Chapter 28: The Information Broker
The safe house smelled like old metal and recycled air. Duncan was already there when I arrived, checking the room's corners with professional thoroughness.
"Clear," he said. Gestured to a crate. "Sit."
I pulled out the data chip. "Three Harkonnen sleeper agents. Verified through four independent sources. Names, positions, probable handlers."
Duncan took it. Plugged into his reader. His expression hardened as he scanned.
"These people are inside our household." Not a question. Statement of fact.
"Yes."
"You're certain?"
"Cross-referenced. Hetch provided initial names. Torren's Harkonnen contacts confirmed two. Mala's network verified the third independently. Then I ran counter-verification through a market source. All four pointed to the same people."
Duncan's jaw tightened. "A servant in the Duke's wing. A guard in the motor pool. A communications tech." He looked up. "If these are accurate, they could have killed the Duke a dozen times over."
"They weren't activated yet. Waiting for the right moment."
"Which moment?"
I hesitated. Calculated how much to say.
"There's something else. Harkonnen troop movements don't match withdrawal patterns. Too many supplies staying in-system. Too many personnel in wrong positions for departure."
Duncan's eyes sharpened. "You think they're planning something?"
"I think they're not leaving as cleanly as they claim. The sleepers, the equipment positioning, the supply caches that aren't being emptied..." I let it hang. "It feels wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"Like preparation instead of departure."
Duncan stood. Paced. Professional assessment happening behind his eyes.
"I'll bring this to Thufir personally. If you're right—if they're planning treachery—we need to fortify. Increase patrols. Root out any other infiltrators." He turned back to me. "This intelligence might have saved the Duke's life. You understand that?"
I nodded. Didn't trust my voice.
"The Duke is going to want to meet you. Soon. Probably within days." Duncan's hand landed on my shoulder. Heavy. Warm. "You've earned his gratitude. House Atreides doesn't forget loyal service."
Loyal. The word felt like a knife.
"Just doing what I can to help," I managed.
Duncan pulled a small flask from his belt. "Caladan tradition. Before that—" He poured two small cups. Water mixed with something that smelled sharp. Alcoholic. "To friends who watch our backs."
We drank. The liquid burned pleasantly. Tasted like home must taste to Duncan—salt air and distant oceans. Things I'd never seen on this planet.
"You're a good man, Morvani," Duncan said. Meant it. "In a city full of opportunists and cowards, you chose to help. That matters."
I wanted to tell him. Right then. Wanted to say: The Harkonnens are coming with Sardaukar. Thousands of them. You're going to die holding a door while they butcher everyone you love. I know this and I'm letting it happen.
But I didn't.
"Stay safe," I said instead. "Both of us."
"Always." He gripped my forearm. Warrior's clasp. "I'll have word for you in two days. The Duke's schedule is packed, but Hawat will make room for this."
After he left, I sat in the empty room. Stared at my hands.
Duncan thought I was a good man. Loyal. Brave.
I'd just given him information that might save three people while withholding intelligence that could save hundreds.
The HR penalty had already hit. Down to 89%. Two percent for choosing who lived and who died.
How much lower could it go before I stopped being able to feel the weight of these choices?
I didn't want to know.
Walking back to headquarters, I replayed the conversation. Duncan would show the sleeper data to Hawat. The Mentat would analyze it. They'd move on the infiltrators—probably arrest them quietly, extract information, eliminate the threat.
Some Atreides would survive who otherwise wouldn't have. The servant who might have poisoned the Duke. The guard who could have sabotaged vehicles. The tech who would have disabled communications at a critical moment.
Three lives. Maybe more. Real people with real futures.
That counted for something.
Didn't it?
The justifications felt thinner every time.
I reached headquarters as evening settled. The main chamber had its usual activity. Jorik was there, working on equipment maintenance.
"How'd the meeting go?" he asked casually.
"Good. Productive." I kept my voice neutral.
"You look tired."
"Long day."
He nodded. Didn't push. Genuine friend privilege—knowing when not to ask questions.
I made my way to my quarters. Locked the door. Sat on the cot.
The data chip with Harkonnen assault patterns was still hidden behind the false panel. Along with Venn's knife. Evidence of my choices.
I could still give it to Duncan. Tomorrow. Next meeting. Before the attack came.
I wouldn't.
The timeline had to hold. Paul's development required this. The Fremen integration. The prescient awakening. The terrible purpose that would burn across the galaxy.
I was sacrificing dozens—hundreds—to save billions. Eventually. Through chain reactions I could barely calculate.
That's what I told myself.
Truth was simpler: I was choosing me. My survival. My power. My future.
Everything else was justification.
The System chimed softly.
[INTELLIGENCE DELIVERY: CONFIRMED]
[PARTIAL WARNING PROVIDED]
[ATREIDES PREPARATION: MINIMAL INCREASE]
[TIMELINE INTEGRITY: MAINTAINED]
[ASSESSMENT: OPTIMAL STRATEGIC CHOICE]
[HR STABLE AT 89%]
Optimal strategic choice.
I'd traded Duncan's life for timeline preservation and called it strategy.
How much of me was left that could even recognize the trade?
Eighty-nine percent, apparently.
For now.
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