you are.”

“I’m ashamed of what you’ve become.” Abulurd spat on the floor in disgust.

Rabban was unimpressed. “What have you done with our spice stockpile? Where have you taken it?”

Abulurd’s eyes flashed fire. “For once, Harkonnen money has done some good, and you’ll never get it back.”

Moving with the speed of a viper, Rabban grabbed Abulurd’s long-fingered hand and yanked it toward him. “I’m not going to waste time with you,” he said, his voice deep and threatening. With a vicious twist, he snapped Abulurd’s index finger, breaking it like a dry stick. Then he broke the thumb.

Abulurd reeled with the pain. Emmi staggered to her feet and screamed. Blood streamed down her mouth and chin.

“What have you done with the spice?” Quickly, efficiently, Rabban broke two fingers on his father’s other hand for good measure.

Abulurd looked at his son, his gaze steady, thrusting away the pain that howled through his broken hands. “I distributed all the money through dozens of intermediaries. We spent the credits here on Lankiveil. We built new buildings, bought new equipment, purchased food and medical supplies from off-world merchants. We’ve taken some of our people off-planet to better places.”

Rabban was incredulous. “You spent all of it?” There had been enough melange hidden away to finance several large-scale wars.

Abulurd’s laugh was a thin, slightly hysterical sound. “A hundred solaris here, a thousand there.”

Now the steam seemed to boil out of Rabban, deflating him— because he understood that his father undoubtedly could have done exactly as he claimed. If so, the Harkonnen spice hoard was truly gone. Rabban could never retrieve it. Oh, he might squeeze a bit of repayment here and there from the villagers, but he would never reclaim everything they had lost.

The tides of rage threatened to burst a blood vessel in Rabban’s brain. “I’ll kill you for this.” His voice held a cold tone of absolute certainty.

Abulurd stared into the wide, hate-filled face of his son— a complete stranger. Despite all Rabban had done, after all the corruption and evil, Abulurd still remembered him as a mischievous boy, still remembered when Emmi had held him as a baby.

“You will not kill me.” Abulurd’s voice was stronger than he imagined it could be. “No matter how vile you are or how many twisted things the Baron has taught you, you cannot commit such a heinous act. I am your own father. You are a human being— not a beast.”

This triggered the last avalanche of uncontrolled emotions. With both hands, Rabban grasped his father around the throat. Emmi screamed and threw herself at their deranged son, but she might have been a blown leaf. Rabban’s powerful hands squeezed and squeezed.

Abulurd’s eyes bulged, and he reached up to fight back with his broken fingers.

Rabban’s thick lips curved upward in a smile. He crushed Abulurd’s larynx and snapped his neck. With a frown of disgust, he released his grip and let his father’s corpse tumble to the rock floor as the monks and his own mother gasped and screamed.

“From now on I shall be called Beast.” Pleased with the new name he had chosen, Rabban signaled for his men to accompany him. Then he strode back to the ships.