The Winds of Dune (19 page)

But Rhombur remained paralyzed and ineffective—and Bronso seethed at his failure. And now his mother was gone, with no guarantees that he would ever see her again. The young man spent the rest of the day in misery and anger, locked in his quarters, refusing even to see Paul.

When Bronso couldn’t stand it anymore, he burst into his father’s private office to find the patchwork man sitting on a reinforced chair. Rhombur’s scarred face did not easily show a full range of emotions, but he wiped a tear from his natural eye. “Bronso!”

When he saw his father in such despair, most of his anger and frustration dissipated. Just looking at the tapestry of scars and artificial limbs, the oddly matched melding of polymer skin with human flesh—everything reminded Bronso of how much physical and mental pain his father had already suffered.

Bronso faltered, but he still had something to say, and his frustrations overtook all compassion. Over the past year, he had noticed the decline in respect with which influential members of Ixian society regarded his father. At one time, according to the glorious stories, Prince Rhombur had shown uncanny daring and persistence, fleeing into exile while continuing to fight against the Tleilaxu invaders. Or were those merely stories? Now Bronso felt only scorn. Rhombur was no longer a hero in his eyes.

He lashed out. “People walk all over you, don’t they? I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

Rhombur’s synthetic voice made an unusual sound, a humming in his throat. He seemed too weary to move. “The Sisters said they could help. What else could I do?”

“They said what you wanted to hear—and you believed them!”

“Bronso, you don’t understand.”

“I understand that you’re weak and ineffective. Will there be anything left when it’s time for me to be Earl? Or will the technocrats murder both of us first? Why don’t you arrest them? You know Avati’s guilty, but you let him just walk away.”

Rhombur half rose from his seat, scowled angrily. “You’re upset, but you have no idea what you’re saying.” Daunted, he locked his hands together, kneading them, making the artificial material strain. He hesitated, as if afraid to speak further, and finally said, “Uh, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you, but your mother and I never found the right time. I’m sorry I kept it from you. Now you’re all I’ve got left—until your mother gets better.”

Feeling a sense of foreboding, Bronso lashed out in a clumsy attempt to protect his own feelings. “What? What else don’t I know?”

Rhombur sagged further into his reinforced chair. “After my body was nearly destroyed, I could never father children, could never hope for an heir to House Vernius. Tessia might have returned to the Sisterhood and become a concubine for some other noble.” His voice hitched. “But she stayed with me and insisted on marriage, even when I had nothing to offer. We managed to overthrow the Tleilaxu and regain control of Ix, but I still needed an heir, or House Vernius would vanish after all. And so we—”

He stopped, willing the rest of the words to come. “You see, I had a half brother, a child that my mother bore a long time ago when she was a court concubine to Emperor Elrood IX, before she married your grandfather. At least he had half of my bloodline, so Tessia . . . she obtained, uh, genetic samples. And with my approval she used them.”

“Used them? What are you talking about?” Why couldn’t his father just speak plainly?

“That is how you were conceived. I could not contribute the . . . the sperm, but I could grant my blessing. Artificial insemination.”

Bronso heard thunder in the back of his head. “You’re saying that you aren’t my real father. Why would you say that? And why tell me now?”

“It doesn’t matter, because you are my heir. Through my mother, Lady Shando Balut, you still have my bloodline. My love for you is the same as if—”

Bronso reeled. First, he’d lost his mother, and now this! “You lied to me!”

“I didn’t lie. I am your true father in every way that matters. You’re only eleven. Your mother and I were looking for the right time—”

“And she’s not here. She may never come back, may never recover. And now I learn that you’re not even my father!” His voice was as sharp as a dagger. He turned his back on Rhombur and stormed out of the apartment.

“Bronso, you
are
my son! Wait!”

But he kept going, without looking back.

Fuming and unable to concentrate, Bronso grabbed his climbing gear and strapped on new traction pads and a suspensor harness. He wanted to run away, but had no destination in mind. Breathing heavily, fighting the clamor in his head, he went to an upper floor of the Grand Palais and opened the slanted plates of transparent plaz. Not caring about anything but movement, he wormed his body through the gap as the processed wind drifted in. Barely bothering to look where he was going, Bronso vaulted out into the vastness of the chamber and scrambled up the sheer wall. He had no fear, nothing to lose.

“Bronso, what are you doing!”

He looked down to the window he’d left open and saw Paul Atreides sticking his head out, looking up. He ignored his friend, kept climbing the wall. He didn’t think he could ever get far enough away.

Moments later, however, he saw Paul ascending with his own set of traction pads and harness, moving awkwardly but making surprising speed. Annoyed, Bronso shouted, “You don’t have the skills for this. One mistake, and you’ll fall.”

“Then I won’t make a mistake. If
you
stay out here, then I’m staying with you.” As Bronso hung there, Paul caught up with him, panting. “Just like climbing sea cliffs.”

“What are you doing here? I don’t want you with me. I need to be alone.”

“I promised to keep you safe. Our bond, remember?”

Dangling there on the rock wall, Paul looked at him so earnestly
that Bronso surrendered and agreed to accompany him slowly, and safely, back to his rooms. “Well, you’ll be free of that promise. You’re going back to Caladan soon—and I’ll still be here with nothing but lies.”

Paul regarded him with calm seriousness. “Then we’d better talk now, while we still can.”

With emotions building up in him, but unwilling to admit his confusion and shame, Bronso said, “On your honor, swear that you will tell no one else what I’m about to say to you. I need to know I can trust you.”

“You should know about Atreides honor.” Paul gave his word, and after they returned to Bronso’s private chambers, with the entrance sealed, they sat together for a long time afterward. Far from anyone else, Bronso explained what Rhombur had told him. Caught up in distant thoughts, the redheaded boy stared out at the twinkling cavern city. “So here we are. My mother is gone, and my incompetent father isn’t really my father. I’m not even truly a Vernius! Ix has nothing to do with me anymore. I don’t belong here.” He ratcheted up his courage. “I’m running away from home, and no one can stop me—not Rhombur, not his guards, no one.”

Paul groaned. “I wish you hadn’t told me what you’re going to do.”

“Why? Are you going to stop me? You swore to keep this secret!”

Backed into a corner of responsibilities, Paul reached the best solution he could. “My promise to you is clear—I won’t turn you in or reveal what you’re doing. But I also made a promise to my father that I would watch out for you. I can’t have you getting yourself lost or killed, so I’m going with you. Now tell me, where are we going?”

“As far away from Ix as we can get.”

Each breath carries the risk that there may not be another one to follow
.

—ancient saying

A
fter slipping out of the cavern city and emerging into the starlight near a subsidiary spaceport, Paul followed Bronso toward a large, silent cargo ship on the landing field, its hold open and waiting. “Up the ramp and look for a hiding place aboard! After they finish loading in the morning, this thing will take off and enter the hold of a Heighliner—bound for points unknown.”

Paul wrestled with his friend’s impetuous decision, but he saw no honorable way to abandon him or report his intentions. Duncan and Gurney would never suspect that Paul intended to do something so foolhardy. He couldn’t say goodbye to them, or to his mother. If he saw her, Jessica would instantly sense the change. . . .

Hidden among hard, sharp-edged containers, the boys snatched a few hours of restless sleep until noises woke them: clanging, voices and men moving about, engines humming, loaders stacking cargo.

“Don’t worry, they’ve already loaded this compartment,” Bronso said in a loud whisper. “They’ve got no reason to come here. Nothing to worry about.” Paul listened to the tone of the voices, but detected no hint of hunters, no determined search teams. These were just men at work.

Two hours later, the hold was full, the heavy hatches sealed, the
chambers pressurized. The engines surged on, undamped by baffles or insulation, and since the sealed hold had no windowports, the ride to orbit was long, loud, and nerve-wracking. Finally, after a series of heavy clangs, a shudder through the deck and bulkheads, and a sharp hissing of equalizing atmospheres, the cargo ship went absolutely still and silent.

“I think we’re inside a Heighliner hold,” Paul said.

Bronso stretched and looked around in the dim light of emergency strips mounted to the bulkheads. “Let’s go. There are more interesting places to be aboard a Guildship.”

When Bronso found that the access doors had been locked from the outside, he crept up a ladder, pushed open a hatch in the ceiling of the cargo ship, and motioned for Paul to follow. The two of them crawled out onto the main deck. Paul had been aboard Atreides cargo ships and recognized the same general layout. From here, knowing the docking configuration, they could slip off the ship and go out into the layered decks of the immense Guildship.

Bronso marched toward an exit hatch, but Paul grabbed his arm. “Once we make our way to the passenger decks, how do we prove we paid for passage? Maybe we should stay in our safe hiding place.”

The Ixian boy glanced dismissively back at the hold. “Do you want to hide in the cargo ship all the way to its destination, or would you rather ride the Heighliner from system to system? I want to see the Imperium, not just the home world of one Ixian customer.”

Paul relented, and they passed through the cargo ship’s connecting doors into the receiving decks. Other people milled around, disembarking from the hundreds of vessels in the great ship’s hold. Acting as if they had business, the two young men walked briskly away.

Bronso rummaged in his pack for a crystal pad projector and led the way to a quieter alcove. He called up schematics, which he projected in the air for Paul to see. “This Heighliner was built in an Ixian shipyard. I think we’re
here
, and the levels we want”—he pointed toward a zigzag of ramps on a bulkhead in the hold—“should be in that direction.”

They blended in with other passengers, and followed them up ramps into crowded public promenades that seemed as vast as the cavern city of Vernii. Bronso pointed to a lavishly decorated lounge, where people filled their plates with food from a sumptuous buffet. Paul realized
his stomach was growling, and his companion didn’t hesitate. They boldly followed two gentlemen through the door of the lounge, then headed straight to the food-laden table. Trying to act casual, the two filled their plates, then found an unoccupied table.