To the Baron Harkonnen, Giedi Prime was beautiful, even in comparison with spectacular Kaitain. Smoky skies turned the sunset into torchlight. The blocky buildings and dramatic statues gave the Harkonnen capital a solid, implacable appearance. The very air, with its odors of industry and crowded population, smelled comforting and familiar.

The Baron had never thought to see this place again.

Once the ominous Heighliners and the Emperor’s Sardaukar fleet had departed from Arrakis, the desert world had trembled liked a kangaroo mouse that had barely escaped a predator.

According to the official story from the Palace, the Emperor had merely been bluffing, and never actually intended to damage melange operations. The Baron was not entirely convinced of this, but decided not to speak his mind. Shaddam IV had taken extreme, ill-advised actions before, like a petulant child who did not know his limits.

Insanity!

In his damaged garrison capital, the Baron had slammed around in search of scapegoats; all of his Fremen house workers had mysteriously vanished. It had taken him weeks just to get transport back to civilization. Rabban— with a variety of excuses— hadn’t been too quick to send a frigate.

Shaken by the infuriating Landsraad scrutiny and censures, the uneasy nobleman had fled to Giedi Prime to lick his wounds. Though he had been forced to miss the drawn-out proceedings against the Emperor, he had sent Couriers and messages, expressing his outrage at Shaddam’s misguided threat to destroy all life on Arrakis— “in reaction to a few minor bookkeeping errors.” He was skilled at shadings of truth, at massaging information to make himself look the least culpable. As the de facto Harkonnen ambassador, Piter de Vries should have been on Kaitain to take care of such matters.

He would have to send gifts quietly to Kaitain and act humbled and repentant, hoping the politically hamstrung Emperor would choose not to lash out at House Harkonnen. The Baron would make amends and pay even more substantial bribes than he’d already expended, probably amounting to all of the spice he had managed to stockpile illegally.

But the twisted Mentat had vanished without even bothering to send a message. The Baron hated unreliability, especially in an expensive Mentat. During the turmoil following the siege of Arrakis, as well as the revolt on Ix, there must have been ample opportunity for de Vries to kill Duke Leto’s woman and their baby. Reports were guarded, but it seemed that, while there had been a brief scuffle shortly after the birth, the Atreides baby was safe and healthy.

The Baron wanted to wring de Vries’s neck, but the Mentat was nowhere to be found. Damn the man!

As darkness fell, the fat Harkonnen lord glided on suspensors back inside Harkonnen Keep. He had much to do in preparation for his own legal defense, should CHOAM pursue the matter of his “indiscretions.” He wanted to be ready, though he had spoken the words all the Imperium wanted to hear. “I assure you that melange production will continue, as always. The spice will flow.”

His nephew Rabban was no help at all when it came to record keeping and technicalities. The brute was proficient at bashing skulls together, but nothing that required finesse. Certainly his chosen nickname of “Beast” did little to foster the image of a judicious statesman or skilled diplomat.

In addition, expensive repairs were necessary to rebuild the infrastructure of Arrakis, especially the spaceports and communication systems damaged by the Guild embargo. It was all so hard to do by himself, and he seethed again, angry that his supposedly loyal Mentat was not there to serve him.

Cursing his misfortune, he returned to his private chamber, where slaves had laid out a banquet: succulent meat dishes, rich pastries, exotic fruits, and the Baron’s expensive kirana brandy. He paced, nibbled, and brooded.

Since being trapped in bleak Carthag for so many days, unable even to send a transmission or summon a Courier, he had felt desperate for the finer things in life. Now he liked to snack all day long, just to reassure himself. He licked frosting off his fingers.

His body was soft and perfumed, having been bathed by fine serving boys, oiled, and massaged, until finally his tensions were beginning to relax. He was exhausted and sore, weary from the pleasures in which he had immersed himself.

Rabban lumbered into the chamber unannounced. Feyd-Rautha toddled along beside his big brother, wearing an intelligent but mischievous expression on his cherubic face.

The Beast thought he and the Viscount Moritani had managed to cover up their bungled attack on Caladan. The Baron, though, had learned of it almost immediately, and had kept silent about it. The idea did indeed show a surprising amount of initiative, and might have worked, but he would never want to admit that to his nephew. The Beast seemed to have covered his tracks well enough to keep any fallout away from House Harkonnen, and so the Baron would keep silent and let his nephew stew about it, worrying that he would be found out.

Now, Rabban shouted to two slaves who plodded along behind him. They carried a long, bulky package covered in bright wrapping and ribbons. “This way. The Baron will want to open it himself. Hurry up, you fools.” With a show of bravado, Rabban yanked the inkvine whip from a clip at his belt, and threatened to lash the slaves. Neither of the tall, bronze-skinned men flinched, though their arms and necks bore bright scars from previous whippings.

The Baron looked with disdain at the object, which appeared to be nearly two meters long. “What is this? I’m expecting no package.”

“A gift for you, Uncle, just arrived by Courier. There’s no marking on the outside.” He poked the wrapping with a blunt finger. “You’ll have to open it and see who it’s from.”

“I have no intention of opening it.” The Baron stepped back warily. “Has it been scanned for explosives?”

Rabban made a rude snort. “Of course. For all types of booby traps and poisons. We found nothing. It’s completely safe.”

“Then what is it?”

“We… couldn’t exactly determine that.”

The Baron took another small step backward, propelled by momentum and the assistance of his suspensors. He had not survived this long without a suspicious nature. “Open it for me, Rabban, but make sure Feyd remains well clear of you.” He had no intention of losing both heirs in one assassination attempt.

Rabban gave his little brother a small shove. Feyd stumbled toward the Baron, who snatched the child by the shirt collar and yanked him to safety. Rabban himself kept his distance from the package, and snapped to the two slaves. “You heard the Baron. Open it!”

Feyd-Rautha wanted to see what was inside and fussed when the Baron held him back. The slaves tore at the packaging. Since they were not allowed to hold knives or any sharp objects, they were forced to use their fingers to break the seals.

Remaining where he was, Rabban bellowed, “Well? What is it?”

Feyd struggled against the Baron’s grip. Finally the fat man released his fingers, letting the toddler make his way to the package that lay torn open on the floor.

The child looked inside and laughed. The Baron floated over on his suspensors. Curled up in the box he saw the mummified body of Piter de Vries, surrounded by metallic moldings that must have prevented scanners from determining exactly what the contents were. His lean face was unmistakable, though his cheeks and eyes were sunken in death. The twisted Mentat’s papery lips still showed sapho stains.

“Who sent this?” the Baron roared.

Now that the danger seemed to be past, Rabban strutted forward. He bent a molding aside and pried a note from de Vries’s stiff fingers. “It’s from the witch Mohiam.” He held it in front of his close-set eyes and read slowly, as if even the four words were difficult for him. “ ’Never underestimate us, Baron.’ ” Rabban crumpled the note and threw it to the floor. “They killed your Mentat, Uncle.”

“Thank you for explaining that.” The Baron wrenched moldings aside and tipped the box over so that the mummy tumbled out. He then delivered a vicious kick to the body’s rib cage. Now, in this most difficult time that required delicate political maneuvers just to ensure the survival of House Harkonnen, he needed a scheming Mentat more than ever.

“Piter! How could you be so stupid, so clumsy as to get yourself killed?”

The corpse did not answer.

On the other hand, de Vries had begun to outlive his usefulness. He had, admittedly, been an adequate Mentat, devious and full of sophisticated ideas. But he’d also had a penchant for drugs that distorted his perceptions, and a tendency toward showing too much initiative and acting on his own….

The next one would have to be watched more closely. The Baron knew the Tleilaxu had already grown other gholas from the same genetic stock: serial versions of Piter de Vries, fully trained as Mentats and twisted with specialized conditioning. The genetic wizards had known it was only a matter of time before the Baron finally lost his temper and carried out his repeated threats to kill de Vries.

“Send a message to the Tleilaxu,” he growled. “Have them rush me another Mentat.”