Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [236]
“The plan, Rabban, is simple,” he answered finally, “and I intend to offer you a key part in it. If you can handle it.”
His nephew’s heavy-lidded eyes lit up, and his thick lips twisted his generous mouth into a grin. Surprisingly, he knew enough to remain quiet and wait for the Baron to continue. Maybe, eventually, he’ll learn. . . .
“If we succeed in this, Rabban, our fortunes will increase dramatically. Better still, we can take personal satisfaction in knowing that we have at last ruined House Atreides, after all these centuries of feuding.”
Rabban rubbed his hands in delight, but the Baron’s black stare became harder as he continued. “If you fail, however, I’ll see to it that you’re transferred back to Lankiveil, where you’ll be trained any way your father wishes—complete with sing-alongs and the recitation of poems about brotherly love.”
Rabban glowered. “I won’t fail, Uncle.”
The tube car arrived at an armored high-security laboratory, and the deaf-mute motioned for them to exit the vehicle. The Baron couldn’t have found his way back to Harkonnen Keep if his life had depended upon it.
“What is this place?” Rabban asked.
“A research establishment,” the Baron said, waving him forward. “One where we are preparing a nasty surprise.”
Rabban marched ahead, eager to see the facility. The place smelled of solder and waste oils, blown fuses, and sweat. From the cluttered, open floor, Piter de Vries came up to greet them, stained lips smiling. His mincing footsteps and slithery, jerky movements gave him the demeanor of a lizard.
“You’ve had weeks here already, Piter. This had better be good. I told you not to waste my time.”
“Not to worry, my Baron,” the Mentat answered, gesturing for them to come deeper into the building’s high bay. “Our pet researcher Chobyn has outdone himself.”
“And I always thought Richesians were better at cheap imitations than actual innovations,” Rabban said.
“There are exceptions everywhere,” the Baron said. “Let’s see what Piter has to show us.”
Filling most of the chamber was what de Vries had secretly promised the Baron: a modified Harkonnen warship, 140 meters in diameter. Sleek and highly polished, this craft had been used to good effect in conventional battles to strike hard and escape quickly. Now it had been converted according to Chobyn’s exacting specifications, with the tail fins trimmed, the engine replaced, and a section of the troop cabin cut away to make room for the required technology. All records of the craft’s existence had been expunged from Harkonnen ledgers. Piter de Vries was good at manipulations like that.
A rotund man with a bald pate and steel-gray goatee emerged from the engine compartment of the attack ship, stained with grease and other lubricants.
“My Baron, sir, I’m pleased you have come to see what I’ve accomplished for you.” Chobyn tucked a tool into the pocket of his overalls. “Installation is complete. My no-field will operate perfectly. I’ve synchronized it with the machinery of this ship.”
Rabban rapped his knuckles on the hull near the cock-pit. “Why is it so big? This hulk is large enough to carry an armored groundcar unit. How are we going to do any secret work with this?”
Chobyn raised his eyebrows, not recognizing the burly young man. “And you are . . . ?”
“This is Rabban, my nephew,” the Baron said. “He raises a valid question. I asked for a small stealth ship.”
“This is the tiniest I could make it,” Chobyn answered with a huff. “A hundred and forty meters is the smallest cloak of invisibility the no-field generator can project. The constraints are . . . incredible. I—”
The inventor cleared his throat, suddenly impatient. “You must learn to think beyond your preconceptions, sir. Realize what we have here. Naturally, the invisibility more than makes up for any diminished maneuvering capability.