Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [135]
Ahead lay uncharted space.
Alone within the remnants of war-torn Ix, C’tair Pilru buried himself in a tiny transmission-shielded room. He hoped none of the suboids would find him. It seemed to be his only chance to survive the carnage.
His mother had once shown him this place concealed behind a dungeon wall of the Grand Palais, shielded up in the thick crust. As members of the Vernius Court, sons of the Ambassador to Kaitain, C’tair and D’murr had been assigned a place for personal safety should any emergency ever arise. With the same methodical efficiency she employed daily as a Guild banker, S’tina had prepared for every likelihood, and made sure her sons remembered. Sweaty, hungry, and terrified, C’tair had been relieved to find the hiding place intact amidst the chaos, gunfire, and explosions.
Then, safe and numb, the shock of what was happening to his city—his world—hit him full force. He couldn’t believe everything that had already been lost, how much grandeur had turned to dirt and blood and smoke.
His twin brother was gone, whisked off by the Guild to be trained as a Navigator. At the time he had resented that loss, but at least it meant D’murr was safe from the revolution. C’tair would not wish this ordeal on anyone . . . but he hoped that his brother had somehow received the news by now. Were the Tleilaxu covering it up?
C’tair had tried to contact his father, but the Ambassador had been trapped on Kaitain at the height of the crisis. Amid fires and explosions and murderous suboid gangs, C’tair had found himself with few options other than to hide and survive. The dark-haired young man would be killed if he tried to make it to the Vernius administration chambers.
Their mother was dead already.
C’tair hid in his enclosed room with the glowglobes extinguished, listening to faint tremors of distant fighting and the much louder sounds of his own breathing, his own heartbeat. He was alive.
Three days earlier, he had watched the revolutionaries destroy a wing of the Guild facility, the section of the blocky gray building that housed all Ixian banking functions. His mother had been in there. He and D’murr had visited her offices enough times during their childhood.
He knew S’tina had barricaded herself in the records vaults, unable to escape and unwilling to believe the rebellious suboid fighters would dare attack a neutral Guild stronghold. But the suboids did not understand politics or the subtle strands of power. S’tina had sent C’tair a final transmission, telling him to hold out, to stay safe, arranging for where they would meet again once the violence died down. Neither of them had believed the situation could get worse.
But while C’tair had watched, explosions planted by suboid rebels tore part of the building free. The structure broke away from its hold on the cave roof. Burning, groaning, tumbling, the wreckage fell with a monumental crash to the grotto floor, killing hundreds of watching rebels, as well as the Guild bankers and functionaries. Everyone inside.
The air filled with smoke and screams, and the fighting continued. He had known it would be useless to make his way down there to search for his mother. Instead, realizing that his entire world was falling apart, C’tair had run to the only shelter he knew.
Hidden within the transmission-shielded bolt-hole, he slept huddled in a fetal position, then awoke with a vague sense of determination partially dulled by his anger and grief. C’tair found and inventoried provisions laid up in nullentropy storage chambers; he checked outdated weapons in the small armory closet. Unlike some of the larger algae-rooms, this secret place had no orship. He hoped the chamber wasn’t on any charts, classified or unclassified. Otherwise, the Tleilaxu and their duped suboid followers would certainly find him.
Stunned