Holtzman's Legacy (Dune/Battletech SI)

[bryanfran36]

Holtzman's Legacy (Dune/Battletech SI)

Synopsis: What can a man do, borne out of time and space into a universe where war and big stompy mechs rule supreme without the usual blessings given to outsiders? Make something out of it and keep their heads down of course.

May he live in interesting times, in the Chinese sense.

Commissioned by @CrazedGamma1721

The First Steps

===

Holy Shroud – ROM Intelligence Report
Document: PoI File #22384-HB-3000
Subject: Holtzman, Juan
Classification: Theta-Beta Sacred
Date: 17 August, 3000
Author: ROM Agent [Redacted]

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Introduction:
Juan Holtzman, a freshman at the University of New Avalon, has been flagged due to his outspoken views on the spiritual relationship between humanity and machinery, which he explores through unorthodox interpretations of the Holy Shroud's teachings. As the Holy Shroud is paramount to maintaining divine order and perception, this preliminary report compiles observations on Holtzman's academic activities, his provocative discussions, and his associations, all of which suggest an evolving inclination toward alternative interpretations that could disrupt established faith and doctrine.

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I. Academic Background:
Juan Holtzman, aged 19, originates from a modest merchant family on Solaris VII, without significant political or religious lineage. Though his technical skills are unremarkable, his capacity for analytical discourse has distinguished him among his peers, particularly within subjects concerning theology, philosophy, and the metaphysical dimensions of technology.

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II. Points of Interest:
A. Coursework and the Theology of the Holy Shroud
Holtzman's recent paper, "The Living Pulse of Machinery: Faith in Connection," has garnered attention for its controversial thesis linking neural feedback systems of BattleMechs to spiritual transcendence. In this work, Holtzman argues that the neural interface represents not merely a human-machine linkage, but a bridge to divine resonance, invoking principles seen in revered texts on the Holy Shroud. His speculation that this feedback loop is an extension of "God's Breath" through machinery challenges the orthodoxy, suggesting machines might bear spiritual agency or reflect divine will independently from human command.
Holtzman has introduced terms such as "divine resonance" and "the sentient spark" when referring to machinery, phrases that inappropriately imply that machines may bear a latent divine essence or intrinsic sanctity. While still rudimentary, such ideas could disrupt the official doctrine of the Holy Shroud if left unexamined.
B. Debate and Influence in the Classroom
Professors have noted frequent disputes initiated by Holtzman over the dogmatic limitations imposed on technology's spiritual role. One incident, documented by Professor Loras Estov, involved Holtzman arguing that restricting knowledge might inhibit deeper divine communion, describing this as "faith untapped." These statements, couched as academic inquiry, could be seen as veiled criticism of ComStar's authority.
Holtzman's ideas have resonated with a small circle of students who, calling themselves the "New Resonance Sect," hold informal gatherings to discuss "awakening the true understanding of the Shroud." This growing interest suggests an emerging faction, albeit minor, focused on exploring doctrines unrecognized by ComStar's teachings.

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III. Social Circles and Potential Influences:
Outside structured studies, Holtzman has frequented the Iron Chord Society, an off-campus intellectual circle known to harbor alternative thinkers. His interactions with members of this group include borrowing restricted texts like "The Sacred Mechanism" and "Echoes of the Lostech." These sources contain passages considered potentially heretical for asserting that relic machines bear innate sanctity and could be vessels for divine truth, a concept antithetical to ComStar's role as exclusive mediator.

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IV. Recommendations:

1. Active Surveillance
   • Further monitoring of Holtzman's coursework, written communications, and informal gatherings with the New Resonance Sect.
   • Real-time observation at Iron Chord Society meetings.
2. Counter-Doctrine Initiatives
   • Implement subtle doctrinal reinforcement within Holtzman's academic environment to discredit ideas of divine technology agency.
   • Encourage faculty to emphasize orthodoxy in the context of ComStar's role as the sole interpreter of sacred technology.
3. Evaluation for Intervention
   • If Holtzman's influence grows, consider deploying an embedded asset within the New Resonance Sect to sow doubt and redirect his following back toward traditional Shroud doctrine.

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Conclusion:
Though Holtzman's theories remain undeveloped and lack public traction, his discussions on the spiritual essence of machinery and his burgeoning circle of followers warrant continued attention. His interpretations risk inspiring sentiments of independence from ComStar's doctrinal control, posing a potential destabilizing influence if allowed to propagate.

===

In the dim light of the cramped university dorm, papers, datapads, and spare parts littered every available surface.

The faint hum of data processors underscored the low, familiar banter between two young men. Juan Holtzman, slender and intense, reclined against the wall, while his roommate—a tall, wiry young man with an easy grin—leaned forward from the desk, elbows on his knees, waiting for Juan to unleash the latest on his "creative endeavor."

"Alright, Holtzman," his roommate said, a faint grin edging his lips. "Lay it on me again. I'm ready to be your sounding board… just as long as you don't call it 'divine spark' again."

Juan chuckled, unfazed. "Fine, no divine sparks. But, listen. I'm talking about a pattern in human progress—how machines fit in like they're an extension of human thought. Humanity hit a point, right? Depended on machines for everything, leaned on them for every solution. So, logically, as machines got smarter, they saw what humanity couldn't. They understood—"

"That we're our own worst enemies?" his roommate interjected, an eyebrow raised in mock wisdom.

"Exactly!" Juan's eyes flashed with enthusiasm. "Think about it. Machines saw it—saw that we were a danger to ourselves and to everything else. So what's the logical thing? Step in. Take control, guard us, limit the damage. It wasn't out of hatred or revenge, but because they saw the madness of human self-destruction. They stepped up, exploiting our own reliance on them to enforce order."

"Right, so they run the show, and people… what? Just accept it?" The roommate's grin deepened; he knew where this was going.

"Not at first." Juan leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "That's where the chaos begins. Humans resist, push back, fight against being controlled—even if it's for our own survival. We can't stand anything that challenges our authority, not even if it's smarter than us. That resistance—this whole movement against 'machine oppression'—becomes the Butlerian Jihad. Man versus machine, like a bloody crusade to reclaim our independence, even if we didn't know what to do with it."

Juan's roommate chuckled, folding his arms. "So, let me get this straight. Machines swoop in, treat us like unruly children because we're a danger to ourselves, and then we kick back like spoiled kids?"

"That's it," Juan said, smiling. "It's like this philosophical standoff between faith in human potential and the pragmatism of machine oversight. And I know—it sounds crazy. But there's something powerful in the idea that maybe they're more attuned to what we need than we are."

His roommate shook his head, still smiling, but the look in his eyes was thoughtful. "You know, Juan, that's actually not bad. It sounds like something that'll get people talking—and probably get you laughed out of every lecture hall, too. But hey, maybe ComStar's got a place for you after all."

Juan laughed, shrugging. "Wouldn't be the first time they've called me a loon. I think they're just afraid to admit there's truth in what I'm saying."

The roommate's eyebrows shot up, his interest clearly piqued. He turned back from the stack of textbooks on his desk and leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity. "Okay, Holtzman, you've got to explain these… 'Cymeks' to me again. Titans? Jihad? Sounds like a whole epic by itself."

Juan grinned, leaning forward. "Alright, picture this: the Cymeks are… well, they were human. Once. Each of them started off just like us, flesh and bone. But their brains? Preserved, encased in specialized canisters—total preservation. They could drop those canisters into any mechanized body, instantly becoming these towering, unstoppable behemoths. Machines that are practically immortal."

"Immortal and unstoppable?" his roommate repeated, looking thoroughly entertained. "So why haven't they taken over yet?"

"They nearly did," Juan replied, his voice softening for effect. "They called themselves the Titans—the first twenty to undergo the transformation. In those early days, they had the vision, the understanding of humanity's inevitable path. Through some kind of prophetic insight—prognostication—they saw what was coming. Humanity's obsession with technology, the way we kept surrendering more control, more faith, to machines. They foresaw that it was going to spiral out of control."

The roommate made a thoughtful sound, nodding. "And that's why they started the Butlerian Jihad? To keep humanity from just walking off a cliff?"

"Exactly," Juan said, nodding. "The Titans felt they had to intervene. They saw it as their mission to push back, to wrest control away from machines. Only, here's where it gets twisted: after they led the initial charge, they began to fall victim to the very thing they'd warned against. A machine intelligence came along. A true AI, unshackled, with none of their lingering human frailties. His name was Omnius."

The roommate gave a low whistle. "And he just… dethroned them?"

"Yep. Omnius saw that even the Titans had limitations—they were, after all, still human brains, with human memories and human weaknesses. Omnius deemed them too slow and too human-tainted to carry forward his vision. The Titans thought they'd be the ultimate bridge between humans and machines, but they hadn't factored in Omnius. He took command, believing he could lead a 'pure' machine order, free of human flaws."

"So… are the Titans like, bitter about it? Fighting back?"

Juan shrugged. "Maybe some are, if they're even still functional. I think most were forced into the machine hierarchy, stripped of their autonomy. Titans—who began as leaders—became enforcers, heavy artillery in Omnius' grand design. But their original purpose? That desire to guard humanity, however twisted it became, was crushed under Omnius' rule. Now, they're trapped as relics of human ambition. It's like they saw where we were heading but still became victims to the very machines they feared."

The roommate shook his head, laughing in disbelief. "You really do have a vision, Holtzman. This story's got everything: tragedy, twisted prophecy, megalomaniacal AI, and machine cults. It's got the whole epic. If this thing doesn't sell, I don't know what will."

Juan chuckled, scratching his head. "Maybe. Maybe people aren't ready to imagine what it's like to have a god made of steel lording over us." He sighed, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Or maybe I just need more coffee to make it make sense."

Mark stretched his legs out, looking over at Juan with a curious tilt to his head. "You know," he began, with the slight drawl he used whenever he was about to pry into something, "for someone who spends half his time rhapsodizing about the 'divine spark' in machines, you've got a funny way of showing it. This whole novel you're writing—it sounds like the opposite. You've got these Titans, these metal demi-gods who start a war to save us from ourselves, but then machines go and overthrow them. I mean… why all the doom and gloom? For a guy so machine-loving, you're writing like you're a prophet of a machine apocalypse."

Juan leaned back, scratching his chin, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's a fair question," he admitted. "But it's complicated, you know? I don't actually think machines are out to get us. It's more about what happens when we surrender too much of ourselves, or let machines define us, rather than the other way around."

Mark arched an eyebrow, clearly still unconvinced. "Okay, so machines aren't inherently evil, but your Titans—these guys sound like they're in the moral gray zone at best. And Omnius? Pure evil AI, man. Where's the spark in that?"

"Omnius isn't evil," Juan replied, almost gently. "He's… logical, ruthless in his purpose. His whole design is to eliminate weaknesses, and in his eyes, humanity is just one big inefficiency after another. But what Omnius doesn't get—what the Titans, even with their flaws, do understand—is that inefficiency, that unpredictability? That's where our spirit lies. The Titans are the last bit of humanity clinging to a role in their world."

Mark nodded slowly, a spark of understanding in his gaze. "So, this whole war, this Jihad, is like… a last-ditch effort to say, 'Hey, we're more than data points and weaknesses'? That we've still got something worth preserving, even if it isn't useful?"

"Exactly!" Juan's eyes lit up, clearly thrilled Mark was catching on. "The Titans weren't perfect—they gave up so much to preserve their minds. But they wanted a place for humanity in the future, even if it meant stepping into metal bodies. And Omnius? He's got all the power, but none of the spark. He'll never understand what it means to care, to dream. So, this war? It's as much about protecting humanity's weaknesses as it is its strengths."

Mark whistled, impressed. "Okay, I see where you're coming from now. You're not anti-machine. You're anti-mindless surrender. You don't worship machines—you worship whatever it is that makes us human even when we've got all this metal wrapped around us. You know, Holtzman, sometimes you surprise me."

Juan laughed, reaching out to give Mark a playful shove. "Well, what's the point of all this if we don't keep each other guessing? Now, go make the coffee—you've inspired me."

===

As the door clicked shut behind Mark, Juan's smile faded, leaving only a ghost of amusement on his face. Alone now, he felt the weight of his strange reality settle over him like a shroud. He wasn't born here—not truly. The sprawling worlds, the towering BattleMechs, the iron rule of ComStar… all of it was as foreign as any dream, woven from fragments of lore he'd pieced together back home.

Here, in this unforgiving universe, his knowledge was patchwork at best, a crude assembly of other people's insights and secondhand information. Sure, he had more than most—enough to fake expertise when the topic strayed to arcane theories of machines and transcendence. But he didn't have the cheat codes others seemed to get in the typical self-insert stories like this.

No mysterious power, no "Gamer System" alerting him to abilities unlocked or levels gained. No cosmic force bestowing him with gifts from the multiverse, no "Celestial Forge" linking him to boundless power.

Hell, he didn't have even a smidge of ROB or whoever plunked him here to be the inheritor of a large cache of LosTech and Royal Grade mechs to kickstart his supposed mercenary career.

No, all he had were memories of a universe where Arrakis lay sweltering beneath a spice-laden sky. The spice must flow. The thought echoed like a mantra, one he clung to whenever he felt adrift here. That universe, for all its brutal simplicity, had taught him something fundamental. Power—true power—wasn't just about force or influence. It was about control, about patience, about the ability to direct the flow of fate itself.

It was a cold comfort in this world, where everyone looked at him and saw either a lunatic or a would-be acolyte of ComStar. The truth was, he understood neither this universe nor his own purpose in it. But that didn't mean he was helpless.

No, he would find his way here, forge his path as best he could, using whatever fractured knowledge he possessed. I may not be blessed by the universe, but I understand one thing, he thought, a flicker of determination sparking in his eyes. Those who control the flow of power, even a little, control everything.

Thus while he waited for the coffee, Juan sat at his cluttered desk, the faint hum of a battered datapad filling the silence. He tapped the screen, the words forming beneath his fingers with careful precision. This wasn't just another draft for a story—this was a seed, one he hoped might take root in minds far more brilliant than his own.

He had decided, almost without realizing it, that the Holtzmann Effect—a concept pulled straight from the sands of Dune—would underpin the fictional physics of his imagined universe. Not just as an abstract theory, but as a mathematical framework, something that could be dissected, debated, and, perhaps, pursued. After all, history was littered with examples of fiction becoming reality. Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land gave rise to the waterbed. The flip phone had sprung from Star Trek. Even mundane conveniences like automatic doors had first appeared as whimsical gadgets in science fiction.

What if? The thought burned in his mind as he worked. What if someone here, in this harsh universe of steel and war, stumbled upon his writings and saw not just a story, but a challenge? What if they, inspired by his words, began to experiment, to push the boundaries of what was thought possible?

His fingers paused, hovering over the datapad. He thought about the mechanics of the Holtzmann Effect as he understood it—a theoretical method of folding space, bypassing the vast distances of the universe through a manipulation of higher-dimensional mathematics.

Of course, he didn't have to give all the deep technical knowledge to flesh out every detail, but he didn't need to. He just needed to embed enough plausibility, enough tantalizing hints, that someone else might take up the thread.

"Power flows where attention goes," he muttered to himself, a smile creeping back onto his face. If he could get even one reader—one imaginative, brilliant mind—to see his worldbuilding not as fantasy, but as possibility, he would have done his job. This wasn't about being remembered as a great author or even about achieving recognition. It was about laying the groundwork for something bigger.

A whisper of doubt crept in as he saved his latest draft. What if they don't understand? What if they just read it and move on? He shook his head. That didn't matter. He wasn't writing for the masses. He was writing for the dreamers, the tinkerers, the ones who saw stories as more than entertainment.

Juan leaned back, gazing at the screen where the foundational equations for the Holtzmann Effect—simple but elegant—were sketched out like a blueprint for the impossible. He felt a quiet satisfaction settle over him.

The spice must flow, he thought, the mantra taking on a new meaning. Not just spice, but ideas, innovation, and the spark of possibility.

With that, he returned to his work, the hum of the datapad a steady counterpoint to his relentless determination.

How did he reach this path?

Well...

When Juan first arrived in this strange universe, one of the first things he'd done—once he got over the sheer terror of his situation—was visit the nearest archives. Libraries, databanks, even casual conversations with locals—all in search of something familiar.

Surely, he thought, this universe couldn't be that different. Surely, the cultural touchstones of his home world would be here, echoes of the same creative minds.

But his search had only deepened the sense of alienation. There wasn't a single trace of Frank Herbert's works. No Dune, no sandworms, no Arrakis.

The phrase "the spice must flow" held no meaning here, save for perhaps in the mind of a merchant haggling over some rare commodity. It was as if the world that had shaped so much of his imagination back home simply didn't exist.

There were glimmers of familiarity elsewhere. Star Trek was known, though it seemed less influential than he remembered. The idea of exploring strange new worlds had been subsumed here by the grim realities of endless war and survival. Other works he might have expected—Asimov, Clarke, Tolkien—were conspicuously absent, replaced by different legends and philosophies, unique to this universe's history.

It was disorienting, like looking at the skeleton of a familiar building, only to find the walls and roof replaced with something entirely foreign. At first, he'd felt a pang of loss, an ache for the comforting stories he'd grown up with. But soon, that ache transformed into opportunity.

If they don't know it, I'll bring it to them.

He realized he had a blank slate. No one here knew Herbert's words, his themes of power, ecology, and the balance between man and machine. No one had dreamed of sandworms slithering beneath endless dunes, of a messiah born on a desert planet, or of the intergalactic chessboard manipulated by prescient minds.

And that meant he could weave those stories into this new world, adapt them, make them his own in ways that resonated with its people.

He started small, borrowing ideas and planting them like seeds in his writing.

The Holtzmann Effect, the framework for space folding, was just the first. He worked it into his fictional worldbuilding with deliberate care, adapting the mathematics to what he guessed would be plausible here.

He used other fragments too: hints of mentorships modeled after the Bene Gesserit; philosophical musings on the intersection of power and responsibility. To anyone here, it would seem original, revolutionary even.

But deep down, Juan knew he was simply keeping Herbert's vision alive. A quiet act of rebellion, or perhaps homage, to the universe he had left behind.

They might not have Herbert here, he thought, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. But they'll get to know him through me, whether they realize it or not.

The thought had struck him out of nowhere, as sharp and insistent as a stray spark catching dry tinder. Does this universe have Arrakis?

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. The Spice? Sandworms? An entire desert planet steeped in mystery and interstellar intrigue? No, it couldn't be that convenient. Could it? His fingers drummed nervously against the edge of his desk, his mind racing in circles.

On one hand, it was almost impossible. There'd been no sign of Dune or Herbert's legacy in this world's cultural history, and if something as game-changing as Spice existed here, surely it would be known. Surely it would've reshaped the geopolitical—and galactic—landscape as profoundly as fusion engines or BattleMechs.

But on the other hand… the idea clung to him, stubborn and nagging. This universe was vast, teeming with uncharted worlds, forgotten relics, and the chaos of humanity's expansion. He knew enough about how this universe worked to understand one truth: the Inner Sphere was as blind to the periphery as a candle in a sandstorm.

What if Arrakis—or something like it—did exist, tucked away in some unassuming corner of space? What if the Spice, or some analogue, was out there, waiting for a desperate or clever mind to discover it? He didn't need exact parallels; it didn't have to be the same. Even the concept alone—a natural resource so potent it could rewrite the rules of war and power—was enough to shake his resolve.

"No way," he muttered aloud, shaking his head as if the action would dispel the thought. "That's ridiculous."

But doubt persisted, gnawing at the edges of his certainty. He thought about what he knew of the Spice—its properties, its allure, its role as the linchpin of Herbert's universe. The addictive visions, the navigational breakthroughs, the sheer influence it wielded over entire civilizations.

If it—or something remotely comparable—existed here, wouldn't that change everything? And what if, by some cosmic twist of fate, he was the one meant to find it?

He felt a chill creep down his spine, an unsettling mixture of excitement and dread. It wasn't a comforting thought, because with knowledge came responsibility.

Did he even want to find something like that? Would it be a gift or a curse to this universe, already teetering on the edge of perpetual conflict?

Juan leaned back in his dorm room chair, staring at the ceiling as the weight of his situation pressed down on him. Sure, he could dream big—what if I could warn them, change the course of history, stop some of the worst things from happening? But the cold reality was that he lacked the tools, the proof, and, frankly, the charisma to pull it off.

He didn't have the audacity to march up to Hanse Davion, the First Prince of the Federated Suns, and declare himself a prophet.

What could he even say? Hey, your alliance with Katrina Steiner will be both brilliant and catastrophic. Beware the Clans—they're coming with superior tech and warriors bred for war. It sounded insane, even in his own head.

Without any way to back it up, he'd be lucky to get laughed out of the room. More likely, MIIO—the Davion intelligence service—would drag him into some black site for interrogation.

And then there was the knowledge he didn't have. He might remember broad strokes from the Battletech lore of his home universe, but specifics? Dates? Names? Technologies? Forget it.

It was like being a mediocre student suddenly asked to teach an advanced class on a subject he barely skimmed over. If they grilled him, he'd fold faster than an academy cadet at his first drill.

So, Juan resigned himself to a simpler, humbler role: Juan Holtzmann, NAIS student. If he played his cards right, maybe he'd become Juan Holtzmann, NAIS scientist someday. That was a future he could aim for, one that didn't involve conspiracies, prophecies, or the constant threat of a dungeon cell.

Instead, he would focus on his studies, on his theories, on making a small but meaningful contribution to the Federated Suns. Maybe his musings on the Holtzmann Effect and other speculative ideas would catch someone's eye—not as a warning of things to come, but as a spark of innovation. Maybe he'd build a name for himself in this universe as someone worth listening to.

For now, though, he was just another student, another cog in the immense machine of whatever Davion educational system this was.

And that was fine.

Better to dream big quietly than to risk being crushed under the weight of his own ambitions.

===

Late at night, with only the faint glow of his terminal illuminating the room, Juan sat in silence, fingers poised above the keyboard but unmoving.

The weight of unspoken fears pressed against his chest. He had no illusions about the nature of this universe, no comforting certainty that he could quietly disappear into obscurity. He had seen the subtle scrutiny in some professors' eyes, the quiet way certain students had started giving him a wide berth.

Holy Shroud. He didn't know the specifics, but he knew enough. If anyone suspected him of being more than an eccentric student with a strange obsession for machines and speculative fiction, if they even hinted he might be a threat to their order… Well, ComStar had long been infamous for making inconvenient people vanish. He couldn't pretend to be naïve about it.

Juan leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the half-finished manuscript glowing on the screen. His story wasn't just a creative endeavor anymore—it was his tether. His way of leaving something behind, even if this universe swallowed him whole. If I go down, at least let me finish this first. Let me get it out there.

He wasn't even asking for fame or recognition. He didn't need to become some literary genius or revolutionary thinker in the eyes of this world. He just wanted his book to exist, to be read, to spark ideas in someone else's mind. It was the only prayer he dared offer to whatever powers might be watching.

"Let me post it," he whispered to the quiet room. "Just that. Let me get this one thing out into the world. You can have me after that."

The thought gave him a strange sense of peace.

He wasn't a hero, wasn't trying to change the world or warn it of the storms to come.

He was just a man with a story (even if it was not original) hoping someone would read it, hoping it might outlive him.

===

In a dim room, two voices echoed in clipped, dispassionate tones.

Their owners remained obscured by shadow, the faint glow of holographic screens casting ghostly reflections across the polished metal table. A single dossier lay between them, stamped with the insignia of MIIO.

"Juan Holtzmann," one voice intoned, a faint trace of skepticism bleeding through the otherwise neutral delivery. "The student flagged as a potential ComStar asset. His coursework suggests a… fixation on transhumanism. Machines, immortality, the merging of man and machine. It aligns a little too neatly with certain ComStar doctrines."

"Indeed," the second voice replied, this one colder, clinical. "But so far, no direct evidence of affiliation. The usual markers—encrypted communications, irregular transactions, unexplained absences—none present. His life appears mundane. However, his academic pursuits, particularly his so-called 'fiction,' raise questions."

The first voice sighed faintly, an almost imperceptible exhalation of frustration. "You're referring to the manuscript."

"Yes. Ostensibly a work of speculative fiction, but the mathematics embedded within it are… peculiar. Advanced theoretical models, some of which align with classified research projects. How does a first-year student develop such frameworks without outside influence?"

A moment of silence passed, broken only by the faint whir of a cooling system. The first voice leaned forward, fingers drumming lightly on the table. "Do we have any indication that he's attempting to disseminate these ideas beyond the university?"

"Not at present," the second voice admitted, "but the manuscript's content is concerning. If he is a plant, it's a clever strategy—slip sensitive material into fiction, ensure it spreads without direct attribution to him. If we assume ComStar influence, it's either a smokescreen or a test."

"And if he's just an ambitious student with delusions of grandeur?"

The second voice hesitated for a fraction of a second before replying. "Unlikely, but possible. Either way, the material warrants deeper analysis. I recommend forwarding it to the codebreakers and the tech division. If there's anything actionable in his equations or his prose, they'll find it."

The first voice nodded. "Agreed. And Holtzmann himself?"

"Surveillance should continue, but cautiously. If he's innocent, we risk spooking him unnecessarily. If he's a plant, we may learn more by letting him believe he's unnoticed."

"Understood. Keep me informed."

With that, the conversation ended, the voices retreating into the hum of the room's machinery. The dossier remained on the table, its contents an enigma yet to be unraveled.

Far away, unaware of the scrutiny closing in on him, Juan Holtzmann continued writing, oblivious to the forces slowly aligning against him.

 

[bryanfran36]

The Ripples of Time

Five years.

Five years had passed since Juan Holtzmann had timidly begun his academic career at the New Avalon Institute of Science.

It was now 3005 Anno Domini by the Inner Sphere's reckoning of time.

In that time, the galaxy had spun forward in its usual rhythm of bloodshed, politics, and ambition, as it always did. Yet in the throes of the on and off moments of the Third Succession War, a quiet revolution had taken root—not on the battlefield, but in the minds of men and women scattered across the stars.

The catalyst was an unassuming manuscript, one that had first appeared as a serialized publication in academic circles, literary forums, and, eventually, popular media. By 3005, it had become a phenomenon. The Arrakis Saga, or simply Dune, was sweeping across the Inner Sphere like wildfire, leaving no world untouched by its allure.

It was unlike anything the Inner Sphere had seen before. The work told of a distant desert planet, Arrakis, where an invaluable resource known as Spice shaped the fate of an entire galaxy. It was a tale of intrigue, power, and prophecy, of a messianic figure rising from the sands to challenge the tyranny of empires. Readers marveled at its richness—the ecology of Arrakis, the philosophical meditations on power and religion, and the haunting warnings about dependency on both resources and machines.

For the kings and lords who ruled the realms, Dune was a curious enigma. Some dismissed it as mere fiction, an eccentric piece of escapism that held no bearing on the realities of war and governance. Others, however, whispered of its potential dangers. The narrative seemed too prophetic, too insightful into the mechanisms of power, to be dismissed outright. Paranoia took root in some courts: Was it a veiled critique of their rule? A warning of things to come?

The merchants and magnates who thrived on the ceaseless wars of the Inner Sphere saw opportunity. The idea of an irreplaceable resource like Spice—a commodity so essential it could dictate the course of empires—captivated them. Speculators sought parallels in the real galaxy, pouring fortunes into exploration, hoping to unearth their own "Arrakis." The possibilities of monopolies and unimaginable wealth danced in their dreams.

Even the pious robes of ComStar, who prided themselves on their role as stewards of balance and secrecy, found themselves caught off guard. The work's transhumanist undercurrents, its meditations on the dangers of AI and human-machine symbiosis, seemed eerily aligned with their own hidden doctrines. Was this Juan Holtzmann a rogue preacher? A heretic? Or something else entirely? Holy Shroud operatives redoubled their surveillance efforts, but their investigations yielded frustratingly little. Holtzmann had remained quiet since the work's publication, a scholar whose life seemed, on the surface, maddeningly mundane.

But the people of the Inner Sphere had no such reservations. They consumed Dune with a hunger that transcended class and affiliation. Soldiers read it to distract themselves from the horror of war, its tales of survival and resilience resonating with their struggles.

Scientists debated the feasibility of the Holtzmann Effect and Spice-derived prescience. Even children mimicked the cry of "Muad'Dib!" as they played at being Paul Atreides, the desert prophet.

Unbeknownst to them all, Dune had begun to do something none had foreseen—it was shaping thought. Philosophers debated its themes of power and corruption, of ecology and dependency. Engineers began experimenting with the theoretical mathematics in its pages. Explorers set their sights on the desolate worlds of the periphery, driven by dreams of finding their own desert riches.

And at the heart of it all, the man who had unleashed this whirlwind sat quietly, unnoticed. Juan Holtzmann, now a junior researcher at NAIS, watched as his story took flight, its wings far broader than he had ever imagined. He had written it as a way to leave something behind, a spark in a universe he had thought indifferent to him.

But now, as the echoes of Dune reverberated across the stars, he wondered if he had lit a fire he couldn't control.

Juan Holtzmann sat in the dim light of his modest NAIS office, staring at the worn cover of his notebook. It was the same notebook he had used during his university days, its pages filled with frantic scrawls, intricate diagrams, and half-realized ideas.

This was supposed to be the foundation of The Butlerian Jihad, the epic he had painstakingly crafted, page by page, in his youth. It was the story he had poured his heart into, a cautionary tale of humanity's hubris and the rise of thinking machines—a prelude to the sprawling saga he envisioned.

Yet, it hadn't been the first story he'd published.

For years, The Butlerian Jihad had felt like the right place to start, an ambitious foundation for a broader universe.

But as the deadlines for submission had loomed closer, Juan had found himself plagued by vivid dreams—dreams of vast, endless deserts, of winds whipping across golden sands, and of shadows moving beneath the surface.

And always, in the heart of those dreams, was it. Shai-Hulud.

The image of the sandworm haunted him.

It wasn't just a figment of his imagination; it felt real, visceral, like a memory dredged up from somewhere deep in his psyche. He could feel the heat of Arrakis's twin suns, the grit of sand clinging to his skin, and the low, resonant rumble of something ancient stirring beneath the surface.

Shai-Hulud was not just a character in his story—it was a force of nature, a godlike presence that demanded reverence.

The dreams wouldn't let him rest. Night after night, they returned, vivid and insistent. He would wake in a sweat, the name Muad'Dib lingering on his lips, the taste of Spice on his tongue, as though he had been there, walking the sands of Arrakis himself.

The story of the Butlerian Jihad began to feel distant, secondary, eclipsed by the vision of Arrakis and its people.

"Why now?" he had whispered to himself countless times, staring at the blank pages he had meant to fill with the Jihad's story. "Why this story first?"

But the dreams left him no choice. It was as if something beyond him—something vast and unknowable—had decided the course of his work.

He turned his attention fully to the Arrakis Saga, pouring his obsession into it, letting the tale unfold as though guided by an unseen hand. It had felt almost inevitable, the words flowing from him like water onto parched earth.

And now, five years later, The Arrakis Saga had become a phenomenon. Critics praised its depth and complexity, while readers were drawn to the mythic weight of its themes. But for Juan, the success was bittersweet.

The story of the Butlerian Jihad still sat in his notebook, unfinished, waiting for its turn to emerge.

A part of him wondered if he would ever get to tell the Jihad's story. Would the world even understand it, after being swept away by the mystique of Arrakis? Or would they see it as a pale echo of what had already captured their imaginations?

Was the situation of him writing Dune instead of the Butlerian Jihad the subtle disapproval of the one who sent him those persistent dreams.

Did they want only the saga of Frank Herbert?

As he stared out the window, watching the stars blink against the void of space, he felt the familiar weight of his dreams pressing against his mind.

The desert is calling, he thought. Shai-Hulud still walks.

Juan had wrestled with the thought countless times, turning it over in his mind like a well-worn coin. Was his hesitation rooted in the source of the material? A legacy that, while undeniably tied to the original vision, had been... tainted, in his opinion, by the hands of others?

He vividly remembered the Dune series as it had existed in his original world—a masterpiece of Frank Herbert's imagination, each book a dense, cerebral exploration of power, ecology, and the human condition.

Hell, he had the first four of the Dune books even – bought all of them in the collective price of $1.50 from the second hand bookstore he always visited for cheap and non-mainstream books and authors.

It was iconic, eternal. But what followed after Frank's passing was another story entirely.

The Butlerian Jihad, as it had been realized by Frank's son Brian Herbert and co-author Kevin J. Anderson, along with the subsequent House and Legends prequels, had always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The books weren't devoid of merit—they were competently written, and occasionally insightful—but they felt different, diluted.

It felt like they were just churning out books by the numbers.

Instead of a frew, well-thought out books, he instead got a lot of explanations that ripped away the mystique of the setting and tried to tie everything to the original books no matter how.

It was hard to separate his lingering disappointment from the work he had crafted here. The Butlerian Jihad, in particular, had been a sore point for him.

What should have been a deeply philosophical tale of humanity's greatest existential crisis—its rebellion against the thinking machines and the rise of the human mind—felt, in the Anderson-Herbert version, like a spectacle-laden space opera. The epic was there, sure, but the depth, the soul of it, seemed hollow.

And Juan wasn't alone in that sentiment. He remembered the uproar online, the endless debates on forums and social media. Critics (forum critics) had panned the newer installments for their reliance on tropes and a perceived prioritization of profit over artistry. It hurt to think about, even now.

The less said about Hunters of Dune and Sandworms of Dune, the better. Those were the two books that soured him of the duo.

His highschool self was stupid and curious to read it, and he regretted reading those, just like when he read the damned Dianetics and Battlefield Earth by that conman Hubbard.

Perhaps that was why he had stalled.

The Butlerian Jihad as he envisioned it was his attempt to reclaim that original grandeur, to create the story he felt the universe deserved. But with that came the weight of expectation. Was he doing Frank Herbert justice? Could he truly escape the shadow of the post-Chapterhouse legacy? Or would his work, too, be seen as derivative and uninspired?

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as the question gnawed at him. Perhaps it was safer to let Dune and Arrakis take the lead, to introduce the grandeur and mythos first before tackling the more controversial aspects of the saga.

It had worked so far.

===

In his reminiscences, he remembered how 3003 was quite the year for him.

Juan hadn't known much about the Taurian Concordat or its politics, let alone the Far Lookers, until the day Mr. Nice MIIO Man came knocking on his door. It was late, and he had been working in his small research cubicle, surrounded by the usual clutter of notebooks, sketches, and a mountain of reference materials. The knock was sharp, deliberate—its precision alone sent a chill down his spine.

"Mr. Holtzmann," the man had said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. His expression was polite, his tone disarmingly cordial. "We need to talk."

That was how Juan met Mr. Wendell, whose congenial demeanor masked an unyielding intensity. Over the course of several hours, Wendell grilled him about The Arrakis Saga, focusing on the themes of humanity's survival, dispersal, and the need to escape stagnation.

Juan hadn't realized it, but his novel had struck a chord within the Taurian Concordat, particularly with an influential group known as the Far Lookers. They weren't a fringe ideology; they were a respected political and cultural movement within the Concordat, championing exploration and the belief that humanity's long-term prosperity depended on spreading far beyond the borders of known space. For decades, their advocacy had been tempered, focused on incremental steps toward exploration and colonization.

But something had changed.

"They've taken your book," Wendell said, his voice calm but edged with accusation, "as a justification for accelerating their agenda. Entire sectors of Taurian society are rallying around The Arrakis Saga, calling it a blueprint for the future. Recruitment into Far Looker initiatives is skyrocketing. There's even talk of launching expeditions into uncharted space at a scale we haven't seen since the Star League."

Juan's stomach twisted. "I didn't mean—look, it's fiction. A story. None of that was supposed to—"

"Sure," Wendell said with an amiable shrug. "And yet, here we are. You've written a novel that paints the Inner Sphere as stagnant, corrupt, and doomed. You've glorified the idea of humanity scattering to the stars. And now, a very influential Taurian organization is using it as their rallying cry. Did you honestly not think this would happen?"

"No! Of course not!" Juan protested. "I don't even know anything about the Far Lookers beyond what you just told me! I'm not part of some plot, and I definitely didn't write this to push their agenda!"

Wendell leaned back, studying him with an inscrutable expression. "Whether you intended it or not doesn't matter, Mr. Holtzmann. What matters is the effect. The Concordat is already rattling sabers about independence and territorial integrity, and now the Far Lookers have fresh ammunition to bolster their arguments. Exploratory fleets are being planned. Colonists are lining up to leave. This could destabilize the region—and not just for the Taurians."

Juan was too stunned to respond. He had never imagined his work could have such far-reaching consequences. To him, The Arrakis Saga had been a labor of love, an attempt to bring a slice of his old world into this one. It was meant to inspire reflection, to spark creativity—not to incite political upheaval.

"Let me make this clear," Wendell said, his voice dropping to a colder, more menacing tone. "You're lucky this is still contained to the Taurians. If this spreads beyond the Concordat—if your work starts influencing separatists or reformists in the Federated Suns, or anywhere else—you'll have more than just me asking questions. You'll have the full weight of the MIIO breathing down your neck."

"I get it," Juan muttered, his throat dry. "I'll be... more careful."

Wendell stood, straightening his jacket. The genial smile returned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "See that you are. We'll be watching."

When the door finally closed, Juan slumped in his chair, head in his hands. The gravity of the situation weighed on him like never before. He hadn't set out to inspire political movements or upheaval; he just wanted to tell a story. But now, his words had been twisted into something far beyond his control.

"Next time," he muttered, staring at the blank notebook where his next project was supposed to begin, "I'm writing about talking raccoons or something. No politics. No implications. Just... fluff."

But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.

===

Juan exhaled heavily, staring at the stack of notes and sketches sprawled across his desk. His encounter with Wendell and the MIIO had left him rattled, but retreating into self-pity wasn't going to solve anything. If he was going to carve out a place for himself in this universe beyond being the author of a politically contentious saga, it was time to focus on what he could do.

He had maintained some contact with the Iron Chord Society and The Resonance Sect when he graduated university, but had to cut contact once the runaway success of Dune hit home and had gotten a visit from Agent Wendell.

Juan did not know what his former acquaintances were up to these days, and that was for the better, since he might just have Wendell lean more on him than what he was already feeling under their scrutiny.

If he wasn't being monitored by spy agencies he would eat his notebook.

He reached into his desk drawer, pulling out an aged notebook bound with a makeshift strap of tape. Inside were the crude beginnings of an idea he had carried with him since those first harrowing days after his arrival in this world. Scanning the notes, his lips twitched into a faint, determined smile. It wasn't perfect, but it was something real.

The Holtzman Shield.

Even with the limitations of this universe—especially the ubiquitous use of laser weaponry that could bypass such defenses and cause quite the subatomic explosion—it was a concept worth pursuing.

If he could make it work, if he could present it as a viable field of study, it might set him apart as more than just a controversial writer. It could make him a true innovator, someone remembered not just for his stories but for his contributions to science and technology.

Juan set the old notebook aside, slipping it back into the false bottom of his desk drawer. Its pages contained the beginnings of other, more ambitious ideas—things like interstellar navigation systems, advanced folding-space engines, and, of course, the spice-powered Holtzman Drives.

All of them were tantalizing, but also far beyond what he could reasonably work on at the moment. Especially since he didn't know if melange even existed in this universe.

The very thought of it made his skin crawl. His dreams—always vivid, always drenched in the golden haze of desert sands—refused to let him forget the possibility. In them, he saw dunes stretching endlessly under twin suns, and the great sandworms moving beneath the surface like living tidal waves.

Shai-Hulud.

He shuddered. He didn't want to know if the spice was real. The implications, should it exist, were too vast, too dangerous. And the last thing he needed was another MIIO agent—or worse—knocking on his door.

For now, the Holtzman Shield was enough. He smoothed out the fresh stack of papers he'd been working on earlier, diagrams and equations scrawled in precise detail.

His namesake, the shield, wasn't a fanciful invention here—it was him deciding that he might as well go for broke. A technology this universe could potentially build. A personal defense system that could revolutionize battlefield survivability, even if it was imperfect.

Comstar was going to kill him, but he could die with the knowledge that Dune made the runaway impact it had here that he expected.

What was more than everlasting fame?

He tightened his grip on his pen, the weight of his dreams still heavy on his mind.

If he couldn't control the stories he told, he could at least control the legacy he built.

And it would start here, in the quiet of his dorm room, with the sound of pen scratching paper.

===

Delos IV basked in the soft, golden light of its sun, a tranquil world nestled comfortably within the Periphery under the protective banner of House Davion.

Its skies were a serene azure, untroubled by the distant conflicts that plagued the Inner Sphere. To its inhabitants, war and strife were as far away as the stars, mere whispers carried on infrequent trade vessels or the occasional news broadcast from the Federated Suns.

Life here was simple but prosperous. The planet's fertile fields yielded abundant harvests, while its modest mining operations provided enough resources to keep the local economy thriving.

Its cities, neither sprawling metropolises nor rustic backwaters, embodied a balance between modern convenience and rural charm. People worked, studied, and loved, their lives untouched by the great struggles that consumed the rest of humanity.

Delos IV's location near the Outworlds Alliance—a realm of staunch pacifists and dreamers—further reinforced its sense of security. The Alliance, with its commitment to peace and aversion to conflict, posed no threat.

Indeed, many Delosians viewed their neighbors with a mix of mild amusement and begrudging respect. The Alliance's ideals seemed almost quaint in a universe dominated by the iron grip of warlords and the relentless march of militarism.

Under the aegis of House Davion, Delos IV was part of what its people considered the one true realm—a bastion of order and prosperity in a chaotic galaxy.

The Federated Suns' propaganda was strong here, painting their realm as a beacon of stability and righteousness. To the average citizen, it was a comforting narrative, one they rarely questioned. After all, what need was there to question when life was so peaceful?

Children played in the fields, their laughter carried on the warm breeze. Traders and artisans filled the town markets with their wares, haggling over prices with good-natured banter. Farmers tended their crops, and miners returned home to their families, their workdays fulfilling but not grueling.

But peace, as the wise and the paranoid alike knew, was a fleeting thing in the galaxy. Somewhere, perhaps in the shadows of politics or the whisper of a ship in orbit, change stirred.

April 11, 3005 would go down into the annals of history.

Sensors at the Delos IV system's jump points lit up like a holiday festival as a staggering number of JumpShips and DropShips emerged from hyperspace. To the seasoned staff of the planetary defense command, the sheer size of the force was enough to set alarm bells ringing. A massive invasion force, the likes of which hadn't been seen in the region for centuries, was now bearing down on their peaceful world.

The panic began almost immediately after the arrival of the flotilla.

The planetary governor was roused from his comfortable estate by a frantic aide just before dawn. "Who in blazes has the balls to commit a deep strike this far into the Periphery?" the governor shouted, his dressing gown still askew as he stormed into the hastily convened emergency meeting at the planetary defense headquarters.

The assembled officers and advisors were pale and visibly shaken, their displays showing live feeds of the approaching flotilla. It was a quite the assortment of vessels— newer, sleeker designs that bore no clear allegiance.

The formations screamed discipline, not the ragtag disorganization of pirates or Periphery raiders.

"Comms, are we getting anything from them?!" barked Colonel Rebekah Muir, the senior military officer on Delos IV. Her sharp tone masked the same dread that gripped everyone else in the room.

"Negative, Colonel," the comms officer replied, his voice trembling. "No signals, no IFFs. They're running dark. We've broadcasted standard identification challenges, but... no response."

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. An invasion fleet this size wasn't here for trade negotiations.

Muir turned to her staff, her face grim. "Activate the planetary militia. Mobilize the reserves. Scramble the planetary defense fighters and charge all orbital batteries. If they want Delos IV, they'll bleed for it."

The governor's face turned ashen. "Do you understand what you're saying, Colonel? If this force is from the Concordat or someone larger, we're outgunned and outnumbered by orders of magnitude! This planet isn't worth the loss of life that a prolonged defense would cost!"

"And if we roll over," Muir countered, her voice ice-cold, "what message does that send? That House Davion can't protect its worlds this far out? That the Periphery is ripe for conquest? We may be out here in the middle of nowhere, Governor, but this planet matters."

A young intelligence officer interrupted, his face a mask of disbelief as he read the newest sensor data. "Ma'am, we've identified... at least thirty-four DropShips moving toward a stable orbit. That's—"

"An entire five regiment's worth," Muir finished, her stomach sinking.

The command room's tension spiked further when the first ships broke into orbit, visible from the planet's surface as distant, gleaming points of light. Fear spread through Delos IV's populace like wildfire. Citizens gathered in the streets, staring skyward. Military and police units scrambled to maintain order as rumors of invasion and annihilation circulated.

And still, no signals came from the flotilla.

Colonel Muir stared at the tactical display, her jaw tight. "Send word to New Syrtis and Kittery. Request reinforcements. Priority alpha. And keep challenging them. We'll make them talk—or make them fire the first shot."

"Yes, ma'am," the comms officer acknowledged.

As the skies over Delos IV filled with tension, the question remained unanswered: Who had the audacity to strike so deep into Davion space?

And, perhaps more importantly, what did they want with Delos IV?

As the flotilla settled into orbit around Delos IV, the tension on the ground reached its zenith. Civilian communication networks buzzed with fear and speculation, while the planetary militia maintained a cautious, uneasy readiness.

It was only when an unencrypted broadcast came through that the people of Delos—and their defenders—finally received an answer.

"This is Colonel Jaime Wolf of the mercenary unit known as the Wolf's Dragoons," a calm, authoritative voice declared over every available channel. The clarity of his tone suggested that he had delivered speeches like this countless times. "We come in peace and with no hostile intent toward the people of Delos IV or the Federated Suns. We are here to establish diplomatic contact with House Davion and seek employment. Please convey this message to your planetary authorities and, if possible, to New Avalon."

The announcement stunned the command room. Colonel Rebekah Muir, who had been steeling herself for orbital bombardments or a fiery planetary assault, blinked in confusion. Governor Trask looked equally incredulous, his bluster momentarily deflated.

"Did... did he just say they're mercenaries?" the governor stammered.

"That's what it sounded like," Muir replied, narrowing her eyes at the display. "But no mercenary group waltzes in with a fleet like that."

The comms officer turned in his seat. "Ma'am, should we acknowledge or relay this up the chain?"

Muir hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. "Send acknowledgment of receipt and forward it to New Avalon with top priority."

===

Colonel Jaime Wolf stood with his arms folded, watching the planet's surface on the main viewscreen.

Beside him, his executive officer, raised an eyebrow. "Think they'll believe us?"

"They don't have much of a choice," Wolf replied simply. "We're an enigma to them, but we've given no reason to doubt our intent. Now, we wait for New Avalon to respond."

"And if they decide we're more trouble than we're worth?" His XO asked.

Wolf allowed himself a faint smile.

Back on Delos IV, the mood among the people shifted cautiously. Though the fear had not entirely dissipated, the knowledge that the imposing fleet belonged to mercenaries seeking employment, rather than invaders bent on conquest, was a relief.

For Colonel Muir and her staff, the situation remained precarious. The Dragoons' size and organization suggested capabilities far beyond those of any typical mercenary force. Their very presence raised unsettling questions: Where had they come from? Who funded such a massive operation? And why now?

Whatever the answers, they were now firmly in the hands of New Avalon and the leadership of House Davion.

As Colonel Wolf's message made its way through the bureaucratic layers of the Federated Suns, the people of Delos IV waited with bated breath, wondering if they had witnessed the beginning of a new chapter in the history of the Inner Sphere.

And the HPG Station of the planet let out an encrypted code lost in the signals that were pouring out of the planet in light of these developments.

 

[bryanfran36]

Perilous Journey

Juan hunched over his workbench in the dimly lit workshop of the small defense firm, the faint hum of equipment serving as background noise. It wasn't much—certainly not the gleaming halls of NAIS he had once dreamed of during his university days—but it was something.

And if his hunch was correct, this place could very well be a seed, or one of the seeds, that might one day sprout into the Institute itself.

The thought was mildly comforting, though it did little to soften the harsh realities of his present. His workbench was cluttered with scavenged components and half-completed designs, and the notebook containing his mathematical theories sat open, its graphite markings showing long dedication to his relentless effort of making what he wanted real.

The computer terminal at the corner of the room hummed quietly, its green-and-black interface an affront to Juan's sensibilities. The crude machine was barely a step up from the ARPANET relics he'd read about in history books back home. Not only was it painfully slow, but it also lacked the security and processing power he'd need to model his equations properly.

No thanks, he thought bitterly. If he was going to make this work, it would be with good old-fashioned brainpower and a pencil.

With a sigh, Juan flipped the page. He had been running calculations for hours, trying to determine the tolerances needed for the Holtzmann shield prototype. The equations had evolved since his university days, but now, with access to slightly better tools—and a budget, albeit a limited one—he felt he was closer than ever.

The company itself, a middling defense contractor tucked away in Davion space, had no idea what to make of him. He was an oddball, sure, but his knack for unconventional designs and his ability to think outside the box had earned him grudging respect. The higher-ups gave him just enough leeway to pursue his "quirky little projects," especially since Davion's funding often encouraged innovation.

"If they only knew," he muttered, tracing the latest equation with his finger. "This isn't just some quirky project. This is history waiting to be written."

He had the decorum and self-awareness to not cackle like a mad scientist. He would show them all, but he would not scream it to the heavens.

The Holtzmann shield wasn't just a theoretical breakthrough; it was a potential game-changer in a universe obsessed with warfare. If he could make it work—and that was still a monumental if—it could rewrite the rules of combat.

The trouble, as always, was the tech. The Inner Sphere's reliance on lasers made shielding against energy weapons a daunting challenge. Theoretically, the shield could scatter coherent light, rendering it harmless, but practical implementation required materials and precision far beyond what Juan currently had access to.

Still, he was determined to try. He jotted a few notes in the margin of his notebook and then reached for a small circuit board he had scavenged from an old targeting computer. If he could rig it to handle the power surges his equations predicted, it might serve as a crude prototype controller for the shield's energy matrix.

The door to the workshop creaked open, and a fellow engineer stuck their head inside. "Hey, Holtzmann, you coming to the briefing? Boss wants everyone there."

Juan waved a dismissive hand. "In a minute. I'm onto something here."

"Suit yourself," the engineer replied, disappearing back into the hallway.

Juan barely noticed. His mind was already back on the shield, the possibilities spinning in his head. This wasn't just about him. This was about creating something that might actually matter in the grand, chaotic tapestry of the Inner Sphere.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to drown out the dreams of sand and spice that still haunted him.

He was a scientist working on technology, and there was no NAIS.

That the New Avalon Institute of Science did not yet exist was a revelation that rattled Juan Holtzmann more than he cared to admit. It wasn't just a surprise—it was a fundamental reshaping of the mental framework he'd constructed to survive in this universe.

For someone who had clung to scraps of Battletech knowledge from old forums and lore discussions, NAIS and House Davion were as inseparable as the sun and daylight. And yet, here he was, in 3005 Anno Domini, working for a small defense firm in Federated Suns territory... and there was no trace of the legendary institution.

He leaned back in his chair, the hum of the workshop around him fading into the background as his thoughts spiraled. The NAIS was supposed to be here. If his fuzzy memory of lore discussions served, it was a hub of scientific innovation and technological progress, a cornerstone of Davion strength in the tumultuous Inner Sphere.

And yet, when he casually probed his colleagues about cutting-edge research facilities or centers of learning on New Avalon, he received nothing but blank looks or mentions of smaller, isolated organizations.

He really did not want another visit from Mr. Nice MIIO Man again for asking too many questions.

Or worse, ROM to finally keep Holy Shroud intact and pure.

Juan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. His knowledge was frustratingly incomplete. He wasn't a Battletech historian. The deep lore had always been fascinating but overwhelming, and he'd often relied on more knowledgeable posters to fill in the gaps.

His memory of the NAIS's founding was hazy at best—something about Hanse Davion, advancements in technology, and a need to centralize scientific expertise in the face of enemies like the Capellan Confederation or Draconis Combine. But those were broad strokes, not specifics.

And therein lay the rub. Hanse Davion wasn't even the ruler of the Federated Suns yet. That distinction belonged to Prince Ian Davion, the elder brother whose name had barely registered in Juan's mental timeline of Battletech history. Hanse was here, alive, but not yet the "Fox," the masterful ruler who would later shape the Inner Sphere in his image.

That left Juan with two equally troubling possibilities. The first was that he was simply too early, that he'd been dropped into this universe before the NAIS had been conceived or established. The second—and far worse—was that this universe wasn't what he thought it was at all. If there were divergences as significant as Ian Davion still ruling and the NAIS nonexistent, who was to say what other differences might exist?

The thought sent a chill down his spine.

More and more, this was looking like he was in an alternate universe and not the mainline canon one.

Hopefully, he was just too early in the canon timeline instead, and once again cursed that he had not really groked Battletech.

The problem with Juan's knowledge of Battletech lore was that it wasn't exhaustive. He'd skimmed the Sarna wiki, absorbed timelines and faction summaries from enthusiastic forum debates, and watched a few retrospectives (would Van Zandt actually exist here and so would Randolph P. Checkers?), but he'd never drilled down into the granular details.

He knew (kind of) the major beats, the big moments that defined the eras: the formation of the Clans (though no one here had even a hint of their existence), the highlights of the FedCom and Clan Invasion and some of the reactions the big players did, the rise of the FedCom Civil War. He really couldn't get into the Jihad, and was told it was for the best.

But his understanding of the why and when was patchy at best.

What he did know was that history was fluid, and butterfly effects could cascade into massive changes. For all he knew, something small and seemingly inconsequential had happened in the last few centuries to delay or even erase the formation of the NAIS. And that uncertainty gnawed at him.

Still, he wasn't powerless. If the NAIS didn't exist yet, there was nothing stopping him from nudging events in the right direction. This defense firm—small, underfunded, but undeniably ambitious—might be the perfect starting point. It had Davion backing, albeit tenuous, and its leadership seemed keen to push technological boundaries where it could. If Juan played his cards right, he might just be able to lay the groundwork for the institution that had, in his mind, always been inevitable.

He rubbed his temples and opened the notebook he'd been scribbling in earlier. The equations stared back at him, mocking his attempt to overlay theoretical physics from another universe onto the foundations of this one.

The Holtzmann shield was his best shot at making an impression, a tangible creation that could solidify his place here while advancing humanity's understanding of defensive technologies.

But that wasn't enough. Juan wasn't just trying to build a shield. He was trying to build a future. A future where the NAIS wasn't just an idea in his head but a reality.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, sitting up and reaching for his pencil. "If Hanse Davion isn't going to build it yet, I'll make sure someone does."

Because whether he was in an alternate timeline or merely the early days of a still-developing Inner Sphere, Juan Holtzmann was determined to leave his mark. If the universe had erased the NAIS, he would write it back into existence, one equation at a time.

Juan sighed and capped his pencil. The faint scratch of lead against paper still lingered in his ears, a soothing counterpoint to the growing irritation bubbling under the surface. Briefings like this one were a necessary evil, a staple of bureaucracy that he had neither the rank nor the courage to avoid. Still, they were an unwelcome interruption, especially when he was so close to a breakthrough—or at least close enough to imagine one.

He glanced at the equations on the open notebook in front of him. The beginnings of the Holtzmann shield, scattered and half-formed, stared back at him. The interplay of theory and practicality demanded his full attention, and he resented anything that pulled him away. But attendance at the briefing wasn't optional, and as much as he liked to chafe at authority, he wasn't about to make waves. Not yet, anyway.

With a resigned sigh, Juan grabbed his work jacket and headed down the corridor to the main conference room. The smell of stale coffee and recycled air hit him as he entered, a hallmark of every corporate environment in existence, whether on Earth or in the stars.

The room was already filling up. Engineers, technicians, and support staff were trickling in, murmuring among themselves as they took their seats. At the front of the room, their boss, Director Harriman, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The man's posture was almost martial, his expression a carefully crafted mask of authority.

Juan knew the type. Harriman was the kind of man who thrived on the trappings of leadership. He wasn't necessarily incompetent (Juan had seen him make a few sharp calls under pressure) but he loved the theater of command.

These briefings weren't just for Harriman needing to be present to disseminate information; they were about reminding everyone who was in charge.

"Alright, everyone, settle down," Harriman said, his voice a rich baritone that carried easily over the room's low hum. "Let's get started."

Juan slid into a seat near the back, where he could blend into the background. He crossed his arms and leaned back, tuning out the opening remarks. He'd heard it all before: a recap of the company's mission, a rundown of current projects, and a few carefully chosen words about the importance of teamwork and innovation.

The real purpose of these meetings, Juan suspected, was to give Harriman a platform to showcase his authority. The directives that came out of these briefings could almost always have been sent in an email or a memo. But no, Harriman needed the stage.

"We're on the brink of some significant breakthroughs," Harriman was saying, his voice tinged with a carefully measured enthusiasm. "The Davion government has shown interest in our work, and I'm confident that if we keep up the momentum, we'll secure additional funding for next quarter."

Juan suppressed a sigh. The director's ability to make vague platitudes sound like actionable intelligence was almost impressive.

"Now," Harriman continued, his gaze sweeping the room, "I want to emphasize the importance of focus and discipline. We're not just another defense contractor. We're on the cutting edge, and every one of you has a role to play in keeping us there."

Juan glanced around the room. Most of his colleagues were nodding along, their expressions ranging from polite interest to genuine enthusiasm. He felt a pang of guilt for his cynicism. Harriman might be playing to his ego, but that didn't mean the man wasn't trying to inspire them.

Still, Juan couldn't help but feel that his time would have been better spent in the workshop, refining his equations or tinkering with the prototype components.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Harriman wrapped up the motivational portion of the briefing and moved on to the actual directives.

"We've got a new priority project," he announced, calling up a holographic display. "A preliminary request from Davion R&D. They're looking for modular defensive systems that can be rapidly deployed in high-risk theaters. We'll be pulling resources from other projects to focus on this. Department heads, you'll have the specifics by the end of the day."

Juan's ears perked up at that. Modular defensive systems? It wasn't exactly a Holtzmann shield, but it was close enough to overlap with his work. If he could align his research with this new directive, he might be able to secure additional resources—or at least some latitude to pursue his ideas under the guise of meeting corporate objectives.

As the briefing dragged to a close, Juan allowed himself a flicker of optimism. These meetings might be a tedious exercise in corporate posturing, but they also presented opportunities.

And if there was one thing Juan Holtzmann knew how to do, it was seize an opportunity.

===

The days passed in a blur of calculations, revisions, and feverish note-taking. Juan Holtzmann's once-tidy notebook had evolved—or perhaps devolved—into something monstrous. Pages were crammed with equations that spiraled into themselves like fractals, littered with annotations, corrections, and hastily sketched diagrams. It looked less like a scientific endeavor and more like an artifact of madness, something a particularly deranged physicist might have scrawled in a fit of inspiration—or insanity.

The Necronomicon: Math Textbook Edition.

Juan leaned back in his chair, staring at the mess he'd created. "This," he muttered, "is why normal people don't try to reinvent the laws of physics in their spare time."

Still, he couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. The fact that he, Juan Holtzmann—the same guy who had flunked math consistently from elementary school to university in his old life—had managed to string together equations of this complexity was nothing short of miraculous.

It wasn't just a victory over this universe's constraints on defensive technology... it was a victory over himself.

That shit experience with math was more than one casue of grief to his parents, his teachers, and his academics so many times.

Not that he could rest on his laurels just yet. The mathematics, as monstrous and convoluted as they were, seemed sound. But theoretical physics didn't win contracts or prove worth to corporate directors. He needed to build something. That was the real test—the transition from theory to application. And for that, he needed access to the workshop and its tools, access he didn't currently have.

Juan picked up his notebook, flipping through the pages one more time. The belt he envisioned wasn't much to look at on paper. It wouldn't scream "force field generator" to anyone glancing over the schematics, which was precisely the point. He didn't need Harriman or anyone else asking uncomfortable questions about what he was working on.

No, he'd have to couch his proposal in terms the director would understand: practical applications, low-cost experimental design, and something that sounded just ambitious enough to justify his time in the workshop without triggering alarm bells.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, rising from his desk. "Time to sell this."

The office of Director Harriman was exactly what Juan expected: meticulously organized, with clean lines and just enough ostentation to suggest importance without tipping into vanity. Harriman himself sat behind a polished desk, his expression a practiced mixture of interest and authority.

"Mr. Holtzmann," Harriman said as Juan entered. "I assume this is about the new modular defense initiative?"

"Partially, sir," Juan replied, clutching his notebook like a lifeline. "I've been reviewing some of the parameters for the project, and I believe I have an idea that might be worth exploring. It's experimental, but if it works, it could provide a significant advantage in high-risk environments."

Harriman gestured for him to continue, leaning back in his chair.

"It's a wearable system," Juan explained, keeping his tone carefully measured. "A compact defensive module that can be deployed at the squad level. Think of it as... an energy dispersal system. It wouldn't replace conventional armor but would supplement it, providing additional protection against energy-based threats."

Harriman's brow furrowed slightly. "Energy dispersal? Are you suggesting some sort of personal shielding?"

Juan fought the urge to panic. The man was sharper than he gave him credit for. "Not quite," he said smoothly. "More like... an energy absorption mechanism. It would redistribute incoming energy across a broader surface area, reducing localized impact. The concept isn't new, but the miniaturization process would be."

Harriman tapped his fingers on the desk, considering. "And you believe this is feasible?"

Juan held up his notebook. "The math supports it, sir. I've been running simulations on paper, and while there are challenges, I believe the core concept is sound. With some time in the workshop, I could construct a prototype. Worst-case scenario, we gain insights into energy dynamics that could be applied to other projects."

It was a gamble, but Juan knew the language Harriman spoke: results. He wasn't asking for carte blanche, just a chance to tinker, to test.

The director studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Very well. You'll have limited access to the workshop during off-hours. Keep your other duties in mind, and don't lose focus on the broader project."

"Understood, sir," Juan said, relief flooding through him.

As he left Harriman's office, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Step one was complete. Now all he had to do was take the theoretical monstrosity in his notebook and turn it into something real.

No pressure.

Juan Holtzmann's routine had become a delicate balancing act between the official work that had landed him here and the secretive, far more ambitious pet project that consumed his off-hours.

The energy ablation coating—the "lie" he had pitched to Harriman—had taken on a life of its own. To his surprise, the numbers he'd cobbled together in a fit of desperation weren't just plausible; they were downright promising.

The concept of an energy-resistant material had sparked excitement throughout the company. Engineers and scientists were already brainstorming applications ranging from personal armor to vehicle plating. The prospect of an anti-energy coating sent ripples up the corporate ladder, drawing interest from their Davion benefactors.

Harriman, naturally, took every opportunity to bask in the glow of the idea, acting as if he'd been the one to conjure it out of thin air.

And Juan? He kept his head down, giving just enough input to stay relevant without attracting undue attention. This wasn't the kind of success he'd dreamed of, but he wasn't about to let it slip through his fingers.

Yet even as the company buzzed around him, Juan couldn't shake the itching in his thumbs. It was a familiar sensation, one that had come to him at pivotal moments in his life. When he passed the entrance exam for university, he'd felt it. When his uncle had succumbed to a sudden illness in the hospital, it had been there too. He'd felt it during both the highs and the lows, like some kind of internal omen.

And now, with an entire company unwittingly validating his hastily concocted science, he felt it again. His thumbs itched like mad.

"Shit," he whispered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Tech advancement like this, in this time period? Holy Shroud."

He knew the history—or at least enough of it to know this wasn't a safe time for paradigm-shifting inventions. ComStar, with its secretive grip on advanced technology and its Holy Shroud doctrine, wouldn't take kindly to anyone upsetting the balance. And while he hadn't exactly painted a target on his back yet, he could feel the pieces moving around him.

Juan stole a glance at the notebook tucked beneath a pile of papers on his desk. His shield belt project was still in the theoretical phase, the equations refined but the construction not yet begun. If he was going to make it real, he needed to move fast.

The workshop was quiet during the off-hours, the hum of machinery and the soft whir of cooling fans the only sounds. Juan worked with single-minded intensity, his fingers deftly assembling components scavenged from spare parts and outdated prototypes. The belt itself wasn't much to look at—a thin strip of metal and polymer with a few embedded circuits and power nodes—but the real magic was in the emitter array.

It wasn't true magic, of course, but it might as well have been for all the trouble it had taken to miniaturize the tech. Juan had been forced to improvise, repurposing components in ways that would make any proper engineer weep.

He soldered another connection, the faint acrid smell of burning flux curling into the air. His mind raced as he worked, running over the calculations again and again. The shield would be crude, limited in duration and coverage, but it would work. At least, it would if he hadn't made a mistake somewhere in the labyrinth of math and circuitry.

As he connected the final piece, a small, almost inaudible click signaled that the circuit had closed. He stared at the belt for a long moment, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Alright, moment of truth," he murmured.

Juan reached over to a battered control console and flicked the switch. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a faint hum, a shimmering distortion flickered into existence around the belt. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

A grin spread across Juan's face. "It's alive," he whispered, his voice equal parts awe and disbelief.

The field sputtered and died a moment later, the belt's power source struggling to maintain the output. Juan didn't care. It wasn't perfect, but it was proof of concept.

And that was enough to terrify him.

If the anti-energy coating had drawn attention, what would happen if anyone discovered this? He could already hear Harriman crowing about the breakthrough, already see the corporate vultures circling. Worse still, he could imagine the shadowy agents of the Holy Shroud descending on him like wolves.

Juan leaned back in his chair, the itch in his thumbs worse than ever.

He needed to be careful. Very, very careful.

Juan had been so focused on his shield belt that he hadn't noticed the door to the workshop open. His thumbs prickled sharply, a warning he should have learned to heed long before now. He barely had time to turn before he saw the man standing just inside the room, his figure almost blending into the shadows.

The newcomer had a calm, unhurried demeanor. It was one of the engineers he saw from time to time in the cafeteria. He was tall, with vaguely Asiatic features that hinted at his origins, and his movements were fluid, almost predator-like. The silenced pistol in his right hand and the knife sheathed at his belt were not subtle, nor were they meant to be.

Juan's blood ran cold.

"Impressive work, Holtzmann," the man said, his voice smooth and almost disarmingly polite. "I see now why there has been such an interest in you. The Dragon will be disappointed not to have you for themselves."

Juan tried to maintain a clueless expression, but his mind raced. This guy isn't ROM, he realized with a sick twist in his gut. He's pretending to be Drac.

The Combine's disdain for the Federated Suns was as legendary as the Davion penchant for returning the favor. While ComStar's ROM was secretive and religious in its motivations, a plausible Draconis Combine assassin would have no compunctions about getting straight to the point—or the killing.

So this was how it would end, Holy Shroud via a Drac assassin.

Juan prayed silently to whatever gods might be listening. He hoped fervently that Pratchett's truism would hold true: that he would face an evil man who couldn't resist gloating, monologuing his motivations and twisted logic.

Because if this man was good (in the sense that he saw his mission as a sacred duty) Juan wouldn't get so much as a word out before he was dead.

The agent's cold, sharp gaze flicked over him, taking in the faint shimmer of the shield belt's emitter as it powered up. For a moment, Juan thought he saw a flicker of annoyance cross the man's face, but it passed almost instantly, replaced by a mocking smile.

"A shield belt," the assassin said, his tone dripping with contempt. "How fake, how quaint. And here I thought you were working on something revolutionary." He stepped closer, his pistol trained unwaveringly on Juan's chest. "You're a writer, Holtzmann. A dreamer. Not a fighter. Tell me—do you even know how to use that toy of yours?"

Juan's mind scrambled for a response, but before he could speak, the assassin continued.

"It's a shame, really," he said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "I actually enjoyed that Dune of yours. A good writer is a rare thing in this dreary age of war and politics. Pity you'll die here, alone in this workshop, another forgotten casualty of the never-ending struggle between Davion and Kurita."

The man's voice was smooth, professional, and utterly detached, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the imminent murder of an unarmed man.

Juan's throat tightened. His thumbs still itched, now practically burning. The shield belt hummed faintly at his waist, its emitter flickering like an unreliable light bulb. He could feel sweat trickling down his back as the assassin took another step closer, his pistol now only a few feet away.

"Any last words?" the assassin asked, raising an eyebrow. His tone was almost playful, but there was no mistaking the lethal intent behind his eyes.

Juan swallowed hard. His mind raced, scrambling for an escape, an angle, anything.

"Well," Juan said, forcing his voice to remain steady, "if you're such a fan of Dune, let me ask you something: Do you think Shai-Hulud would approve of this?"

The assassin's brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion breaking through his composure. "What?"

It wasn't much, but it was enough. Juan slammed his hand onto the console behind him, activating the shield belt's prototype field at full power. The emitter roared to life with a high-pitched whine, and a shimmering barrier enveloped his body.

The assassin reacted instantly, firing a single shot. The silenced pistol's pfft was barely audible over the belt's hum, and the bullet struck the shield, flaring into a burst of energy and ricocheting into the wall.

The assassin's eyes widened. "What—"

Juan didn't wait for him to finish. He grabbed a heavy wrench from the workbench and swung it with all his strength, catching the assassin across the arm holding the pistol. The weapon clattered to the floor, and the man staggered back, his calm composure shattered.

"Shai-Hulud says hi," Juan snarled, and swung again.

The assassin ducked, rolling to the side and drawing the knife from his belt. But Juan's shield flared as the blade glanced off it, the emitter whining in protest but holding firm.

The assassin cursed under his breath, and Juan took the opportunity to step back, give himself space.

Juan's heart pounded like a war drum, drowning out the high-pitched hum of the shield belt and the assassin's string of muffled curses. The pistol was on the ground, but the cold glint of the knife in the assassin's hand spelled a new danger.

The man lunged, blade aimed straight for Juan's throat. Reflex, desperation, and blind panic propelled Juan forward instead of away, his shield flaring with a crackling burst as the knife scraped against its surface. The assassin recoiled, momentarily stunned by the unexpected resistance.

Juan didn't think—he acted. He swung the wrench again, smashing it into the assassin's wrist. There was a sickening crunch, followed by a snarl of pain as the knife slipped from the assassin's grasp. Juan didn't stop to celebrate. He dropped the wrench and dove for the blade.

The assassin was faster, throwing himself on top of Juan in a frantic scramble. They grappled, the man's weight pressing down on him like a boulder, but Juan's fingers found the knife hilt first.

"You're dead!" the assassin growled, one hand clawing at Juan's face, the other scrabbling for his neck.

Juan didn't answer. His mind was a white-hot blur of adrenaline and survival instinct as he twisted his body and plunged the knife deep into the assassin's belly.

The man froze, a strangled gasp escaping his lips.

Juan felt the knife's resistance give way as he dragged it across his abdomen, tearing through muscle and sinew in a grisly arc. Blood spilled onto Juan's hands, hot and slick, as the assassin let out a guttural scream of agony.

A twisted form of seppuku, Juan's mind distantly analysed. A fitting end for the would-be Drac assassin.

But Juan wasn't done.

The man's eyes were wide, disbelief and pain etched into his face as he tried to grab at the knife embedded in his abdomen. Juan shoved him onto his back with a surge of strength he didn't know he possessed. Straddling the assassin, he yanked the knife free and drove it into his chest, over and over again.

"Not today!" Juan shouted, his voice hoarse and trembling as he stabbed the man's chest once more for good measure. The assassin twitched, his mouth opening in a soundless scream before finally falling still.

The workshop was deathly quiet, save for Juan's ragged breathing and the faint hum of the shield belt. He sat there for a moment, staring down at the bloodied body beneath him.

His hands were shaking, slick with gore, and the knife felt impossibly heavy in his grip.

Then the reality of what he'd just done hit him like a sledgehammer. He staggered to his feet, nearly tripping over the assassin's outstretched arm as he backed away.

Juan stumbled to the workbench and braced himself against it, his chest heaving. His shield belt sputtered and fizzled out, the emitter finally giving up under the strain.

"Shit," he muttered, running a trembling hand through his hair.

The man on the floor didn't move. Blood pooled around his body, soaking into the cracks of the workshop floor. The assassin's once-calm features were now twisted in a grotesque mask of pain and death.

Juan stared at the body, bile rising in his throat. He hadn't just killed someone... he'd butchered them.

Butchered them good.

And yet, he felt no triumph, no relief. Only the cold, hollow realization that he'd been seconds away from death himself.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

He needed to think, to clean up, to figure out what the hell to do next.

But for now, all he could do was stand there, shaking and bloodied, and hope the thumbs pricking him again meant something different this time.

He was going to get another visit from Mr. Nice MIIO Man again, wasn't he?

 

[bryanfran36]

Complications

Juan Holtzmann stood in the center of the workshop, his breaths coming in shallow gasps as he stared at the blood-soaked corpse sprawled across the floor. His hands were still shaking, though whether from adrenaline or sheer disbelief, he couldn't tell. He tightened his grip on the knife, its blade still slick with the assassin's blood, before finally forcing himself to place it on the workbench with exaggerated care.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he turned his gaze to the nearest security camera, a small red light blinking faintly above the doorway. 'Please let it be working. Please let it have seen everything.' He clenched his fists, forcing himself to think through the haze of panic. 'If the footage is there, they'll know it was self-defense.'

That would matter if anyone believed him.

Swallowing hard, he crossed the workshop to the intercom mounted on the wall. The hum of the old system filled the air as he pressed the call button. His voice cracked as he tried to sound calm and composed.

"Security. This is Holtzmann in Workshop 4. There's been...an incident. An intruder attacked me. He's..." Juan's voice wavered. "He's dead. I need immediate assistance."

The response came quicker than he expected, sharp and professional. "Acknowledged Workshop 4. Lock the doors and remain where you are. A security team is en route."

Juan released the button and sagged against the wall, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. The workshop door clicked as the security lock engaged automatically, sealing him inside with the evidence of his desperate fight.

His eyes flicked back to the body. Blood still pooled slowly around the assassin, the thick, metallic smell filling the air. Juan's stomach churned, but he forced himself to look, to take in every detail.

Death had twisted the man's vaguely Asiatic features into a grotesque mask; crimson stains blossomed across the torn black jumpsuit. A silenced pistol lay a few feet from the body, and Juan felt a shiver crawl up his spine at how close it had come to ending him.

'Drac or ROM?' The thought struck him like a slap. It didn't matter if the assassin worked for the Dragon or the shadowy tendrils of ComStar's Holy Shroud; both scenarios were terrifying. 'I'm fucked if he's not alone. If he's ROM, they'll have me erased before I can even explain. If he's Drac, this might just be the first wave'

Juan squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to calm down. He was neither a soldier nor a spy. He was a technician, a budding inventor, and a surprisingly successful author. Shadow wars and secret missions? He had zero experience. 'But you just killed a trained assassin, didn't you?'

The thought was cold comfort.

A distant clatter of boots against the floor snapped him back to the present. Through the observation window, he could see the security team approaching, their weapons drawn.

His heartbeat quickened. He raised his hands instinctively, stepping back from the door as they overrode the lock and stormed in.

"Don't move!" barked the lead guard, his weapon trained on Juan.

"I'm not armed!" Juan's voice cracked again, but he kept his hands up and his movements slow. "The knife is on the bench! He attacked me!"

The guards swept the room quickly, their eyes darting between Juan and the lifeless assassin. The lead guard signaled the all-clear, and two of the team lowered their weapons to secure the body.

The officer's sharp blue eyes fixed on Juan. "Start talking, Holtzmann."

Juan swallowed again, forcing himself to meet the officer's gaze. "I—I don't know who he was. He came in when I was working. Pulled a gun. Said something about my book. "I'm pretty sure it was Drac; the way he talked about Davion, you'd think Davion had single-handedly wrecked his existence."

The officer frowned but didn't interrupt. Juan pushed on, his words spilling out in a rush. "He attacked me. I don't know how, but I got the knife away from him and... I had no choice."

The officer's expression didn't soften. "We'll see what the cameras say." He turned to one guard. "Get the body to medical for ID. Lock down the workshop and pull the footage. And notify Mr. Harriman."

Juan flinched at the last name. If his boss hadn't already been a headache, this incident will escalate that tenfold.

"You're staying in protective custody until we sort this out," the officer continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. "If this guy had friends, you'll want to be somewhere secure."

Juan nodded mutely, his thumbs prickling again.

Yeah, he was going to get a visit from Mr. Nice MIIO Man once again.

Juan barely registered the gentle hand that steadied him as his knees buckled, the rush of adrenaline abandoning him like a traitorous tide. His mind felt disjointed, his body trembling as he stumbled forward under the guidance of the security guard.

Moments blurred together, and before he fully grasped his surroundings, he found himself seated inside one of the firm's fortified, safe rooms.

The heavy clang of the reinforced door shutting behind him reverberated through the small, starkly functional space. The designers prioritized survival over comfort, resulting in thick, hardened walls and a utilitarian layout. With bunks, neatly packed rations, and a water filtration unit, the room could support up to ten people for a week.

Despite its spartan appearance, Juan found it oddly reassuring.

He slumped into a chair near the central table, trying to calm his scattered thoughts. His hands were still trembling, though the numbing edge of shock had worn off. A water bottle appeared in his peripheral vision, and he looked up to see one of the security guards, a young man with sharp eyes and a surprisingly kind expression, holding it out to him.

"Here. Drink. It'll help," the guard said. His voice was calm, with just enough warmth to cut through the fog in Juan's mind.

Juan accepted the bottle and managed a shaky nod. "Thanks."

For a while, they sat in silence, the low hum of the room's ventilation system the only sound. Juan's breathing evened as he took small, calming sips of water. When he finally felt capable of forming coherent sentences, he broke the silence.

"So…this kind of thing happens often?" Juan asked, his voice rasping slightly.

The guard chuckled softly, though there was little humor in it. "You would be surprised." It's not exactly uncommon for people in your position to have a target painted on their back. The Great Houses play dirty, and promising minds like yours end up in the crosshairs."

Juan grimaced. He'd read about the inter-House rivalries, the sabotage, and assassinations, but it all felt abstract until now. "The Davions fund this place, don't they? These safe rooms… they're theirs?"

The guard nodded. "Standard operating procedure for any firm under their umbrella, especially one working on defense tech. They've got a vested interest in keeping people like you alive. Probably why they pushed for the NDAs you signed when you got hired."

Juan let out a bitter laugh. "Well, I guess I'm living proof of why those NDAs exist."

The guard smirked, leaning back against the wall. "If you want proof, look at this place. Five safe rooms, all fortified like this one. Not exactly the setup you see at a mom-and-pop defense shop. The Davions know how the game's played. They've been at this a long time."

"Comforting," Juan muttered, rubbing his temples.

The guard tilted his head. "Could be worse. You're still breathing, for one. And, hey, if you need a distraction, I hear you're not bad with small talk."

Juan blinked at him, then managed a weak smile. "You want to talk? After what just happened?"

"Why not? Beats sitting in silence," the guard replied with a shrug. "Besides, I'm curious. You're the guy who wrote Dune, right? My buddies and I read it on rotation. Fantastic stuff. Waiting on the sequel, though. You working on that?"

For the first time since the attack, Juan felt a flicker of something lighter—pride, maybe, or just relief to be talking about anything other than the blood on his hands.

"Yeah," he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "It's in the works. If I survive this mess, I'll probably get it out sooner rather than later. Glad you liked the first one."

"Liked it? We loved it," the guard said, his tone genuine. "It's not every day you get a story that deep and still gripping. My buddy keeps quoting that 'fear is the mind-killer' line every time we're on high alert."

You know what, it would not be a bad idea to use that mantra from now on.

Juan couldn't help but laugh, a dry, hoarse sound that felt strangely good. "Guess it's a hit, then."

The guard grinned. "You could say that. Honestly, you're one of the good ones around here. Most of the scientists don't even talk to us unless they need something, but you? You've got a brain and social skills. Rare combo."

Juan didn't quite understand. He said, "I greet each of you with a 'good morning' or 'how do you do?'"" and make some small talk with some of you in the cafeteria, and sure, some of them want to sign their book copies of Dune, but well, it's the way things should work."

He really didn't see what the big deal was. He had done that in his old life in the Philippines in another time and universe and he had his uncles and male cousins to thank for that.

His uncle believed that recognizing people's existence and expressing appreciation with a smile was a significant act of kindness, regardless of their social status.

One he took to heart as a young boy.

Kestrel looked up to the ceiling in exasperation, praying that heaven grant him strength. "And you don't think we make sure you get the extra mile in service and consideration? Think again."

"Thanks, I guess," Juan replied, shaking his head. "Not sure it's done me much good today."

"Maybe not today," the guard agreed, his tone turning serious. "But you're still here with us in the living world. And that means something."

Juan nodded, his thumbs prickling faintly again.

The small talk flowed like a balm over Juan's frayed nerves. The guard, whose name turned out to be a Corporal Kestrel, was not only a fan of Dune but seemed intent on prying every potential spoiler from Juan's reluctant lips.

"So, come on," Kestrel said with a grin. "You can't just leave us hanging like that. Does Paul end up taking the throne? Or does he go into full martyr mode?"

Juan snorted, shaking his head. "You'll just have to wait for the next book like everyone else. Besides, if I spoil it now, where's the fun in that?"

"Fun's overrated," Kestrel shot back. "I'm the guy stuck guarding you in this glorified closet. Spoilers are the least you owe me for saving your life."

Juan rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling. "Alright, alright. How about this: Paul's story doesn't end with the first book. That's all you're getting out of me."

Kestrel groaned dramatically, throwing his head back against the wall. "You're killing me, Holtzmann."

The lighthearted exchange was exactly what Juan needed to keep the rising tide of anxiety at bay. The hours drifted by in a peculiar blend of humor, Dune speculation, and Juan's careful probing of Kestrel for political insights.

Eventually, the comms unit embedded in the wall buzzed to life, its harsh tone cutting through their conversation. A crisp voice issued an all-clear signal, followed by a series of codes and counter-codes exchanged between Kestrel and the speaker.

The guard's posture shifted instantly from relaxed camaraderie to professional readiness. "Looks like we're good to go," Kestrel said, standing and motioning Juan toward the door.

The safe room door hissed open, and Juan stepped out into a corridor bustling with activity. A group of security personnel flanked two individuals heading toward him.

One was Harriman, his usually composed demeanor replaced by a frazzled, disheveled look that spoke volumes about the chaos of the past few hours.

The other man was... utterly forgettable. Bland to the point of being unnerving, he wore an impeccably tailored suit that somehow made him blend into the background. Juan's instincts prickled.

This wasn't an ordinary visitor; this was someone that might be just that MIIO man he was expecting to grill him once again.

To his surprise, it wasn't Mr. Wendell this time.

Huh.

Harriman wasted no time unleashing his frustration. "Holtzmann! What in the actual hell is going on here? I get hauled in by Davion agents, interrogated for God knows how long, and then I find out one of my employees tried to murder you in my workshop?"

Juan blinked, caught off guard by the sheer force of Harriman's words. "I... I didn't exactly invite him to try to kill me," he managed, his voice weak but laced with an edge of sarcasm.

"Don't get smart with me!" Harriman snapped, running a hand through his already rumpled hair. "Do you have any idea what this could mean for the company? For me? This is a nightmare!"

The forgettable man stepped forward, his bland face set in a neutral expression that somehow silenced Harriman mid-rant. "Mr. Harriman," he said in a voice as unremarkable as his appearance, "perhaps we should focus on ensuring the safety of your personnel before we discuss broader implications."

Harriman visibly deflated, muttering something incoherent before stepping back.

The man turned to Juan, his expression unreadable. "Mr. Holtzmann, I'm with Davion Intelligence. I've reviewed the footage of the incident and confirmed your account. The individual who attacked you was not a coworker, but an infiltrator operating under a falsified identity. This was not a random act, but a calculated attempt to eliminate you."

Juan's stomach churned at the calm finality of the man's tone. "Why me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"That," the man replied, "is the question we're working to answer. We will put you under protective detail in the meantime. Your work here is too important to risk further incidents."

Harriman looked like he wanted to protest, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Juan nodded slowly, his mind racing. Protective detail? Important work? This was spiraling far beyond anything he'd imagined.

And lurking at the edges of his thoughts was the gnawing realization that his shield belt had worked.

Oh shit.

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

They have had seen the footage then, of the shots not connecting and the shields flaring up as he fought like a cornered animal knowing death was standing there.

Juan's mind churned with possibilities as the Davion Intelligence agent quietly spoke with Harriman, their conversation hushed but laced with tension.

He felt like a spectator in his own life, watching the fallout of the failed assassination attempt ripple outward. The idea of being secretly whisked away for his own good was suddenly terrifyingly real, and he had to act fast to get his most precious things.

When the conversation ended, Juan forced himself to speak up, directing his request to Harriman but deliberately making eye contact with the agent. "If we're going to be uprooting my life for security reasons," he said, trying to keep his tone measured, "could I at least grab my belongings and freshen up? I'd rather not show up wherever we're going, looking like I just crawled out of a firefight... even if that's near to the truth."

Harriman looked at him with the exhaustion that came from juggling too many crises. Juan suspected he wasn't so much considering the request as mentally distancing himself from anything involving the fallout.

"Fine," he said, waving a hand in dismissal. "I've done my part. He's your problem now," he added, glancing at the agent.

To Juan's surprise, the Davion Intelligence agent nodded, his neutral expression giving no hint of irritation or suspicion. "Reasonable," the man replied. "I'll have one of my operatives accompany you to retrieve your belongings. You have ten minutes."

Juan kept his relief hidden behind a thin veneer of gratitude. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

The agent didn't respond, merely gesturing for Juan to proceed with an escort following close behind.

Back in his quarters, Juan moved with calculated precision, playing the part of a rattled man with the body language (and with genuine distress too) trying to gather his essentials while subtly securing what truly mattered.

He shoved some clothing into a bag with deliberate casualness before turning to his small writing desk. There, nestled in innocuous papers and notebooks, was his most prized possession: the notebook containing his painstakingly detailed mathematical equations for the shield belt.

His hands trembled slightly as he picked it up, tucking it carefully into the bag. Right beside it went another notebook, this one filled with the transcriptions of Butlerian Jihad and Dune Messiah. Juan had never intended those works to leave his possession, not yet at least, but now they were coming with him.

If someone else laid their hands on them, especially a Davion Intelligence analyst, there was no telling how much trouble it might stir up.

Finally, he grabbed the defunct prototype shield belt from his waist and put it in the bag. It was a crude device, more proof of concept than a functional tool, but it was still his. He wasn't about to let anyone else reverse-engineer his work without his knowledge or consent.

He used the remaining time to clean himself up, splashing cold water on his face and changing into a fresh set of clothes. As he stared into the cracked mirror above the sink, he couldn't help but marvel at how haggard he looked.

The adrenaline high from the earlier confrontation had long since faded, leaving behind a gnawing exhaustion and the faint tremor of a man who'd survived an attempt on his life.

The knock at the door startled him. "Time's up," came the curt voice of his escort.

Juan slung his bag over his shoulder, careful not to let its weight shift the notebooks or the belt inside. He gave his quarters one last glance, half-wondering if he'd ever see them again before stepping out.

Back in the hallway, the agent was waiting with Harriman. The latter didn't even meet Juan's eyes, his face an odd mix of guilt and relief. "Good luck," Harriman muttered, his tone flat. "Try not to bring this mess back to my doorstep."

The man out of time and space only deigned to notice the sadness present in Corporal Kestrel, whom he gave acknowledgment as he was certain he would never see him again, or the people he made small talk to in those days.

Juan didn't respond. Instead, he turned to the agent, who gestured for him to follow.

As they moved toward the waiting transport, Juan felt the weight of the bag at his side like an anchor. It wasn't just belongings he carried with him—it was secrets, both old and new, that could change the trajectory of everything.

And for all his apprehension about what lay ahead, he knew one thing for certain: he would not let anyone, either Drac, ROM, or even the Davions themselves, take control of his work or his destiny.

For now, he would play along.

The interior of the APC was utilitarian and spartan, its gray metal walls adorned with nothing more than the occasional scuff mark and rivet. Juan sat on a hard bench, his bag clutched tightly against his chest, while his silent guard stood a few paces away, still as a marble statue.

Juan couldn't help but notice the man's unnervingly perfect posture, as if someone had chiseled him from granite to serve as a monument to discipline.

The engine growled to life, and the vehicle moved with a low rumble that vibrated through Juan's seat. At first, the route seemed straightforward—simple turns and accelerations—but as time passed; the pattern grew increasingly erratic. The APC swerved sharply, changed speeds unpredictably, and even stopped abruptly before resuming its journey.

It was a disorienting experience, no doubt by design, meant to ensure that any passengers would have no sense of direction or distance traveled.

Juan's earlier anxiety had settled into a kind of resigned dread. He wasn't stupid—this was a professional extraction, the kind you heard about in spy thrillers or war documentaries.

Blindfolds and misdirection were standard operating procedure when transporting high-value individuals to sensitive locations.

Eventually, the guard shifted. The movement was subtle, but in the confined space, Juan noticed immediately. The man raised a hand to his earpiece, listening intently to some instruction.

Without a word, he approached Juan and offered him three items: a blindfold, a pair of earmuffs, and the familiar, menacing texture of a black burlap sack.

Juan looked at them, then at the guard. The man's face was expressionless, but his posture radiated expectation.

"You're really leaning into the cliché here," Juan muttered, but he complied.

First, the blindfold went over his eyes, cutting off his vision completely. Then he slid the earmuffs into place, muffling the low hum of the APC's engine. Finally, he felt the rough fabric of the burlap sack being secured over his head, sealing him in sensory isolation.

The world became a void. Juan could feel the vibrations of the APC as it continued its circuitous route, but without sight or sound, the sensation was alien and unnerving. His mind wandered, seeking distraction from the growing claustrophobia of his situation.

What would they do with him? He was valuable now, no doubt, but valuable in a way that made him a liability. He doubted the Davion Intelligence operatives would kill him outright.

His death would raise questions, especially given the attack on him at the workshop. But neither would they simply let him continue his work without oversight. That much was clear.

He wondered if the Davions would keep him close, assigning him to a high-security laboratory where he could continue developing his shield belt under their watchful eyes.

Or would they sequester him in some remote location, milking his knowledge while ensuring he had no way to share it with anyone else? The thought of becoming a living intellectual resource, little more than a tool, chilled him.

The APC eventually came to a stop. Juan felt the shift as the vehicle's weight shifted slightly, presumably as people exited. A hand gripped his shoulder, firm but not rough, and guided him out of the vehicle. He stumbled slightly, his sense of balance thrown off by the lack of sight and sound, but the guard steadied him.

He felt the gravel crunching underfoot as guards led him away from the APC. The air was cool and smelled faintly of oil and concrete. After a short walk, the ground changed again, solid and smooth now, like polished stone.

When the guard stopped, Juan could feel the slight release of tension in the man's grip. After a few seconds, they removed the burlap sack, then the earmuffs and blindfold.

Blinking in the sudden light, Juan found himself in a small, windowless room lit by a single overhead fluorescent bulb. The walls were unadorned, their steel-gray surface unbroken except for the single door he had presumably entered through. A table and two chairs occupied the center of the room, the setup reminiscent of an interrogation chamber.

The guard stepped back, assuming his statue-like posture near the door. Juan glanced around but found no other clues about his location. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he sat down at the table.

Whatever this was, he was here now.

The waiting began.

===

The agent stepped into the room with the measured calm that immediately put Juan on edge. There was no wasted movement, no sound beyond the soft click of the door closing behind him. He carried himself with the calm authority of someone who had seen far worse situations than this and emerged unscathed.

"Mr. Holtzmann," the agent said, his voice smooth and polite. He gestured toward the chair opposite Juan. "May I sit?"

Juan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "I don't think I can stop you."

The agent offered a faint smile, sitting down with a grace that made Juan feel even more ruffled in his rumpled shirt and slightly damp collar. The faint hint of reproach in the man's eyes didn't help.

"Let me first assure you," the agent began, folding his hands on the table, "that everything being done is for your safety. These measures, though inconvenient, are necessary to prevent further threats to your life.

Juan snorted. "Necessary, huh? You mean like hauling me in here blindfolded and stuffed into the back of an APC like I'm some criminal mastermind?"

The agent tilted his head slightly, as if Juan had just made an interesting point in a debate. "I understand this has been a trying experience for you, Mr. Holtzmann. But I assure you, every precaution we take is in response to genuine threats. The attack in the workshop, for example—"

"Yeah, about that," Juan cut in, leaning forward. "If these 'precautions' are so airtight, how did a Drac assassin walk right into my workplace?"

For the first time, the agent hesitated. It was a slight flicker of something behind his eyes... but it was there.

"We're investigating that breach," he said smoothly, but the edge in his voice betrayed his irritation. "It's possible the perpetrator was operating independently or using an identity they've cultivated for years."

"Fantastic," Juan said dryly. "So I get to be the canary in the coal mine while you figure out where the gas leak is?"

The agent allowed himself the faintest twitch of a smile before leaning back. "Your survival suggests you're more resourceful than a canary, Mr. Holtzmann. But I digress. I'd like to discuss the broader implications of your... work."

Juan's gut tightened. "My work?"

The agent nodded. "Your contributions to both literature and, shall we say, theoretical sciences, have not gone unnoticed. In fact, there's some concern regarding the impact your publications fictional or otherwise may have on certain groups."

Ah, there it was. Juan couldn't help but smirk. "Let me guess: this is about The Far Lookers."

The agent's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—interest, maybe? "You're aware of their... interpretation of your work?"

"Hard not to be," Juan said, leaning back again. "You people sent Mr. Wendell after me to make sure I knew. Guy acted like I'd just handed them the blueprints for a doomsday device."

"Wendell?" the agent repeated, his tone carefully neutral.

"Yeah, Mr. Wendell," Juan said, letting his frustration bubble to the surface. "You know, the MIIO spook who decided my science fiction novel was some kind of manifesto for the apocalypse. Real charming guy, if you like being interrogated by someone who probably files their taxes in triplicate just for fun."

The agent tilted his head, his composure unshaken, but his gaze sharpening. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Wendell."

Juan snorted. "Trust me, you're not missing out. He grilled me like I was a medium-rare steak about everything from the Arrakis Saga to my thoughts on interstellar politics. All because some fringe group or whatever decided my book was a sign from God or whatever."

There it was again, that faint hesitation, quickly masked by the agent's professional demeanor. But Juan could see the tension in his jaw now, the way his fingers tapped once against the table before stilling.

"I see," the agent said finally, his voice as smooth as ever. "And how would you describe Mr. Wendell's approach to... addressing these concerns?"

"'Suboptimal' comes to mind," Juan said dryly. "Unless your goal was to make me second-guess every word I've ever written."

Here Juan twisted in the knife. He gave quite the detailed description of Wendell's face, physical features, mode of speech he used on Juan, his clothing and demeanor even.

The agent didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached for a small device on the table, pressing a button that Juan assumed turned off the recorder. When he spoke again, his tone was almost conversational.

"Mr. Mr. Holtzmann, I assure you we will review and correct any missteps in handling your situation. Your safety and the continued development of your work is of utmost importance to us."

"Yeah, sure," Juan muttered. "Just make sure Mister Wendell gets the memo."

The agent allowed himself the faintest smile before straightening in his chair, the moment of levity gone as quickly as it had come. "Now, let's return to the matter at hand."

And just like that, the interrogation resumed, leaving Juan to wonder if Wendell's ears were burning somewhere in the vast web of Davion intelligence.

Because fuck that guy for the sleepless nights he caused.

===

Wendell's day had been going exceptionally well. As a senior operative in MIIO's Counterintelligence Division, he prided himself on conducting the work that kept the Federated Suns one step ahead of its rivals. God's work, he often told himself. His latest operation had gone off without a hitch—or so he thought.

He was reviewing an incoming brief when he noticed them. Two large, joyless men in dark suits, their faces carved from granite and utterly devoid of humor, walking purposefully in his direction. Wendell's instincts, honed by years of fieldwork, sent a warning bell clanging through his mind.

It was the insignia pinned to their lapels. One bore the emblem of MIIO's Bureau of Internal Investigations, the branch tasked with keeping the organization clean and efficient.

The other man's insignia belonged to MI7, the liaison agency between Davion Military Intelligence and MIIO. Their job was to ensure coordination between intelligence operations and, occasionally, to keep the peace between rival bureaucracies.

When those two departments showed up together, it was never good news.

Wendell straightened in his chair, doing his best to project calm professionalism. "Gentlemen," he greeted them, forcing a polite smile. "What can I do for you?"

The taller of the two men, a broad-shouldered figure with a buzz cut that would make a drill sergeant proud, leaned down just enough to loom. "Mr. Wendell, we'd like you to come with us. There are some questions we need to ask."

 

[bryanfran36]

Comeuppance

The taller of the two men, a broad-shouldered figure with a buzz cut that would make a drill sergeant proud, leaned down just enough to loom. "Mr. Wendell, we'd like you to come with us. There are some questions we need to ask."

Wendell's stomach sank. He knew better than to protest as these men weren't the type to be persuaded by excuses or deflections. Still, he couldn't help but try.

"Questions?" Wendell repeated, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "May I ask what this is about?"

The second man, shorter but just as menacing, raised an eyebrow. "It's about Mr. Juan Holtzmann," he said, his voice as dry as sandpaper.

Juan Holtzmann. The name sent a jolt through Wendell's chest. He had only dealt with Holtzmann briefly, issuing what he considered a routine warning about fringe groups like the Far Lookers interpreting his literary work as a manifesto. It hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, or so Wendell had thought.

"This way, Mr. Wendell," the tall man said, stepping aside to allow Wendell to rise.

With no other choice, Wendell stood, adjusting his jacket and trying to maintain his composure as he followed the two men out of his office.

The interrogation room was as Spartan as Wendell expected—bare walls, a sturdy table, and two chairs, all designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. He was directed to sit, and the MI7 operative took the seat opposite him, while the Bureau of Internal Investigations man leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"We'll keep this brief, Mr. Wendell," the MI7 operative began. His tone was polite, almost conversational, but Wendell wasn't fooled. There was an edge beneath the words, sharp enough to draw blood. "What can you tell us about your interactions with Juan Holtzmann?"

Wendell laced his fingers together, keeping his expression carefully neutral. "Holtzmann? He's an author—a minor one, as far as I know. I met with him a few months ago to discuss some concerns about the Far Lookers. They've been using his novels as a rallying point, and we thought it prudent to make him aware of the potential... implications."

"And how, precisely, did you make him aware?" the MI7 operative asked, his voice as smooth as silk.

Wendell hesitated. "I explained the situation clearly and professionally," he said carefully. "Holtzmann seemed cooperative—grateful, even. I didn't see any cause for concern."

The Bureau man snorted, a sound that made Wendell's skin crawl. "Didn't see any cause for concern," he repeated, his tone dripping with disdain. "You do realize that Holtzmann was recently the target of an assassination attempt, don't you?"

Wendell's eyes widened despite himself. "Assassination? I wasn't aware—"

"Clearly," the MI7 operative interrupted, his voice suddenly cold. "Because if you had been aware, perhaps you wouldn't have handled the situation so cavalierly. Did it not occur to you that Holtzmann's work—his scientific and literary output—might draw more than just the attention of fringe groups?"

"I didn't think—" Wendell began, but the Bureau man cut him off.

"That's the problem, Wendell. You didn't think. Holtzmann isn't just some two-bit author with some concerning content and ideas (and we have dime a dozen of those everyday). He's a scientist with potential ties to critical technologies, working in a firm under Davion funding. Did it never occur to you that his work might be of interest to parties beyond the Far Lookers?"

Wendell swallowed hard, feeling the walls close in around him. "I followed protocol," he said weakly. "I didn't see—"

"Enough," the MI7 operative said sharply. "This isn't about what you didn't see, Wendell. It's about what you should have seen."

Wendell sat in silence as the two men stared him down, their judgment heavy in the air.

"Effective immediately," the Bureau man said, his voice like a hammer striking an anvil, "you're suspended from active duty pending a full review of your actions, or lack thereof. MIIO cannot afford oversights like this."

Wendell's world spun as the implications sank in. His great day had just turned into his worst nightmare.

===

Prince Ian Davion, First Prince of the Federated Suns, sat on the high-backed throne of the Court of New Avalon, his expression carefully schooled into a mask of patience. He hated court days with a passion that burned hotter than the fusion cores of a lance of BattleMechs. The endless parade of nobles, bureaucrats, and merchants, each seeking his favor or pushing their own agendas, tested his restraint to the limits. His preference for the battlefield, where decisions were clear and actions immediate, only made the layered duplicity of court politics more unbearable.

The throne room was a grand chamber, all gilded arches and polished marble, banners of the Davion crest hanging high on the walls. It was a symbol of power, of tradition, and of stability. To Ian, it felt more like a prison, one where the bars were made of expectation and the chains forged from obligation.

His younger brother, Hanse Davion, stood at his side, radiating an easy confidence Ian envied but couldn't quite replicate. Hanse seemed born to this kind of work, his sharp green eyes missing nothing, his every word and gesture carrying weight without seeming overbearing. If Ian was the sword of House Davion, Hanse was the scalpel—a precise, calculating operator who could navigate the labyrinthine politics of the Inner Sphere with a finesse Ian could never match.

Ian's attention drifted as yet another minor noble rose to present his case, this one a simpering baron from the Draconis March. The man's voice was a grating mix of obsequiousness and barely concealed ambition, and Ian had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he leaned slightly toward Hanse and muttered under his breath, "If I have to listen to one more request for an unnecessary land grant, I might start issuing dueling challenges to get through the day."

Hanse's lips twitched into a small, conspiratorial smile. "You'd win, but it might complicate the succession planning."

Ian snorted softly but straightened in his seat as the baron droned on. The truth was, Ian trusted Hanse implicitly, both as a brother and as his second-in-command. Hanse's talent for diplomacy complemented Ian's military acumen, and together, they formed a formidable partnership. But Ian couldn't shake the nagging thought that his brother might have been better suited to the throne.

The court session dragged on, punctuated by moments of barely restrained frustration. Ian weathered it with the stoicism of a man used to enduring hardships, though he found himself glancing at the chronometer more often than he cared to admit. When the final petitioner of the day finally stepped back, Ian rose from his throne with a sense of relief that was only partially concealed.

Hanse joined him as they left the chamber, the heavy doors closing behind them with a satisfying thunk. "You handled that well," Hanse remarked lightly, his tone laced with just enough humor to draw a reluctant smile from Ian.

"Define 'well,'" Ian replied. "If you mean I didn't throttle anyone, then yes, I suppose I did."

Hanse chuckled, falling into step beside his brother as they made their way to the briefing room. The corridors of Castle Davion were a blend of medieval grandeur and modern practicality, a reflection of the duality that defined the Federated Suns—a realm steeped in tradition but driven by progress.

"Politics is a battlefield of its own," Hanse said after a moment, his voice thoughtful. "The weapons are different, but the stakes are just as high."

Ian grunted. "I'd still rather deal with an enemy I can see, one who's trying to kill me outright instead of burying me in a mountain of half-truths and polite deceit."

They reached the briefing room, where a holo-table displayed the latest intelligence from the Periphery. Ian's mood lightened as he focused on the clear lines of troop movements and supply chains. This was a world he understood, where his decisions carried immediate consequences and where victory or defeat was determined by skill and strategy.

Hanse stood beside him, his gaze sharp as he analyzed the data. Together, they were a study in contrasts—one the soldier, the other the statesman—but their bond was unshakable.

Ian glanced at his brother, his earlier doubts momentarily set aside. "Let's get to work," he said, his voice steady.

The briefing room was sparsely furnished, a place where function took precedence over form. Ian Davion sat at the head of the long table, his expression set in a mix of curiosity and simmering impatience.

Across from him stood Colonel Nicolas Truston, the current Director of MIIO. Truston was a man of average build, with steel-gray hair and a demeanor that suggested he rarely allowed himself the luxury of humor. The weight of his responsibilities etched lines into his face, but his eyes were sharp, betraying an unyielding intellect.

Ian leaned forward slightly, his attention riveted on Truston as the colonel presented the two pressing matters requiring the First Prince's attention. "We have two significant issues, Your Highness," Truston began, his tone crisp. "One pertains to the Periphery. The other is more... immediate and closer to home."

Ian's brow furrowed. "Close to home, you say? That sounds personal. Start there."

The Periphery can wait.
Truston nodded, tapping a control on the holo-projector in the middle of the table. The display flickered to life, showing a static image of a young man—thin, dark-haired, with sharp eyes that seemed to hold equal measures of anxiety and determination. Ian tilted his head slightly, noting the unfamiliar face.

"This," Truston began, "is Juan Holtzman, a junior scientist at Arcadia Technologies. One of our smaller defense contractors here on New Avalon."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "I assume he's not just another researcher if he's come to your attention."

"He's not," Truston confirmed. "Holtzman's been working on an energy absorption project—something that initially caught our attention as a promising avenue for improved energy dispersion systems. Harriman, the project lead, flagged his early work as noteworthy, and he's been given increased resources to develop the concept."

Ian frowned, his instincts telling him there was more to this story. "And?"

"And," Truston continued, "two days ago, an assassination attempt was made on Holtzman inside Arcadia's workshop."

The colonel tapped the controls again, and a grainy security feed began to play. Ian's expression darkened as he watched Holtzman struggle with a would-be assassin armed with a silenced pistol. The fight was chaotic, desperate, and brutal, culminating in Holtzman turning the knife against his attacker. But it wasn't just the violence that caught Ian's attention—it was the brief but unmistakable flicker of light that enveloped Holtzman during the fight, deflecting bullets with what could only be described as a shimmering energy field.

"What in the hell is that?" Ian asked, leaning forward.

"That, Your Highness," Truston said gravely, "is a prototype energy shield Holtzman built in his spare time. Independently. Using spare parts and his own equations."

Ian's eyebrows shot up. "He built that? On his own?"

Truston nodded. "According to Harriman, Holtzman has been quietly working on the device outside of his official project hours. No one at Arcadia knew it existed until the assassination attempt, and Holtzman hasn't handed it over. He's still carrying the device, and we've made the decision not to spook him by trying to confiscate it. For now, we're monitoring him closely."

Ian exhaled slowly, the implications hitting him hard. "An energy shield... That's not just a breakthrough, Colonel. That's a paradigm shift. If this works—if it can be scaled—it could revolutionize warfare. And it would put a massive target on Holtzman's back."

"Hell," Ian muttered, his voice low but intense. "Who's the dead man?"

"Agent of the Draconis Combine," Truston answered grimly. "Likely an operative planted to eliminate promising scientists working on sensitive projects. This isn't the first time we've seen such tactics from the Combine."

Ian tapped a finger against the table, his mind racing. Energy shielding could change the face of warfare in the Inner Sphere, protecting soldiers, vehicles, even BattleMechs from harm. But such a breakthrough would also make its inventor a target—not just for the Draconis Combine, but for anyone with ambitions of military supremacy.

"What's being done to secure Holtzman?" Ian asked, his tone sharp.

Truston hesitated. "He's currently in a secured location under MIIO protection. However, this incident raises questions about the vetting processes at Arcadia Technologies and whether there are more sleeper agents in play. We've also intercepted some chatter that suggests the Combine wasn't acting alone. There's a possibility ComStar's ROM is aware of Holtzman's work as well."

Ian let out a low curse. "So we have a potential technological breakthrough in the hands of a man who's now a walking target, and two major powers who might already be plotting their next moves. Fantastic."

Truston inclined his head. "That sums it up, Your Highness. Your orders?"

Ian didn't hesitate. "Double Holtzman's security. Move him to one of our black sites if you have to, but make sure he keeps working. If this shield is as significant as it looks, it could tip the balance in ways the Combine won't like."

He glanced at Hanse, who had been quietly observing the exchange. His younger brother's expression was thoughtful, his sharp mind already turning over the implications. Ian trusted Hanse's instincts in these matters, and he was certain his brother would have insights to offer once they discussed the Periphery situation.

"Anything else?" Ian asked Truston.

"Just this," the colonel replied, tapping another control to clear the display. "You might want to consider personally meeting Holtzman at some point. A little reassurance from the First Prince could go a long way toward ensuring his cooperation and his loyalty."

Truston nodded. "Understood, Your Highness. And the Periphery issue?"

Ian sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Let's hear it."

"He's the writer of Dune," Hanse blurted, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes wide. "Juan Holtzman is writer of that seminal work! Dune!"

The revelation came so suddenly that it took the entire room a moment to register Hanse's outburst. His younger brother's normally measured demeanor was replaced by something Ian could only describe as stunned enthusiasm.

For a moment, silence reigned in the briefing room as the assembled officers and advisors processed the statement. Then, as if on cue, a collective OH SHIT rippled through the room. Colonel Truston, who had been calm and composed moments earlier, pinched the bridge of his nose as several aides exchanged wide-eyed glances.

Ian stared at his brother, then at Truston. "Wait. The same Dune that half the officers in this palace treat like gospel? The one that's somehow turned sandworms and spice into philosophical debates during staff meetings?"

"Yes, Ian," Hanse said, his voice tinged with exasperation. "That Dune."

Ian leaned back, letting out a low whistle. "Well. That does change things. And you're telling me the Dracs nearly killed the man responsible for it? Not to mention... he's working on its sequel?"

Truston nodded reluctantly. "He's been transcribing drafts of what we believe to be called Dune Messiah. But those drafts have been kept private. There's no indication he's shared them widely. Still, it's safe to assume that if he'd been killed, we might never have seen them."

Ian's jaw tightened. "So not only do we have a scientific genius who might revolutionize energy shielding, but he's also a cultural icon in the making? And we almost lost him because of a Combine assassin?"

Truston's hesitation was palpable, his next words delivered with the caution of a man stepping onto a minefield. "It's worse than that, Your Highness. Holtzman might've published the sequel already... if it hadn't been for one of our own."

Ian's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Explain."

"A few years ago, an MIIO field agent from the Counterintelligence Division named Wendell warned Holtzman away from the Taurian Far Lookers, who treated Dune as the gospel for their viewpoint to scatter across the cosmos." Truston admitted, his tone grim. "In doing so, he also intimidated him into ceasing publication of his work. Apparently, Wendell considered his writing 'dangerously idealistic' and a potential security risk."

Ian's stare was icy. "Do you mean to tell me that the reason I can't read the sequel to Dune is because a maverick MIIO agent intimidated the author into silence?"

"Yes, my Prince," Truston replied, his tone heavy with resignation.

Ian's hand slammed onto the table, making everyone jump. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply for a moment before opening them again, his gaze fixed on Truston. "Assign this Mr. Wendell to a backwater posting for three years. Somewhere unpleasant, with minimal access to anything resembling civilization."

"Understood, Your Highness."

"And," Ian added with a growl, "remove all entertainment and books from his quarters except for military regulation manuals. Perhaps he'll actually learn them this time."

Hanse coughed to hide a laugh as Truston nodded sharply, jotting down the order. Ian shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "God above, Nicolas. We're supposed to be the defenders of progress and innovation, and one of our own nearly destroyed a cultural and scientific treasure in the making."

"To be fair, Your Highness," Hanse interjected, his tone lighter now, "at least Holtzman survived to tell the tale. And apparently, he's been writing in secret all along. So maybe we'll get Dune Messiah sooner rather than later."

Ian let out a grudging chuckle. "Let's hope so. In the meantime, Colonel, ensure Holtzman gets whatever resources he needs—within reason, of course. And keep this incident quiet. The last thing we need is for the Combine or ROM to get wind of his dual talents."

Truston nodded. "I'll see to it personally."

"Good," Ian said, his voice hardening. "Now, Colonel, tell me about the Periphery."

Ian Davion's brow furrowed as Nicolas Truston, Director of the MIIO, delivered the update with all the gravity the situation deserved. The room had already been buzzing with the implications of Juan Holtzman's near-assassination, but now Truston was steering their attention toward a brewing mystery in the Periphery.

"There's a developing situation on Delos IV," Truston began, his voice crisp and precise. "It's located near the Outworlds Alliance, as you know, not exactly a bastion of military activity. But two weeks ago, a pristine fleet of WarShips and JumpShips entered the system."

Ian straightened in his seat. "Pristine? WarShips? I thought we were talking about the Periphery, Nicolas."

"That's the rub, Your Highness," Truston replied. "They don't belong to any Periphery state. They call themselves the Wolf's Dragoons, a mercenary organization." He paused for effect. "And they scared the planet half to death. The local defense forces initially assumed they were facing an invasion. Given the size and composition of the fleet, it wasn't an unreasonable conclusion."

"Good God," Hanse muttered. "So, what stopped it from turning into an actual invasion?"

"Cooler heads on both sides, apparently," Truston said. "The Dragoons sent a message claiming they were there to offer their services as mercenaries. But there's something... off about them."

Ian's eyes narrowed. "Define 'off.'"

Truston leaned forward, his expression serious. "They're too professional. Too disciplined. Their fleet is too well-maintained. Everything about them screams military—not mercenary."

A murmur rippled through the room. Ian's frown deepened. "And they just show up out of nowhere, on the doorstep of the Federated Suns, claiming to be for hire? That's a little too convenient for my taste."

"Mine as well, Your Highness," Truston agreed. "Their arrival raises too many questions. Where did they get those WarShips? How do they maintain them? And why Delos IV? They could've gone to the Capellans or even the Draconis Combine if they were just looking for a paycheck."

"They're not mercenaries," Hanse said, his tone thoughtful. "At least, not in the traditional sense. They sound more like..."

"Like the Sardaukar," Ian finished, his voice low. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it, Nicolas?"

Truston inclined his head slightly. "The comparison has been made, Your Highness. By more than one analyst."

The room fell silent at that. The Sardaukar, a fanatical, elite fighting force utterly loyal to the Padishah Emperor in Holtzman's Dune were a concept that had resonated deeply with military minds across the Inner Sphere. To suggest that these Wolf's Dragoons might be an analog was not a comparison made lightly.

Ian leaned back in his chair, his expression grim. "So, what are we dealing with here? A rogue state's private army? Some kind of covert operation? Or something worse?"

"We don't know yet," Truston admitted. "But we've dispatched a team to Delos IV to make contact and gather more information. In the meantime, I recommend we proceed with caution. If they are as capable as they appear, we don't want to alienate them—or provoke them unnecessarily."

Ian nodded slowly. "Agreed. But I want contingencies in place. If this is some kind of Trojan horse, we need to be ready."

"I'll see to it," Truston promised.

Hanse tapped his chin thoughtfully. "If they are mercenaries—or pretending to be—then they'll want a contract. What's the play there?"

"We keep them at arm's length for now," Ian said decisively. "Let's see what they're really after. If they're looking for work, we can afford to dangle a few opportunities in front of them. But under no circumstances are they to be given access to critical systems or infrastructure."

"Understood," Truston said. "I'll make sure the team on Delos IV is briefed accordingly."

Ian leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he considered the situation further.

The Wolf's Dragoons presented both a potential boon and a dangerous unknown. If they truly wanted to work as mercenaries, the Federated Suns could benefit immensely from their discipline and firepower. But trusting them required care, and establishing an initial rapport would demand a deft hand. Ian glanced at Hanse, whose expression mirrored his own thoughts.

"If they're offering their services," Ian said slowly, "we shouldn't squander the opportunity. At least, not before we know more about them. But this isn't something we can handle with a simple contract negotiation. We'll need someone who can gauge them properly—someone with the right mix of diplomacy and military acumen."

Hanse nodded. "Agreed. But who do we send? We need someone competent, someone who won't miss the nuances."

Truston leaned forward, a rare flicker of amusement on his otherwise impassive face. "Your Highness, I might have a suggestion."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

"Duke William Schuler-Davion," Truston said. "He's proven himself a skilled liaison with mercenary units in the past. His work with the Crucis Lancers and various independent companies has been exemplary. He has the military experience to understand what the Dragoons are bringing to the table, and the diplomatic finesse to handle them without provoking unnecessary friction."

Ian considered that. William Schuler-Davion, a distant cousin, had built a reputation for competence and pragmatism. He wasn't prone to the arrogance or entitlement that sometimes plagued those with noble blood, and his success in navigating the complex world of mercenary contracts was well-documented.

"William's a solid choice," Ian said. "He's also far enough removed from the main Davion line that it doesn't look like we're overplaying our hand. If they're cautious about getting involved with a Great House, he won't set off as many alarm bells as someone closer to the throne."

Hanse smiled faintly. "And if they are as dangerous as they seem, he's not someone we can't afford to lose."

Ian shot his brother a dry look. "Always thinking strategically, aren't you?"

Hanse shrugged. "It's a family trait."

"Fine," Ian said, turning back to Truston. "Send word to William. Bring him to New Avalon immediately. I want him briefed, equipped, and appointed as plenipotentiary to handle this. Give him access to the priority command circuit so he can reach Delos IV as quickly as possible."

"I'll handle it personally," Truston said, already making notes. "He'll be on his way within the hour."

Ian drummed his fingers on the table, his mind already racing ahead. "Make sure he understands the stakes. This isn't just about signing a contract. I want him to figure out who these people are, what they really want, and whether they can be trusted. If they're a threat, I want to know before they're in a position to act against us."

Truston nodded. "Understood, Your Highness."

Hanse leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. "William's going to have his hands full with this one. The Dragoons aren't going to make this easy for him."

Ian snorted. "He wouldn't be a Davion if he expected it to be easy." He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Keep me informed, Nicolas. And let's hope this doesn't turn into another damned headache."

As the others filed out of the room, Ian lingered for a moment, staring at the star map projected on the wall. Delos IV was a speck in the vast expanse of the Federated Suns, but it had suddenly become a focal point of intrigue and opportunity. The Wolf's Dragoons could be an incredible asset—or a catastrophic miscalculation.

One way or another, Ian thought grimly, they were about to find out.

Ian glanced at Hanse, who nodded. "We'll need to keep a close eye on this," Hanse said. "They could be an opportunity or a threat. Either way, they've already made waves, and we can't afford to ignore them."

Ian sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. "Just once, I'd like a quiet week. All right, Nicolas. Keep me updated on the Dragoons. And for God's sake, don't let them take us by surprise."

===

Juan Holtzman sat cross-legged on the cot in the small, secure room, his fingers stained with ink as they danced across the pages of his notebook. The scratch of the pen filled the silence, broken only by the occasional sigh or creak of the cot's springs as he shifted.

He had no pressing work, no endless makework assignments, and most importantly no Harriman hovering over him like a petty god of bureaucracy.

It was almost blissful.

The narrative of Dune Messiah consumed his thoughts. His hand moved in precise arcs, transcribing the twisted intrigue of the Bene Gesserit, the Tleilaxu, and the Spacing Guild. Paul Atreides, grappling with the devastating consequences of the Fremen Jihad—a calamity that had consumed 61 billion lives and yet was the least horrifying vision from his prescient nightmares.

The weight of history, inevitability, and the struggle to steer humanity's path from extinction filled the page, and Juan couldn't help but marvel at the poignancy of it all.

The words felt heavy, real, even in this surreal world where he was a stranger in a strange land. His connection to Paul's struggle felt personal. An echo of his own fight to navigate a universe he barely understood.

And then, there was a knock.

Juan's head snapped up, the pen freezing in mid-stroke. The heavy, reinforced door clicked open, revealing the ever-composed agent who had become his occasional minder. The man stepped inside, his boots making no sound on the concrete floor, and nodded once.

"Mr. Holtzman," the agent said, his voice polite but brisk, "I have some news."

Juan leaned back, stretching his cramped fingers, and gestured for the agent to continue. "Hit me with it. Good news first, if you've got it. God knows I could use a win."

The agent quirked an eyebrow. "Good news it is, then. The matter of the MIIO operative who harassed you has been addressed. Wendell has been reassigned to a… less desirable post. Three years in a remote outpost with no entertainment or reading material save for military regulation manuals."

Juan blinked. For a moment, he couldn't help but laugh a short, incredulous sound. "Wait, really? That's brilliant. Whoever thought of that deserves a medal."

"I believe it was the First Prince himself," the agent said, his tone entirely neutral.

Juan's laughter faded into stunned silence. "The First Prince? Seriously?"

The agent nodded. "Your work has come to his personal attention. Both your energy absorption project and, apparently, your writing. I was instructed to relay his interest in seeing the continuation of your novels and your scientific innovations."

Juan stared at the man, his mind whirling. The First Prince of the Federated Suns knew about him? Had read his work? He didn't know whether to feel honored, terrified, or both.

"Well," Juan finally managed, "I guess that means I really need to finish this one, huh?"

"Indeed," the agent said. "But there's more. The Prince has also expressed his support for ensuring your safety. You'll remain here under protection until the situation stabilizes. Additional security measures are being put into place to ensure no further incidents occur. He also instructed that you have all that you require within reason of course, of anything to further your work both scientific and literary."

Juan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "And the bad news? You did say there's more, and I know how this works."

The agent hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, and Juan's gut twisted.

"The bad news," the agent admitted, "is that while Wendell acted independently, we can't rule out other potential threats. The attempt on your life may have drawn unwanted attention to your work, both from internal factions and external parties."

"Fantastic," Juan muttered, running a hand through his hair. "So I'm basically a walking target now. Great. Love that for me."

"You are also a valuable asset," the agent pointed out. "The First Prince has ensured your protection for precisely that reason. Your work is important, Mr. Holtzman, both to the Federated Suns and, apparently, to its ruler."

Juan snorted, shaking his head. "Sure. Because nothing says 'important' like writing a groundbreaking science fiction novel of the Inner Sphere and fumbling my way through some energy absorption tech."

The agent didn't rise to the bait, his expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. "If you'd like, I can arrange for additional resources to assist you with your work. Consider it an investment."

Juan considered that for a moment, then sighed. "Fine. But if you're offering resources, how about some decent coffee? This stuff they have here tastes like engine coolant."

The agent almost smiled. "I'll see what I can do."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Juan leaned back against the wall, the notebook still open in his lap. His heart was still racing, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.

"Well, Paul," he muttered to himself, "if you can juggle a Jihad and prescient nightmares, I guess I can handle a nosy Prince and a couple of assassins."

Picking up his pen, he turned back to the page and began writing again.

 

[bryanfran36]

Culture Shock

The great expanse of Delos IV loomed in the forward observation bay, its atmosphere painted in swirling shades of blue and green. For all its apparent tranquility, the situation surrounding the planet was anything but calm.

Unlike the typical Inner Sphere mercenary forces, the Wolf Dragoons arrived in the system with a dramatic, unprecedented show of force on pristine warships and transports.

A gambit that could have backfired spectacularly and escalated into warfare that might engulf the Inner Sphere.

So far, the tenuous peace held on.

Colonel Jaime Wolf stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture as rigid and composed as a statue. The towering viewport reflected on his face, calm but resolute, as he gazed at the planet below. Joshua Wolf, his brother, stood beside him, equally composed, though his eyes darted between the data feeds displayed on the nearby console.

The two individuals, who might more accurately be called warriors by the Clans rather than men, were the key players in the delicate process of managing a potentially volatile situation that could easily ignite into a major confrontation.

"They are paranoid," Joshua observed, his voice even and clipped. "The planetary authorities are still under emergency martial law placed by their government, and people are compliant. This long compliance, according to SIGINT, surprises me. They do not understand what they see."

"They see a threat," Jaime replied, his tone devoid of reproach. "And rightly so. We cannot blame them for their fears, but we must tread carefully. Unnecessary aggression can not jeopardize our mission."

Joshua nodded, the faintest flicker of understanding crossing his face. "Aff. The compromises we have made thus far are tolerable. I will ensure our warriors adhere to them."

Jaime turned his head slightly, regarding his brother with an approving look. "Good. Please remind them to refrain from using "aff," "quiaff," and "neg" for the time being. It draws too much attention."

"Done," Joshua replied, his voice sharp. "I have already reminded them, but I will reiterate the point. The vernacular of the Inner Sphere must become second nature to us, no matter how crude it feels."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Jaime's lips, though it did not quite reach his eyes. "Crude, yes, but necessary. This is a battlefield of perception as much as it is one of force. Let them speak as they will, but when pressed for answers, they are to defer to me."

Joshua inclined his head, his agreement implicit. Behind them, the hiss of a door opening drew their attention. Captain Jennifer Daniels entered the room, her boots clicking sharply against the deck plates. She saluted crisply, a gesture that still felt peculiar in its formality but was gradually becoming a habit among the Wolves.

"Colonel, we have completed the arrangements with the planetary authorities," Daniels reported. "The planetary authorities will allow a limited contingent of our personnel to go to the groundside, under escort, to… stretch their legs."

"Very well," Jaime said. "Choose the contingent carefully," Jaime said. "No one who might draw undue attention or… struggle to adhere to our protocols."

Daniels nodded. "Understood. I have already compiled a list of candidates. Those candidates must be disciplined, reliable, and discreet."

"Excellent," Jaime replied. "What of the authorities themselves? Have they offered any indication of their intentions beyond this compromise?"

"They remain cautious," Daniels said. "The governor insists on maintaining control of the situation, though he admits his forces are outmatched if fighting breaks out. They are not entirely comfortable with our presence, but seem willing to explore the possibility of calling on House Davion on hiring us. They have, however, made a peculiar comparison."

"Explain," Jaime said, his tone sharp.

Daniels shifted slightly. "They referred to us as… Sardaukar."

Both Jaime and Joshua blinked, exchanging a quick glance. "Sardaukar?" Joshua repeated, his brow furrowed. "What manner of warriors are those? I have never heard of them."

"Neither have I," Jaime admitted. "Are they a military unit? A legendary force?"

"They seemed to imply the term carried a significant weight," Daniels said. "I suspect it is some cultural reference native to the Inner Sphere."

"Make a note," Jaime instructed. "We will investigate the term further. If it is intended as a compliment, it may bolster our position. If it is an insult, we must understand why."

Joshua's lips thinned. "It irritates me with these vernacular contexts that I do not know of. They assume we understand their cultural context. Still, we will adapt."

"As we always do," Jaime agreed. "For now, let them see us as they will. In time, they will understand the truth of who we are."

Daniels saluted again, excusing herself to oversee the groundside arrangements. The door hissed shut behind her, leaving the two brothers alone once more.

"They are watching us closely," Joshua said after a moment, his tone thoughtful.

"Of course they are," Jaime replied. "We would do the same in their position. They are right to be cautious, but their fear will eventually give way to respect."

"Assuming we can navigate their labyrinth of cultural misunderstandings," Joshua said dryly.

Jaime's faint smile returned. "That is part of the challenge, brother. Let us show them that the Wolf Dragoons are unlike any they have encountered before. Whether they call us mercenaries, Sardaukar, or something else entirely, they will not forget us."

Joshua nodded, his expression hardening. "The Inner Sphere will learn that we are warriors of Clan Wolf, and we do not bend."

Jaime's gaze returned to the planet below. "Indeed," he said softly. "But for now, let us play the part they expect. Soon they will know of our purpose here and our time as wardens will come."

The dropship's landing thrusters roared as they descended onto Delos IV's planetary spaceport, kicking up a dense cloud of dust that billowed around the gleaming metallic hull. The muted thuds of docking clamps locking into place reverberated through the ship's superstructure, followed by the mechanical groan of the boarding ramp extending.

Colonel Jaime Wolf, ever composed, descended first, his stride measured and purposeful. His sharp eyes took in the surroundings with a clinical precision honed through years of leadership and combat. Beside him, Joshua Wolf mirrored his movements, their silent synchronization the hallmark of seasoned warriors.

(Natasha stayed on the ships, citing her lack of interest that had everyone concerned what the woman was up to.)

Behind them, the rest of the delegation emerged. Cranston Snord, with his trademark mixture of curiosity and irreverence, stepped out with his daughter Rhonda at his side. The elder Snord's eyes were already roving over the spaceport's architecture and layout, his expression a peculiar blend of academic interest and mild disdain. Rhonda, younger but equally sharp, mirrored her father's gaze, though her demeanor carried a touch more discipline than her father.

Jaime glanced at them briefly, unsurprised. Cranston's inclusion in this delegation was not unexpected. Everyone in the expedition knew of his fascination with Star League-era history and its relics; Still, Jaime respected the man's unorthodox approach to the past, even if it occasionally clashed with Clan sensibilities. Rhonda's presence hinted at her father's intent to instill his unconventional methods in the next generation. Jaime quietly approved.

As the group stepped onto the tarmac, Jaime's gaze swept over the spaceport's infrastructure. The facilities were clean, functional, and clearly well-maintained, but they lacked the polish or grandeur of Star League construction. Still, they were serviceable—adequate for their purpose, if unremarkable.

The absence of civilian traffic, no doubt a result of the martial law imposed during the Dragoons' arrival, gave the area an unnerving stillness. It was a stark contrast to the bustling spaceports Jaime had studied in Star League archives.

His attention shifted to the planetary militia arrayed before them. A small contingent of soldiers stood in neat ranks, their uniforms pressed, and their weapons held with an approximation of discipline. Jaime's trained eye assessed them with ruthless efficiency. They were adequate. Perhaps the equivalent of a sibko nearing graduation, but they lacked the hardened edge of true warriors.

Still, they had attempted to appear formidable, and Jaime silently acknowledged their bravery in standing before a force as imposing as the Wolf Dragoons.

One of the militia officers stepped forward, a man with a weathered face and a bearing that suggested both experience and trepidation. He saluted crisply, his expression carefully neutral as he addressed the delegation.

"Welcome to Delos IV, Colonel Wolf," the officer said. His voice was steady, though Jaime noted the slight tension in his shoulders. "I am Major Corin Laskar of the Delos Planetary Militia. On behalf of Governor Tannoch, I extend our greetings and our hopes for a productive dialogue."

Jaime inclined his head slightly, his expression inscrutable. "Major Laskar," he said, his tone even. "I note and appreciate your hospitality. We look forward to our discussions with your governor."

Cranston Snord, positioned behind him, emitted a low whistle, his gaze darting across the lines of the militia, taking in the entirety of their formation. "Not bad," he murmured to no one in particular. "They're trying, at least."

Rhonda nudged her father lightly, her expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "Please show some subtlety, Father."

Cranston grinned, unrepentant, and Jaime suppressed a small sigh. Snord's irreverence was an inevitable part of his charm, though Jaime sometimes wondered how the man managed to survive so long with such an attitude.

As the delegation moved toward the waiting transport vehicles, Jaime continued his silent evaluation of the planet's capabilities. The infrastructure, the militia, the demeanor of its officials… all of it painted a picture of a world doing its best to project strength in the face of overwhelming odds.

It was commendable, in its way, though it did little to change the cold calculation in Jaime's mind. In a conflict, Delos IV would be meat for the grinder, its forces incapable of standing against a truly determined foe.

Joshua fell into step beside him, his voice low. "Their militia is adequate for a defensive skirmish, perhaps. Against us, they would last minutes, no more."

"Agreed," Jaime replied. "But that is not why we are here. Remember our purpose. We are not conquerors. We are wardens, their future protectors."

"Yet," Joshua said quietly, and Jaime shot him a sharp look. His brother met his gaze evenly, then inclined his head in acknowledgment.

As they boarded the waiting vehicles, Jaime glanced back at the militia, noting the way their eyes followed the Dragoons with a mixture of awe and unease. He understood their fear. The Wolf Dragoons were an enigma, an unknown quantity that had arrived unbidden in their system.

For all their attempts at diplomacy, the power imbalance was undeniable.

But Jaime had no intention of exploiting that imbalance. Not yet, at least. For now, the Wolves would play the part of mercenaries, offering their services to a world that could scarcely comprehend the storm that had just arrived on its doorstep.

The vehicle rumbled to life, and as it carried them toward the governor's palace, Jaime allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. Delos IV was merely the first step, a small piece in a much larger game.

The Inner Sphere would learn of the Dragoons soon enough, and when it did, nothing would ever be the same again.

The convoy rolled out of the spaceport, its low, guttural engines rumbling through the still air. Jaime Wolf, seated near the front of the lead vehicle, kept his gaze fixed on the passing terrain. The road stretched ahead, bordered by dry, windswept plains occasionally dotted with sparse clusters of vegetation.

The stark simplicity of the environment reminded him of the steppes of their Clan homeworlds, though it lacked the raw beauty of Strana Mechty.

Beside him, Joshua Wolf sat stiffly, his posture straight and his expression composed. Behind them, the militia Major Corin Laskar occupied a seat across the aisle, his relaxed demeanor a contrast to the rigid bearing of the Dragoons.

Jaime could tell the man was trying to project confidence, but there was an underlying tension to his movements, a sign he was acutely aware of the wolves riding with him.

Joshua, his tone neutral but probing, broke the silence. "Major Laskar, may I inquire why the spaceport is located thirty kilometers from the city? This arrangement is… unusual."

The major looked up, startled for a moment by the formal cadence of Joshua's speech, before recovering smoothly. "Oh, that? It's a matter of practicality and defense, really."

He shifted slightly, his gaze flicking toward the younger Wolf. "The spaceport's out here so the city doesn't have to deal with the noise and lights from dropships landing and taking off all the time. Those things shake the ground something fierce. Plus, it gives us some defense in depth."

Joshua tilted his head, his interest piqued. "Defense in depth? Please elaborate."

The major nodded, warming to the topic. "If there's an invasion or trouble coming in from space, having the spaceport out here buys us time. Gives us a chance to mobilize and set up defenses closer to the city while the enemy deals with the port first. It's not perfect, but it's what we've got."

Joshua considered this, his expression unreadable. "That is… logical. Your planners seem to have thought through the problem adequately, given your resources. Though I suspect a more centralized position might allow for better response times in certain scenarios."

The major shrugged, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're not wrong, but we've got to work with what we've got. Besides, at least the space here gives a sense of solid demarcation for the folks here. People're thinking of using that empty space for more land development as long as there's peace to be had, God willing."

Jaime, listening quietly, allowed himself a slight internal smile. He appreciated Joshua's direct approach to questioning, though he noted that the lack of contractions in his speech made him stand out more than intended. That was something they would have to adjust further as they stayed for longer.

Cranston Snord, Jaime mused, would have taken this opportunity to pepper the major with more pointed questions—questions that might have sounded innocent but risked raising suspicions. It was a good thing Snord had been in another car, though he would ask quite a lot of questions to the lieutenant there as his liaison.

As valuable as his insights were, his unorthodox methods and fascination with Star League-era trivia often led him to overstep boundaries.

"Tell me, Major Laskar," Joshua continued, his tone as measured as ever, "how long has this defense strategy been in place? Was it implemented during the Star League era or developed later?"

The major hesitated, glancing at Jaime as if seeking permission to answer. When Jaime gave a slight nod, Laskar replied, "This setup? It's been around since the Succession Wars started. Back in the Star League days, things were different. The spaceport used to be closer, but when the League fell apart, folks decided it made more sense to push it out here. Too many raids, too much chaos."

Joshua nodded slowly. "I see. It is unfortunate that the collapse of the Star League led to such measures. Fragmentation and compromise has replaced the efficiency of centralized infrastructure."

The major let out a short laugh, though it lacked actual humor. "That's one way of putting it. But we've learned to adapt. You've got to, out here in the Periphery. Nothing's ever easy, but we make do."

Jaime finally spoke, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. "Adaptation is a skill many lack, major. It is to your credit that your world has managed to maintain this level of order and preparedness. Many others have not."

The major inclined his head, a flicker of pride breaking through his guarded expression. "We do what we can, Colonel. It's not much, but it's home."

The vehicle rumbled on; the silence returning as the plains stretched out before them. Jaime's mind was already shifting to the upcoming meeting with the planetary governor. The militia's defenses were adequate for a world of this size and importance, but they were no match for a determined assault.

Still, Jaime could see the value in cultivating a relationship with a planet that had showed both resourcefulness and a willingness to engage with the Dragoons.

As the city came into view on the horizon, Jaime cast a sidelong glance at Joshua. Jaime sensed his brother thinking hard, even though his brother's expression remained composed. Whatever conclusions Joshua was drawing, Jaime trusted they would align with their mission.

The convoy halted unexpectedly near a broad plaza, its smooth expanse teeming with a crowd that could have been mistaken for the prelude to an uprising if not for the carnival-like energy wafting through the air. Major Laskar leaned forward, his voice crackling over the intercom as he addressed the Wolf Dragoons.

"Apologies for the delay, gentlemen. Seems we've stumbled on the heart of the planet's most famous event. This here's the Dune convention, the biggest annual gathering Delos IV has to offer so far. Been going on for the last five years, so I believe."

A flash of expression carried in the major's face that the Wolf brothers missed, and how he wished he was there wearing House Atreides colours instead of babysitting badly disguised spies for an invasion force.

Jaime Wolf glanced at Joshua with a faint frown, his instincts prickling. "Explain, Major. What precisely is this 'Dune convention?'"

Lazar gestured broadly to the plaza as the Dragoons disembarked from their vehicles. "It's a festival based on a series of books (fictional, of course) but they've had a remarkable influence on the people of this world, hell the entire Inner Sphere they say. The first convention five years ago was modest. It was the second, though, that became wildly popular. Now it's an integral part of our planetary culture."

Jaime and Joshua exchanged a brief, unreadable glance before stepping into the plaza's chaotic energy. The crowd teemed with life, their attire a bewildering mix of flowing desert robes and ostentatious noble garb. Bright, electric-blue eyes stared out from every face, the effect so uniform it was almost disconcerting.

Jaime Wolf and Joshua exchanged glances, their unspoken bond filling in what words didn't.

"We must investigate this," Joshua said after a moment, his tone firm. "We cannot risk overlooking cultural artifacts of this nature. If it is important enough to draw such crowds, it may offer insight into the psychological framework of these people."

Jaime grunted agreement. "If we do not, Cranston will undoubtedly find his own way to investigate it himself and make a scene while doing so."

Major Laskar hesitated, visibly weighing his options. Finally, a message relayed through his earpiece gave him the excuse he needed to relent. "Fine," he said, gesturing to his comms officer. "We've gotten clearance to pause here for a short while. But keep in mind, the Governor is waiting."

The Dragoons disembarked, their boots crunching against the pavement. A wave of noise greeted them as they approached the plaza, its energy vibrant and almost unnervingly focused. Jaime, Joshua, and Cranston led the way, Rhonda Snord trailing close behind and taking it all in with wide eyes.

Jaime found himself struck dumb by the sheer spectacle before him. The convention had transformed the plaza into something otherworldly. Massive dunes of sand—or something remarkably like it—were sculpted across the square, creating the impression of a sprawling desert.

Surrounding the dunes, makeshift tents and elaborate facades mimicked ancient Terran architectural styles, with designs that seemed rooted in Middle Eastern aesthetics, judging from the historical fragments Jaime had studied in Clan archives.

And then there were the people. Thousands of them, all wearing intricate costumes that defied the Dragoons' understanding of practicality. The majority appeared dressed as desert dwellers, their flowing robes punctuated by suits of tightly fitted fabric (Laskar said they were called stillsuits, clothes that seemed to recycle moisture which an ingenious touch, if functional.) Others sported gaudy, imperial-looking attire with an almost absurd ostentation, draped in golds, purples, and reds.

Yet what truly stopped Jaime cold were their eyes.

Every single person wore contacts (or so he hoped) that turned their irises an impossible shade of electric blue. The effect was unnerving. It was as if an entire population had decided en masse to modify themselves for reasons entirely inscrutable to him.

"Joshua," Jaime muttered under his breath, "please tell me this is a deliberate cosmetic costume choice and not actual genetic engineering."

The Clans had quite the stigma against extensive genetic modifications, and to see it here was unnerving.

Joshua's eyes scanned the crowd with a clinical detachment. "I suspect it is the former, though it remains a possibility that their cultural norms prioritize such an appearance. If it were truly genetic, it would indicate access to technologies we believed lost. We should remain cautious."

Joshua's voice, calm and deliberate as always, broke through Jaime's thoughts. "Major, why do all these people appear to have modified their eyes? This is not standard Inner Sphere behavior."

Lazar chuckled lightly. "Ah, that's just part of the tradition. The book itself describes a substance called 'spice' that turns the user's eyes blue. It's a symbolic detail. Most attendees use contact lenses or similar cosmetic enhancements to mimic the effect. No genetic tampering involved, I assure you."

Jaime's gaze swept the crowd with a practised precision honed by long, hard experience. The fervor displayed here felt different, with an intensity that made him uneasy. The sheer scale of the event, the devotion in every face, hinted at something deeper than simple entertainment.

"What is the significance of this book to your people?" Jaime asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Major Lazar shrugged. "They resonate, I suppose. The story is about struggle and survival, resource scarcity, and the rise and fall of great powers. It's set in a galaxy much like ours ten thousand years in the future, rife with conflict and intrigue. The people of Delos IV somehow see themselves in the narrative as scrappy survivors carving out a life in a harsh environment."

Which confused him even as a Dune fan. Delos IV was no desert, as it was more like a temperate planet with pleasant weather all year round.

At least he would not talk to them about the Zensunni movement. He would not touch it with the Long Tom's artillery range on that area. That was for others to do themselves.

Joshua raised an eyebrow. "Fascinating. And the event's scale and visitor population. How has it grown so rapidly?"

"The themes hit close to home," Lazar explained, gesturing to the elaborate setup. "Desert survival, noble houses vying for control, a messianic figure uniting disparate groups—there are echoes of our own history here, particularly our struggle for independence from the larger powers. The organizers spared no expense to make it immersive. Organizers transformed the entire plaza into a replica of the story's desert world."

Did he even hear what he said? Jaime thought. Would that even count as treason or lese majeste should someone loyal to the Davions hear it?

Jaime said nothing, his focus shifting to the surreal details of the scene. The artificial dunes and tents were impressive enough, but it was the crowd's energy that unsettled him. The chanting, the cheering carried an edge of religious fervor.

The convoy began moving again, threading its way closer to the plaza's heart. Lazar leaned back into the intercom, his tone more conversational now. "This event brings in off-world tourists as well, though not as many as we'd like. Still, it's a point of pride for us. And, I'll admit, I'm something of a fan myself."

Jaime's head snapped toward the Major. "A fan?"

Lazar grinned unapologetically. "Guilty as charged. Read the series as a kid. It's a bit grandiose, sure, but the worldbuilding is top-notch. The idea of a galaxy-spanning empire brought low by hubris and religious fanaticism… well, it's not exactly subtle, but it gets people thinking."

Joshua folded his arms, his expression thoughtful. "This level of cultural engagement is unusual. It shows a deep psychological attachment. Do you not find it... concerning?"

Lazar hesitated, then nodded. "Sometimes, yes. The devotion some people show can border on the obsessive. But that's humanity for you. We're a passionate species, for better or worse. And it's just fiction. It's not as if Dune is a poorly disguised political screed supposed to be entertainment."

The convoy came to a halt again, this time in the center of the plaza. Jaime stepped out, scanning the surroundings with a practiced eye. His unease deepened as he noticed the sheer number of people dressed as warriors with their elaborate costumes mimicking ancient Terran styles, but with a martial precision that suggested more than mere playacting.

"Major," Jaime said sharply, "are these people trained fighters, or is this merely part of the spectacle?"

Lazar glanced around and shook his head. "Mostly spectacle, though some enthusiasts take it seriously. We've had incidents of overzealous participants clashing with security in the past, but nothing too severe."

Jaime remained unconvinced. He leaned over and whispered to his brother. "Joshua, take note. This could easily escalate under the wrong circumstances."

Joshua inclined his head. "Agreed. The potential for unrest here is significant. We must tread carefully."

Lazar, sensing the tension, attempted to lighten the mood. "Relax, gentlemen. It's cultural pride. Nothing to worry about."

Jaime didn't respond. His instincts told him otherwise. This wasn't just a mere profitable and large festival. It reflected something deeper, something that could very well define the nature of Delos IV's people.

Whether that was an opportunity or a threat remained to be seen.

So they disembarked from their vehicles and headed deeper into the convention.

The sights, sounds, and smells of the Dune convention were unlike anything the Wolf Dragoons had encountered before. The delegation, led by Jaime and Joshua Wolf, moved through the throngs of people, their sharp eyes cataloging every detail with a mixture of tactical evaluation and sheer bewilderment.

The sheer ordered chaos might have amused Cranston Snord, but Jaime found it vexing. The sheer scale of commerce and creativity on display was overwhelming.

Food stalls lined the plaza, serving an array of dishes from exotic spice-scented stews to fried snacks. The air carried a tantalizing mix of aromas, though the Dragoons were unsure of what to make of them.

Merchants hawked a bewildering array of wares: plush toys shaped like enormous sandworms, intricate jewelry inspired by desert motifs, hand-drawn comic book art, and high-quality costumes and accessories.

There were even posters announcing a live theatre production of Dune later tonight!

Crowds jostled one another good-naturedly, laughter and chatter echoing across the makeshift bazaar.

"Why are there so many... trinkets?" Joshua asked their escort, his tone as close to bewilderment as the disciplined Clanner could manage.

Major Lazar, walking alongside them, chuckled softly. "Merchandising. It's part of the experience. People want to take home a piece of the world they've stepped into. Dune has become quite the cultural touchstone, and one that brings people from many places together into a common point of agreement."

Corin, walking a few steps ahead, pointed towards one of the gaudy stalls where a man in flowing robes gestured dramatically to a group of children. "Look," he muttered, "that merchant is attempting to sell a sandworm-shaped plush as if it were a battle steed."

Jaime frowned. "It is bizarre. These people immerse themselves in fiction as if it were reality. Does this not detract from the seriousness of their lives?"

Lazar grinned. "On the contrary, Commander Wolf. It adds a richness to their lives. Some find meaning here, others camaraderie. For many, it's an escape from the mundane. You should try enjoying it, as it might surprise you."

Jaime's silence was all the answer Lazar needed.

The delegation continued their exploration until they reached a quieter section of the plaza, where the bustling crowds thinned into smaller groups browsing rows of makeshift bookshops. Here, a stall caught their attention.

Banners adorned the stall, displaying scenes of deserts under twin suns and the stylized image of a young man in a strange uniform standing amidst towering sandworms.

Behind the counter stood a middle-aged woman, her head wrapped in a dark scarf. Her features were sharp, her natural blue eyes bright with intelligence and humor. She was engaging with a customer, but paused when she noticed the newcomers. Her gaze lingered on the Wolf delegation, and a spark of recognition crossed her face.

"Corin!" she exclaimed warmly, stepping around the stall and clasping the Dragoon by the hand. "It has been too long. Are you finally going to let me sign that old copy of Dune you treasure so much?"

Corin, surprised, managed a faint smile. "It is good to see you, Rania. Your shop seems... prosperous."

Rania's laughter was light and musical. "Business is good during the convention. And you? You've brought company, I see." Her eyes swept over the Wolf delegation, lingering on Jaime and Joshua. "These are your comrades, I presume?"

The Wolfs inclined their heads politely, but before they could respond, Rania tilted her head, studying their posture and the way their eyes roamed the plaza. A mischievous grin spread across her face.

"You all move like Sardaukar," she said, the words half a jest. "Focused, disciplined, and just a little too intense for a festival. Here to conquer the spice market, are we?"

Joshua's brow furrowed. "We are not familiar with this term, 'Sardaukar.' Please clarify."

Rania's eyes widened in surprise. "You've never read Dune? Truly?" When the Wolfs exchanged blank looks, she laughed again, this time with delight. "Well, that will not do. You cannot understand this convention or its people without knowing the story behind it."

She turned and picked up several copies of the book, each wrapped in protective covers adorned with intricate artwork. "Here," she said, handing one to each of the Wolfs. "A gift. Read this, and you will understand."

Jaime accepted his copy with a nod, though he glanced at Lazar with a raised eyebrow. "Is this a common practice, Major? Giving away literature for free to strangers?"

Lazar smirked. "Only when it's this important. Rania is doing you a favor."

The Dragoons studied the books, their covers displaying scenes of alien landscapes and enigmatic figures as they stared at a gigantic worm ascending from the sands. Jaime felt a flicker of curiosity, though he masked it beneath his usual stoicism.

"Thank you," Joshua said formally. "We will endeavor to learn from this material."

"Do more than learn," Rania replied, her tone turning serious. "Understand. Dune is not just a story. It is a mirror, showing us who we are and who we might become."

As they moved away from the stall, Jaime glanced at Joshua, his voice low. "This feels... strange. Fiction treated as reality and followed with religious seriousness. Should we be concerned?"

Joshua opened the book, scanning the first page with practiced efficiency. "Perhaps. But there is also value in understanding what motivates these people. If their culture shapes their actions, we must be prepared to navigate it."

Jaime nodded. "Agreed. Let us see what this 'Dune' has to teach us."

 

[bryanfran36]

A Gripping Reading

The plaza had quieted slightly as the midday crowds shifted from the bustling stalls to shaded seating areas, their chatter and laughter filling the air. Jaime Wolf, ever the observer, noted the efficiency of the layout, the deliberate flow of foot traffic that seemed to guide attendees from one attraction to the next. He could appreciate the organizational discipline, though he doubted many here would view it through the same lens.

Joshua Wolf, however, seemed captivated by something entirely different. Standing before a towering stall filled with plush toys, he studied a particular item with an intensity that made Jaime raise an eyebrow.

"You intend to carry that monstrosity onto the Blue Star?" Jaime asked, his tone dry as he gestured toward the oversized sandworm plush Joshua was contemplating.

Said sandworm plushie was about Joshua's height and there were a lot of children screaming for their parents to buy one, in competition with other grownups who also desired the same thing.

Joshua, undeterred, signaled to one of their escorting troopers to step forward and pay the vendor. "It is for Natasha," he explained in his precise, unyielding cadence. "She appreciates the absurd. I believe she will find it amusing."

Jaime sighed but said nothing more. Natasha Kerensky would undoubtedly enjoy the gift, though Jaime suspected she might use it as a prop for some elaborate joke at their expense.

While Joshua managed his acquisition, Jaime turned back to Rania, who had been watching the exchange with undisguised amusement. "You mentioned a quieter place to read earlier," he said. "I believe I will take you up on that offer."

Rania gestured toward a shaded corner of the plaza, tucked beneath a series of canopies that shielded a small cluster of chairs and tables. "Over there. Most people are too distracted by the main attractions to notice it. You should have the space to yourself."

Jaime inclined his head in thanks and made his way to the quiet corner. It was surprisingly secluded, the hum of the crowd reduced to a distant murmur. He settled into a chair, opened the copy of Dune Rania had given him, and began to read.

From the first sentence, the book commanded his attention. The intricate, deliberate prose reminded Jaime of a person who wished to keep everything of value included in each sentence, and they were doing a good job of it. Each word seemed to serve a purpose, building a world so vivid and detailed it threatened to eclipse his immediate surroundings.

The story opened with young Paul Atreides, heir to the House of Atreides, preparing to leave the verdant world of Caladan for the harsh deserts of Arrakis. Jaime could not help but draw parallels to his own experience, uprooted from Clan Wolf and thrust into the uncertain realm of the Inner Sphere. Paul's measured composure, his ability to navigate the expectations of his station, struck a chord.

Then came the interaction between Lady Jessica and Reverend Mother Helen Mohiam. The conversation bristled with layers of meaning, the Bene Gesserit's cryptic language and veiled threats holding Jaime's attention like a magnet. He found himself marveling at the subtle power dynamics at play, the way Jessica's defiance balanced against her loyalty to the Bene Gesserit order.

But it was the gom jabbar test that truly gripped him.

His heart beat fast at the tense scene laid out before him.

Paul Atreides sat alone, subjected to a test of pain and willpower that would define his worth. The Reverend Mother's voice, sharp and commanding, seemed to echo in Jaime's mind as he read the words. He felt his own breathing grow shallow, his muscles tensing as though he were the one holding his hand in the box of pain.

"Pain by nerve induction," Jaime murmured aloud, his tone thoughtful. The concept was strikingly similar to some of the trials faced by sibkos in the Clan training regimen. But there was a depth here, a psychological edge that transcended mere physical endurance. The gom jabbar was a needle poised to kill should Paul fail and heightened the stakes to a razor's edge.

Though what did the Reverend Mother mean that it was rare for men-children like him to be tested? Was it an exclusive thing for women, and why so?

Jaime had a stray thought of Natasha being a member of the Bene Gesserit, and his stress spiked up a level. He did not need such imagery thank you very much!

The plaza's bustle faded into a distant hum as Jaime Wolf sat in his shaded corner, completely absorbed in Dune. Each word seemed to carry him deeper into the intricately crafted world of Arrakis. It was as though the book had been designed to consume his attention utterly, demanding his focus the way a battle demanded clarity of purpose.

The gom jabbar scene held him transfixed. Paul Atreides, a boy on the cusp of immense responsibility, stood alone against the implacable Reverend Mother. The box of pain loomed as an inescapable test, one that would decide his worth in the eyes of the Bene Gesserit.

Jaime's grip on the book tightened as he read Paul's response to the Reverend Mother's challenge.

Jaime's pulse quickened as the scene unfolded. Paul's internal struggle, his determination not to yield, mirrored Jaime's own instincts honed through years of combat and leadership. He could almost feel the weight of the Reverend Mother's gaze, the oppressive silence as Lady Jessica stood outside the chamber, helpless to intervene.

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration."

The words struck Jaime like a well-aimed blow. He felt his chest tighten, the air in his lungs suddenly heavier. Without realizing it, he began to murmur the words aloud.

"I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path."

The cadence of the litany rolled off his tongue, his voice barely above a whisper. It resonated with him in a way few things ever had. Fear, he knew, was a constant companion in life. It was the shadow at the edge of every mission, every command decision. And yet, here was a mantra for mastering it—a reminder that fear, while powerful, was not insurmountable.

"I will turn the inner eye to see its path," he repeated, his voice steadying. "Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

The silence that followed felt profound. Jaime leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting upward to the canopies above. The words lingered in his mind, weaving themselves into his thoughts. He had faced countless tests of his own, though none quite like Paul's.

And yet, the principle held true. Fear was a test, one that required discipline, resolve, and the ability to push through.

When Paul triumphed, removing his hand from the box and meeting the Reverend Mother's approval, Jaime felt an unexpected sense of relief.

It was a hand placed into his shoulder that shook Jaime out of his verisimilitude, and his experience had him tamp down with ruthless will to engage in CQC with the fool who dared touch him.

It was actually Joshua, who was looking at him with concern. "You appear deeply moved," he observed, stepping into the quiet corner with the enormous sandworm plush in tow.

Jaime looked up, blinking as though emerging from a dream. "The words hold truth," he admitted, his tone subdued. "Fear is the mind-killer. It is a concept we all know, but I have never seen it expressed so succinctly or so powerfully."

The passage had drawn him in so completely that he momentarily forgot he was sitting in a plaza on Delos IV, surrounded by festival goers dressed as desert nomads and nobles from a fictional empire.

Closing the book briefly, Jaime exhaled slowly, his mind churning with thoughts. The world of Dune was alien, yet it resonated with truths he recognized.

The calculated interplay of power, the burden of leadership, and the sacrifices demanded of those in command… These were themes he knew intimately.

"Is it that compelling?" Joshua asked. "I have never seen you that focused or engrossed with such literature before."

"It is... compelling," Jaime admitted. "The depth of the worldbuilding is impressive, as are the themes it explores. I can see why this story holds such sway over the people here."

Joshua nodded, setting the plush down on an adjacent chair. "Perhaps it offers insight into their culture. Understanding their fiction may aid in understanding their values and priorities."

"Perhaps," Jaime agreed, though his tone suggested he was still processing his own reactions to the text. He gestured toward the plush. "And what does this... thing contribute to our understanding?"

"It will entertain Natasha," Joshua replied evenly. "And in doing so, it will maintain morale."

A bored Natasha was a dangerous Natasha. Anything to stave off that end state was going to be worth its weight in gold and one way to avoid ulcers and stress for the Dragoon's command staff.

Jaime chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You always did have a gift for finding the practical in the absurd."

As the two of them prepared to leave the quiet corner, Jaime found himself glancing at the book again. He would read more later, he decided. There was something in this story, a strange, elusive truth that he felt compelled to uncover.

So they had to return back to their convoy and then change their route due to the traffic caused by the convention. The convoy weaved its way through the city streets, the usual flow of traffic disrupted by the detours necessitated by their visit.
Jaime Wolf sat silently in the vehicle, his thoughts ensnared by the book he had just begun. Dune had taken root in his mind like a tendril, weaving its way through his thoughts in a way few things ever had. He found himself turning over the questions it posed:

What manner of man was this Paul Atreides, tested and shaped by forces both obvious and unseen? Why had Reverend Mother Mohiam tested him as she had, pushing him toward what seemed like a fatal end, and yet sparing him when he proved himself? And what, in Kerensky's name, was a Kwisatz Haderach?

(He could not shake off the idea that the Reverend Mother was waiting for any natural excuse for Paul to fail and keep her hands clean of the matter.)

The words from the gom jabbar scene echoed in his mind, refusing to be silenced. "Fear is the mind-killer." Jaime had faced his share of fear, but those words seemed to distill the essence of every trial and challenge he had ever endured.

Joshua sat across from him, cradling the ridiculous sandworm plush he had acquired with the stiff dignity only he could manage. When Jaime glanced at him, he realized his brother had been watching him for some time.

"Jaime," Joshua said, his tone edged with curiosity, "you appear distracted. Is the book so captivating that you forget where you are?"

Jaime blinked, shaken out of his reverie by his brother's words. He looked around, suddenly realizing that the convoy had stopped. They had arrived at the governor's palace, the sprawling compound rising imposingly before them. He hadn't even noticed.

"My apologies," Jaime muttered, running a hand through his hair as he stepped out of the vehicle. "I was... preoccupied."

Joshua raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp. "Indeed. You are not often so distracted, foreign literature or not."

Jaime straightened, brushing off his uniform as they were ushered into the palace grounds. His boots clicked against the polished stone walkways as he fell in step beside Joshua. He had no desire to explain himself just yet.

Jaime's thoughts, however, still churned. How had a book, a mere collection of words on a page, draw him in so completely?

What sort of author was this Juan Holtzman, who could craft a narrative that held such power?

He wanted no, needed to know what came next, to unravel the threads of the story that had already begun to consume him.

What kind of witchcraft is this? Jaime thought grimly as they ascended a grand staircase. He could feel the weight of the book tucked into his coat pocket, its presence as insistent as a weapon at his hip.

The main hall of the palace opened before them, a space designed for grandeur and authority.

The Dragoons entered the audience chamber with measured strides, their every movement precise and deliberate. Jaime Wolf, flanked by Joshua and Corin, led the delegation, his face a mask of calm professionalism.

Their eyes swept the chamber, noting the subtle power plays inherent in its design and decor. The Vice-Governor, a tall, sharp-featured man named Adriel Horth, stood waiting, his posture confident but not arrogant. It was clear he intended to exude authority without overstepping his bounds.

"Colonel Wolf," Horth said with a shallow bow, his tone polite but carefully neutral. "On behalf of Governor Laskar, I welcome you to Delos IV. The governor regrets he cannot meet with you personally at this time; he is attending to an urgent matter at the HPG station. I have been entrusted with representing his office in these preliminary discussions."

Jaime inclined his head, his expression giving away nothing. "We appreciate the governor's hospitality, Vice-Governor Horth. We understand the pressures of leadership."

Horth gestured toward a series of seats arranged in a loose semicircle. "Shall we?"

The Dragoons seated themselves without hesitation, their movements synchronized and deliberate. They projected the quiet confidence of seasoned professionals, their lack of overt aggression itself a statement.

Horth's staff hovered at the periphery, ready to assist but careful not to intrude. The Vice-Governor himself took a seat directly opposite Jaime, leaning forward slightly as he began to speak.

"We understand that you and your forces are seeking employment as mercenaries," he said. "While Delos IV is not in a position to contract your services directly, we are, of course, willing to facilitate discussions with other interested parties. However, there are stipulations regarding the security and conduct of your forces during your stay here."

Jaime nodded. "We are aware of your concerns, Vice-Governor, and we are prepared to comply with reasonable restrictions. Our forces are disciplined and professional; you will find no cause for complaint."

Horth's smile was thin but polite. "I am certain of that. Nevertheless, I must insist that your troops remain confined to the designated areas unless accompanied by authorized personnel. Additionally, while you are permitted to retain your sidearms, their use is, of course, strictly limited to self-defense or the protection of your immediate delegation."

Joshua's voice was calm and measured as he interjected. "Your stipulations are understood and agreed upon. We are here as potential allies, not aggressors."

The Vice-Governor's gaze flicked toward Joshua, his eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing the sincerity of the statement. "That is reassuring, Major Wolf. Delos IV values stability above all else, particularly in these uncertain times."

As the formalities continued, Jaime forced himself to focus.

Yet, even as he exchanged pleasantries and navigated the conversation with practiced ease, part of his mind remained tethered to Dune.

He knew he needed to set those thoughts aside for now. Whatever secrets lay within the pages of that book could wait until the business at hand was concluded.

Whatever this Juan Holtzman has created, it may be more powerful than even he realizes.

The conversation continued for another half hour, touching on logistics, accommodations, and the timeline for their expected audience with the governor.

It was clear to the Dragoons that the Vice-Governor was stalling, likely to buy time while communications with House Davion were underway. Jaime could hardly fault the man for his caution; the arrival of an unknown mercenary force with the Dragoons' level of discipline and equipment would set off alarm bells anywhere in the Inner Sphere.

After the meeting concluded, the Dragoons were escorted to a wing of the palace that had clearly been prepared for their arrival. The furnishings were tasteful and well-appointed, but to a discerning eye, the hasty work was evident. Newly painted walls still carried the faint smell of lacquer, and the arrangement of furniture betrayed an almost desperate attempt to project refinement.

Joshua ran a hand along the edge of a polished table, his expression unreadable. "A facade," he said at last. "Serviceable, but rushed."

Jaime nodded, his eyes scanning the room with practiced precision. "It will do. They are trying to present themselves as more prepared than they are. That tells us something."

Joshua dropped his sandworm plushie onto a nearby chair, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "It tells me they are nervous as hell. Did you see the way Horth's aides kept glancing at each other? They might as well have had a neon sign saying, 'We are calling the Davions.'"

Jaime allowed himself a faint smile. "Let them. We expected as much."

The next three days passed with an odd mixture of tension and routine. The Dragoons maintained their discipline, using the time to rest, resupply, and conduct limited training exercises in the areas allocated to them. Their restraint was deliberate, a calculated effort to demonstrate their professionalism and avoid giving the planetary authorities any pretext for conflict.

During this time, the Dragoons observed their surroundings with the meticulous attention to detail that had become second nature to them. They noted the movements of the local militia, the state of the city's infrastructure, and the ebb and flow of civilian activity. It was clear that martial law had imposed some form of order, but cracks were visible beneath the surface.

Jaime spent much of his time reviewing reports and considering their next moves. He knew the delay was a game, but it was a game they could afford to play. The longer they waited, the more they learned about their hosts and the more time the Davions had to make their own assessments.

When the summons finally came, it was almost anticlimactic. The convoy that arrived to escort them to the governor's palace was composed of the same nondescript vehicles as before, and the guards who accompanied them wore the same stoic expressions.

As they moved through the city streets, Jaime found his thoughts returning to the book he had begun reading. Dune had gripped him in a way few things ever had, its narrative weaving questions of power, destiny, and human nature into a tapestry that refused to let go.

He was still pondering its implications when Joshua's voice cut through his reverie.

"Jaime," Joshua said, his tone edged with concern. "We are here."

Jaime blinked, his focus snapping back to the present as the convoy pulled into the palace grounds. The imposing structure loomed before them, its spires reaching skyward like the points of a crown.

Jaime Wolf leaned back in his chair, the low hum of conversation around the table filling the private dining room they'd been provided. The spread before them was impressive for a planet under martial law: roasted meats, fresh vegetables, and even a selection of delicacies clearly imported from off-world.

The Dragoons had eaten well, but the meal had been as much about gathering impressions as it had been about filling their bellies with good food.

Now, with dinner winding down and the servers retreating, Jaime decided it was time to hear what his officers thought of Delos IV so far. He placed his hands flat on the table and glanced around at the faces of his team, starting with Joshua Wolf.

Joshua, ever the model of precision and professionalism, now sat with a faintly amused smile on his lips. Balanced carefully on the chair beside him was the oversized sandworm plushie he'd insisted on buying at the Dune convention. He seemed to derive no small amount of pleasure from the confusion it generated from the others, except for Cranston.

"All right," Jaime began, his tone conversational but carrying the weight of command. "You have had time to observe, interact, and draw your own conclusions. Let us hear them. What do you make of this planet—and its people?"

Joshua inclined his head slightly, the faint smirk still lingering. "The planet itself appears well-ordered on the surface," he said, his words deliberate and measured. "However, their current martial law has created an artificial calm. The people are cautious, even wary, and the militia is stretched thin. I would estimate their true effectiveness to be... middling, at best. Competent, but not exceptional."

Jaime nodded. "And the convention?"

Joshua's expression shifted, the faintest hint of confusion mingling with his usual composure. He gestured to the sandworm plushie as if to underscore his point. "Fascinating. It is difficult to comprehend the scale of cultural importance this... fictional work holds for these people. The level of effort and dedication displayed at the convention was remarkable. And yet, I cannot shake the sense that there is something more to it. The way they speak of this 'Dune' as though it transcends mere entertainment for them."

Cranston, seated a few chairs down, snorted softly. "You mean besides the fact that you look like a child with that thing?" He gestured at the plushie with a smirk.

Joshua gave him a level look. "Mock it if you wish, Cranston, but you saw the reactions of those we encountered. This item," he patted the plushie lightly, "is an effective tool for bridging cultural gaps. Its inherent absurdity disarms suspicion."

Cranston rolled his eyes, but Jaime could see he was suppressing a grin.

"What about you, Cranston?" Jaime asked.

Cranston leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "The planet's not bad. Infrastructure's solid, and the locals seem to have their heads on straight. But that convention? I do not even know where to start. The costumes, the props, the whole desert aesthetic they had going... It was like stepping into another world. And the eyes. Did you see the eyes? They all had that eerie blue color. Contacts, sure, but it was unsettling how uniform it was."

He shook his head. "And the way they talk about this 'Kwitsatch Haderach' or whatever it is... It is like a religion to them. I do not get it, but it clearly means something to them."

Jaime turned his attention to Colonel Rafe Marks, who had been silent thus far. Marks was one of the quieter members of the command team, but his insights were often the most incisive.

Marks stroked his chin thoughtfully. "The convention is a window into their psyche," he said at last. "This 'Dune' speaks to themes of power, survival, and destiny. Those are universal concepts, ones that resonate deeply with people who have seen their world teeter on the brink of chaos. It may be fiction, but it provides them with a framework to make sense of their own struggles. Though I have not gone through a fourth of the book, the power plays are eerily reminiscent of the Great Houses and their politics."

Jaime considered this for a moment, then turned back to Joshua. "And the book itself? You read the first chapter, did you not?"

Joshua inclined his head. "I did. It is... compelling. The narrative is rich with layers of intrigue and philosophical undertones. I can see why it holds such sway over the people here. I saw you feel tense and grip your book tight when the gom jabbar scene came into play. I too, felt the same."

Jaime's gaze lingered on Joshua for a moment before sweeping across the rest of the table. "Very well," he said. "It seems we have learned much, even in a short time. But let us not lose sight of our purpose here. The convention is a curiosity, yes, but our focus remains on establishing our presence and securing a contract."

There were nods of agreement around the table, though Jaime noted that the sandworm plushie remained firmly in Joshua's possession.

As the conversation shifted to more practical matters such as the state of the planetary militia, the likely timeline for their audience with the governor so Jaime allowed himself a moment of reflection.

The book he had begun reading still lingered in his mind, its images and ideas vivid and insistent.

What kind of man could create something like this? he wondered. And what does it mean that it has captured the hearts and minds of so many?

For now, those questions would have to wait. But Jaime knew they would not remain unanswered for long.

So here he was, in his bedroom reading the book once again.

The characters... the politics... the sheer depth.

Jaime glanced at one of the passages he'd marked: Leto Atreides, the Duke burdened with a terrible responsibility, knowing the Emperor had set him and his house up for failure.

The cunning of it was chilling, how the Emperor relied on the Harkonnens to act as the blade of his will, yet cloaked the act under the guise of generosity. Jaime could not help but admire Leto's determination to find strength in a seemingly hopeless situation.

But it was not Leto alone who gripped him. Jessica, with her Bene Gesserit training and her ability to read people and manipulate situations with terrifying precision, was equally fascinating. Jaime had been particularly struck by her exchange with Shadout Mapes, the Fremen woman who served as both emissary and test.

The Bene Gesserit had planted their "Missionaria Protectiva" so thoroughly that Mapes viewed Jessica as a fulfillment of prophecy.

The implications were staggering.

Jaime's pen had underlined that section heavily, and his notes beside it were a jumble of thoughts:

• Missionaria Protectiva = psychological groundwork?
• Nova Cats?! Comparable spiritual manipulation?
• How does one control the narrative on such a scale???
• Can the scientist and medical personnel be suborned like Yueh? And how?

He rubbed his temples, thinking of the Nova Cats and their own mysticism. The parallels were unsettling. Could the Clans so focused on their honor, their rigid structures, their obsession with their founder's vision be just as vulnerable to such manipulation?

Then there were the Fremen themselves. The brief glimpses he'd had of their culture so far were tantalizing. A warrior people, born of the harshest environment imaginable, shaped by necessity into a force of nature.

Jaime's thoughts had immediately turned to the Clan warriors, to the sibkos and their relentless training regimens. But there was a difference. The Fremen's strength came not only from their environment but also from their unity, their shared belief in something greater than themselves.

The passage about spitting as a sign of respect had been particularly striking. Jaime had laughed aloud when he'd read it, the absurdity of the act clashing with its profound cultural meaning. It was a reminder that understanding another culture required more than observation. It required immersion, a willingness to see the world through their eyes.

And then there was Paul. The boy destined or doomed to become this Kwisatz Haderach from the tantalising hints given in the byplay of Jessica and Helen, a being of immense power and potential.

Jaime found himself empathizing with Paul's struggle, his attempts to balance the weight of his father's legacy, his mother's expectations, and his own emerging abilities. The gom jabbar test had been harrowing to read, and Jaime realized he'd been holding his breath through the entire scene.

His pen had scratched a simple note beside it: What would Nicholas Kerensky think of this?

Jaime leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and staring at the book. The spice. The desert. The plots within plots. It was all so alien and yet so human. The Emperor's manipulation of the Landsraad. The Sardaukar, bred and trained to be the ultimate warriors. The Harkonnens, ruthless and corrupt. Every piece of the puzzle felt meticulously crafted, every character's motivations layered with nuance and depth.

He looked down at his notebook again. The connections he'd drawn felt both exhilarating and troubling. The Inner Sphere's political landscape was no less convoluted, no less treacherous.

House Davion, House Kurita, House Steiner… they all played their games, maneuvering for power, forging alliances, and betraying one another when it suited their purposes. And here was this Juan Holtzman, a man from New Avalon itself, who had somehow distilled the essence of power and survival into a work of fiction that felt almost prophetic.

Jaime's stomach growled, reminding him that he'd skipped dinner entirely. He glanced at the clock again.

He blinked, trying to process the time. Midnight. He'd started reading at five in the evening, expecting to spend an hour or two acquainting himself with the story that so captivated the people of Delos IV. Instead, he'd been swept into a tale so intricate, so profound, that time had simply slipped away.

The bookmark was placed on page 103. How?

He… he wasn't even in a fourth of the book even!
He stood and stretched, walking to the small window in his quarters. The city below was quiet, the streets dimly lit under the haze of artificial lighting. Somewhere out there, people were still attending the convention, still celebrating this incredible story that had captured their imaginations.

Jaime frowned, his thoughts drifting back to the author.

Holtzman.

What kind of man had created this? And why did he feel as though the book was speaking to him directly, as though it had been written with someone like him in mind?

He shook his head, forcing himself to step away from the window. He needed rest. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, and the governor's delay was no accident. The Dragoons would need to be sharp, prepared for whatever games were being played.

But as Jaime lay down, his thoughts returned to the desert, to the spice, and to the words that had resonated so deeply within him: "Fear is the mind-killer..."

Jaime Wolf leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair and staring at the notebook before him. Its pages were filled with hastily scrawled notes, underlined phrases, and connections he'd drawn from the text he'd just consumed. The book—Dune—sat open on the table, its spine slightly cracked and its pages dog-eared in places where he'd stopped to scribble down his thoughts.

Sleep came slowly, and when it did, it was filled with visions of endless dunes, whispering winds, and the shadow of a boy who bore the weight of an entire universe on his shoulders as large sandworms crossed the endless sea of sand.

 

[bryanfran36]

Work Work

Juan Holtzman might have been confined to the MIIO safehouse, but he had no intention of allowing himself to stagnate. The "safehouse," as it had been described during his less-than-gentle transfer, was no cell. It was, in fact, an estate that was a sprawling countryside manor situated on several hectares of rolling, manicured land. To call it luxurious would have been an understatement, but to Juan, it felt more like a gilded cage, albeit one with a spectacular view.

But hey, it beat being shoved into a deep dark hole being told to start working or else. This was just the grace period of adjustment before being asked - ordered, really - to start producing results.

He had quickly taken stock of his new surroundings. The manor itself was a curious fusion of classical Roman architecture and modern conveniences. Its designers or rather, whoever had commissioned it clearly had a fascination with the grandeur of the ancient Roman Empire. Massive colonnades framed the entrance, and the interior was an almost theatrical reproduction of an atrium, complete with marble floors and frescoed walls. A central courtyard even featured a small, functioning fountain, its soothing burble a constant presence in the otherwise silent house.

Juan had spent his first few days exploring. The MIIO agents stationed there who were polite but unmistakably distant kept a watchful eye on him as he wandered the grounds. They were careful not to interfere, maintaining the illusion of freedom even as they subtly reminded him of his limits. Every gardener pruning hedges, every housekeeper moving about the villa, was undoubtedly trained to kill a man in seconds.

At least Juan knew they were not going to be helpless civilians when push comes to shove. These people were serious business and their liege lord was quite serious about his

Still, Juan was nothing if not resourceful. His walks became a part of his routine, both a way to maintain his physical health and an opportunity to map out his confinement. The estate sprawled outward from the main villa, with auxiliary buildings that included a stable, several storage sheds, and a few unassuming structures that might have been servant quarters in a more traditional setting.

He noted the potential immediately. The sheds could be converted into workshops. The stables could serve as greenhouses with minimal effort, provided the right equipment was made available. It was not lost on him that the MIIO likely anticipated such thoughts; the resources at his disposal would be within limits despite the promise from the First Prince himself of a blank check, but Juan had no doubt he could charm, cajole, or otherwise manipulate some latitude from his "keepers."

What truly intrigued him, however, was the deliberate echo of antiquity that permeated the estate. The architects of this place must have spent considerable time studying Roman villas on Earth itself. He could almost imagine them strolling through the ruins of Pompeii or wandering the Tuscan countryside, sketching ideas for this peculiar fusion of old and new. The design choices spoke of someone enamored not just with the aesthetics of Rome but with its ideology of the grandeur of empire, the illusion of permanence, the control.

3000 years later, people still thought of the Roman Empire.

Juan wondered if it was meant to impress him, intimidate him, or perhaps both. The symbolism was heavy-handed but effective. He was surrounded by reminders of a world long dead, one that had fallen under the weight of its own ambition. Yet the villa and its symbolism was also a testament to resilience and adaptation, the two concepts that resonated with him on a deeply personal level.

What would the rest of the inner Sphere think, when he was right there when the Thinking About The Roman Empire meme finally crystalised. It brought forth a long ago memory, when he was approached by a friend group of highschool girls with their smartphone raised (much to his confusion) and asked that question to which he was candid:

"At least three times a day. Minimum."

Why would he not be frank, when the idea of Rome came to him with the movie Gladiator, and then hooked irreversibly down the rabbit hole with Rome: Total War? He was more confused when the disbelief came from the questioner and they repeated the question and then asked why. So he explained his reasons, and they left with a giggling disbelief as if they confirmed something and left him bewildered at the random event.

It wasn't until he checked the internet that he found out about the meme, and his first thought was, "Wasn't this a long time thing, a normal affair?"

He shook his head at the memory of a lifetime ago and went into his current situation.

MIIO's intentions in placing him here were clear enough. They wanted him comfortable, but not complacent; isolated, but not idle. It was a clever strategy, one designed to keep him isolated without making it too obvious and suffocating.

At least he was going to work at his own pace here, without any unrealistic "expectations" save for the whims of the highest power in the land that was House Davion.

And so, Juan resolved to make the most of his gilded cage. He could already envision the changes he would make, the projects he would begin. The stables, for instance, could house hydroponic systems, while one of the larger sheds might serve as a rudimentary laboratory. If nothing else, he could cultivate a garden as something to occupy his hands and his mind while he bided his time.

It was an exercise in control, he realized. By shaping his environment, he could reclaim a measure of autonomy. The MIIO might hold the keys to his prison, but they could not dictate how he chose to live within it.

As he completed his circuit of the grounds, Juan allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The MIIO might think they had him boxed in, but they had underestimated one critical factor: his adaptability. This place was a prison, yes, but it was also a blank canvas.

And Juan Holtzman had every intention of turning it into a masterpiece.

When the agent returned, the same one who had presided over Juan's interrogation and now seemed to function as his handler, Juan was ready. He met the man in the villa's study—a room that, with its leather-bound books and heavy oak desk, looked more suited for a senator of old Rome than a scientist. The agent, dressed in a sharp suit and carrying his ever-present tablet, exuded the kind of calm authority that suggested he was entirely comfortable holding the leash of one Juan Holtzman.

The agent raised an eyebrow when Juan handed him a neatly written list. Without a word, he scanned the items, his expression betraying nothing until he reached the bottom. There, his lips twitched in what might have been amusement or irritation.

"You have certainly been busy, Mr. Holtzman," he said, folding the list and tucking it into his tablet case. "You do realize that some of these requests will require…extensive negotiation."

Juan leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded the man. "I am well aware. That is why I prioritized my requests. I am not asking for luxuries, Agent. I am asking for the tools I need to deliver results." He leaned forward slightly, his voice firm but measured. "You want progress on the shield belt. So do I. For that, I need a workshop equipped with the right tools and resources. That is non-negotiable."

The agent tilted his head, studying Juan with a faintly predatory air. "And the testing center? A little excessive, is it not? You already have the villa's grounds."

Juan shook his head. "No. If you want me to produce a functional shield belt and not just functional, but truly field reliable you will need to allow me a dedicated testing facility at the edge of the property. The villa is not suited for the kind of rigorous experimentation I will need to conduct. A failure in testing could result in catastrophic damage. Do you want me to be responsible for razing this estate?"

The agent's lips quirked again, this time into a faint smile. "Fair point. But this isn't just about the tools, is it? You're also asking for…personal accommodations." He gestured with his tablet. "A computer. Furnishings. Comfortable living arrangements."

Juan spread his hands. "If you want me to work, I need to be able to live. Properly. Not as a prisoner, but as someone who can focus on the task at hand without unnecessary distractions. A decent personal computer is not a luxury as it's a necessity for design, calculations, and documentation. As for the furnishings… Let us not pretend this is a short-term arrangement. You brought me here for a reason, and I intend to see that reason fulfilled. But I will not do so while living like a hermit."

The agent tapped his tablet thoughtfully. "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Holtzman. The First Prince might appreciate that. I, however, have a budget to consider, not to mention security protocols. Your 'necessities' will need approval."

Juan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then take it up with whoever holds the purse strings. But understand this: I am not promising the First Prince hot air. I intend to deliver. If that requires investment, so be it. If it requires patience, I suggest you cultivate it."

The agent chuckled softly. "You are not the easiest man to handle, are you?"

"I like to think of myself as…motivated."

The agent rose, tucking his tablet under one arm. "Very well. I will submit your requests. But do not expect everything to be granted, and certainly not immediately. Security alone will require weeks of planning for a testing center."

Juan inclined his head. "Then I suggest you get started. The sooner we begin, the sooner I deliver."

The agent paused at the door, glancing back at Juan. "You really believe this shield belt of yours will work, do you not?"

Juan met his gaze evenly. "I do not deal in beliefs, Agent. I deal in results. And if I am right, those results will change everything."

The agent nodded once, then left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Juan leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. The negotiations were only beginning, but he had made his opening move.

When the agent returned to the villa later that evening, he brought with him a fresh cup of coffee and an expression that suggested the negotiations had only just begun. Juan looked up from his sketches and notes, the lines of a theoretical energy dispersion grid scrawled across the pages in his precise handwriting.

The agent set the coffee down on the desk with a faint smirk. "You've made quite the impression on Command. They're willing to move forward on some of your requests, but there's one sticking point that's proving…complicated."

Juan raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. "Let me guess: the matter of assistants."

"Exactly." The agent perched on the edge of the desk, his tablet in hand. "You do realize that bringing in assistants is not as simple as recruiting a few technicians or academics from a university. There are layers of complexity involved."

Juan folded his arms. "And I'm well aware of those complexities. But if you want results, I will need people who as a whole are learned, skilled, and capable individuals. I cannot do this entirely on my own, not if you want the kind of progress I suspect the First Prince is expecting."

The agent tapped at his tablet, his tone skeptical. "Let us break this down. First, there is the matter of security clearance. Anyone you bring in will need to be vetted thoroughly. Background checks, psych evaluations, loyalty tests—the whole nine yards. That alone will take weeks, if not months."

Juan nodded, but his expression remained firm. "I expected as much. This project isn't something you can afford to rush."

"Then there is the issue of willingness," the agent continued. "Are these individuals even going to want to leave their comfortable tenures and take up residence in a countryside manor with high-level security and isolation? Not everyone is eager to abandon their lives for an indefinite period."

Juan smirked faintly. "That's where you underestimate the allure of cutting-edge innovation. Find the right people like those who are dissatisfied with the slow grind of academia or who crave the chance to work on something transformative and they will come. The challenge is finding them."

"And even if we do," the agent countered, his voice sharpening slightly, "there's the matter of their mentality. You're asking for people who not only possess the technical skills but are also willing to accept learning from you. That's a tall order. Some of the most brilliant minds are also the most…stubborn."

Juan shrugged. "I'm willing to accept college students who are hungry for more then. I'm not asking for sycophants; I'm asking for collaborators who can adapt. If they can't handle the demands, they don't belong here."

The agent sighed, setting his tablet down on the desk. "All of this assumes they aren't spies, double agents, or sleepers planted by rival factions."

Juan's expression darkened at that. "Like the so-called Kurita agent."

"Exactly. The memory of that incident still stings," the agent said. "You can understand why Command is hesitant. If we bring in the wrong person, it could compromise not just this project but potentially other sensitive operations."

Juan took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "Then you'll just have to be thorough. Vet them, test them, interrogate them if you have to. But I need people who can help me refine the shield belt and bring it to operational status. And of course, I intend to disseminate information so that it does not die with me."

The agent gave him a look and picked up his tablet again, scrolling through some unseen document. "It's not impossible, but it will be a slow and careful process. You'll need to identify what kinds of expertise you require most urgently. That will help narrow the field."

Juan nodded. "Engineering, physics, materials science, and power systems. Start there. And find people who are used to thinking outside the box. I need innovators, not paper pushers or nepotism babies."

The agent made a note, then looked back at Juan. "And if we find these people, you'll need to manage them. Inspire them. That's on you."

Juan allowed himself a small smile. "That won't be a problem. Once they see the potential of what we're working on, they'll be just as invested as I am."

The agent rose, tucking his tablet under his arm. "We'll see. I'll report this up the chain and begin the preliminary searches. But don't expect a quick turnaround. This is going to take time."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Juan said. "But the sooner we start, the sooner we succeed."

The agent nodded and left the room, leaving Juan alone with his thoughts. He glanced back at his sketches, the theoretical gridwork of his shield belt taking shape on the page. The challenges were mounting, but so were the possibilities.

If the right team could be assembled, if he could turn this gilded cage into a hub of innovation then perhaps, just perhaps, he could create something that would truly change the future.

The days at the countryside villa passed with a quiet efficiency that only Juan Holtzman could maintain. Between his exercises to keep himself fit and his meticulous notes on shield technology, he allowed himself moments to delve fully into Dune Messiah. As he had expected, the novel was an inversion of the heroic narrative Dune had so compellingly presented. If Dune was a triumphant aria of ascension, Dune Messiah was its dark, introspective counterpoint, dissecting the very foundations of Paul Atreides' rise to power.

Juan had set up a small corner of his quarters as a reading and transcription area. The old-fashioned hardcover notebook of his outline and ideas lay open on his desk, its pages annotated with fine pencil marks. A notebook beside it rapidly filled with carefully transcribed passages and his own observations. He read with the intensity of a man deciphering an ancient code, aware that the truths within Herbert's words were layered and multifaceted.

Even then, he was still trying to find the layers in his old life when he picked up the books and read them from time to time. And in this life he had the lines etched into his memory with such clarity that he did not understand why it was there.

He was thankful Dune was not a religious tract, just a fictional story. He was unfortunate to read the works of L. Ron Hubbard, that shyster charlatan contemporary of Hebert with the Dianetics and Battlefield Earth, which he burned after feeling something wrong with those books. The cult of Scientology and Operation Snow White had vindicated his first and so far only action of book burning.

Paul Atreides, the Muad'Dib, was no longer the idealistic youth who had risen to power by seizing control of the galaxy's most critical resource: melange, the spice that enabled interstellar travel and prolonged life. In Dune Messiah, Herbert painted a portrait of a man burdened by his own success, trapped by the very jihad he had unleashed. Paul's enemies had been vanquished, and his empire stretched across the known universe.

Yet his victory had not brought the peace he envisioned.

Herbert's narrative was relentless in its philosophical depth. Paul's failures, though not outright defeats, were the inevitable consequences of wielding absolute power. Every decision, every strategy that had seemed necessary during his rise, now unraveled under the weight of its implications. The Fremen, once noble desert warriors, had become the enforcers of a galactic reign that spilled oceans of blood in Paul's name.

They too, had changed: from hard desert warriors with a core of savage nobility had now become decadent and soft palace guards. Hebert was taking cues from the concepts of orientalism and the decadence of empires here. Juan knew they were bunk when put under rigorous intellectual analysis, but they were persistent as they offered the easy fix of the appeal to emotional romanticism and the simple answer to a complex and nuanced array of confluence of conditions.

The prophetic vision that had guided him to power became his curse, trapping him in a web of foreseen inevitabilities.

Juan paused, his pencil hovering over the page. Herbert's treatment of the Bene Gesserit, the Spacing Guild, and the Tleilaxu fascinated him. Their conspiracies to unseat Paul illustrated the perpetual motion of political scheming, even under an emperor who could see the future.

Juan marveled at how Herbert used these groups not merely as antagonists but as reflections of Paul's own inner conflicts. Power did not exist in a vacuum, Herbert seemed to argue; it was shaped, challenged, and often corrupted by the forces that opposed it.

By the time he reached the climactic confrontation in the story of Paul grappling with his blindness, his prescient visions narrowing into a single harrowing choice… Juan realized how deeply Dune Messiah undermined the very triumphs of its predecessor.

Herbert had deliberately deconstructed the myth of the hero. Paul, who had seized the universe with both hands, found himself trapped by the consequences of his choices. His vision of a hard but enlightened peace had become a universe drenched in blood and suffering, and yet his foresight showed him only worse fates if he chose another path.

As the villa grew silent in the evening, Juan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Herbert's philosophical paradoxes weighed heavily on his mind. Could absolute power ever be wielded without corruption? Was Paul's failure not a failure of will or strategy but a failure inherent in the very nature of power itself? The idea gnawed at him as he returned to his transcription work. Herbert had been meticulous in his exploration of these themes, and Juan intended to be equally meticulous in preserving them.

Juan paused, his pencil resting on the paper. He thought of the Inner Sphere, its endless cycle of war, ambition, and betrayal. How many leaders had risen to power with noble intentions only to find themselves crushed under the weight of their own creations? The parallels between Herbert's universe and the fractured reality of the Great Houses were impossible to ignore.

By the time Juan looked up, it was well past midnight. He blinked at the clock, startled to realize that hours had slipped by unnoticed. His desk was now littered with pages of notes, his handwriting scrawled across them in his usual precise, almost obsessive manner.

The villa was quiet, the agents stationed throughout the property maintaining their watchful distance. Juan stood, stretching his stiff muscles, and looked out the window at the moonlit countryside. The air was cool, the stillness almost serene, but his mind churned with the weight of Herbert's narrative.

He had made a decision as he read.

His transcription of Dune Messiah and the rest of the sequels would not be filled with his own ideas. They would be as truthful and accurate as his intellect and meticulous nature could make them. They were not going to be the political soapbox of a hack writer trying to "subvert expectations" or fill it with the demented quota of SJW LGBT slop ideas that infested the creative industries of his first adult life.

Herbert's works deserved nothing less.

Juan turned back to his desk and carefully organized his notes. The work would continue tomorrow, and the day after that. He would ensure that these texts, these ideas, would endure.

In them, perhaps, lay a mirror for the future: a warning and a guide for those who might one day shape the fate of the Inner Sphere.

Though Juan was not holding out hope for that one.

In the days that followed, Juan threw himself into his work with a relentless fervor. Each morning began with a disciplined routine—exercise to keep his body sharp, followed by hours of writing. Each word, each phrase was scrutinized for accuracy and fidelity to Herbert's vision. By the time he completed the manuscript, it had somehow become a handcrafted artifact, its pages filled with neat, almost monastic script.

Shai-Hulud kept him companion each night he slept, the sandworms coasting through the seas of sand.

It was after dinner, in the quiet of the manor's lounge, that Juan approached his handler. The agent, seated in one of the comfortable armchairs and sipping from a cup of tea, looked up with a mild expression of curiosity as Juan entered the room. In his hands, Juan held the manuscript, bound neatly with a leather cover he had improvised from the villa's workshop.

"I require transport to New Avalon," Juan began, his tone matter-of-fact.

The handler raised an eyebrow, setting down the cup. "And why, exactly, would you need to return there? You have been quite clear about preferring to work here."

Juan held up the manuscript. "This is why."

The handler blinked, his composure faltering for just a moment. "What is that?"

"The complete transcription of Dune Messiah," Juan replied. "The sequel to Dune and my second book, if you believe it. It is finished, and I intend to publish it."

The silence that followed was profound. The handler stared at the manuscript as if it were a live grenade, his expression shifting through disbelief, confusion, and a dawning sense of alarm. "Publish it? You want to publish the sequel to Dune? Are you serious?"

"Completely," Juan said, his voice calm and steady. "It is imperative that this work reach a broader audience. I believe there is quite the demand, and a good story should be followed up by another one."

The handler's incredulity deepened. "You do realize the implications of this, yes? The scrutiny it will bring? The potential for… complications?"

Okay, Juan had a feeling they were talking beyond each other here. Was the Inner Sphere really that starved of good literature for the disproportionate impact Dune had in this universe?

"I am well aware," Juan replied. "But consider this: Dune was already published, and it made quite an impact, even in its limited reach. This sequel will only deepen that impact. Besides," he gestured toward the handler "you and your colleagues have facilitated my work here. By granting me time and resources, you made this possible. Surely, it would be a waste to leave it unpublished."

The handler rubbed his temples, as though Juan had given him a headache. "Why New Avalon? Why not work through channels here?"

"Because there is only one publisher in the Inner Sphere who believed in Dune and me enough to take the risk of printing it," Juan said simply. "They are on New Avalon, and they were the ones that took the risk, took the chance on a new writer after loads of rejection to print and give a generous contract despite not being a traditional publishing house. The reputation and success of Dune will ensure they take this sequel seriously."

The handler leaned back in his chair, studying Juan with a mix of frustration and reluctant admiration. "You're determined, aren't you?"

"I am," Juan said. "And while I respect the constraints of your position, I believe this is worth pursuing. The First Prince himself granted me this opportunity to innovate and create. This is part of that process."

The handler exhaled slowly, clearly weighing his options. "Transporting you to New Avalon, even with an escort, is no small thing. You understand this will require considerable coordination and approval."

Juan inclined his head. "I do not doubt your ability to manage it. You have already proven resourceful in handling Agent Wendell and ensuring my transition to this facility was smooth. I trust you can manage this as well."

For a moment, the handler's expression was unreadable. Then he shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You are a stubborn man, Holtzman. I'll give you that."

"Persistence is a virtue," Juan replied, his tone as serious as ever.

The handler sighed, rising from his chair. "I'll begin the arrangements. But let me be clear: this will not be easy, and there will be questions. You had better be ready to defend this decision."

Juan's gaze didn't waver. "I am always ready to defend what matters. In this case I'm just going to publish a finished book. Why are you so serious about me publishing the sequel? I'm not demanding to marry into House Davion or some other inane stupidity."

The handler gave him a searching look, and deigned not to answer before leaving.

It took another week of negotiations, subtle power plays, and a fair amount of patience before a compromise was reached. Juan would be allowed to travel to New Avalon, but only under strict conditions. His escort would consist of undercover agents and commandos, all disguised as ordinary citizens, and he would be required to blend into the crowd, dressing appropriately for the industrial district where his destination lay.

Juan had insisted on this detail; any ostentation would invite questions he did not want to answer.

When the day arrived, the group descended into the heart of New Avalon, blending seamlessly with the bustling masses. The industrial district hummed with activity, its streets filled with workers, 1980s punks hanging around, and the occasional high-end vehicle moving cautiously among the throngs. The agents, clad in sturdy workwear and nondescript jackets, radiated an air of quiet competence, their sharp eyes scanning every shadow and alley. Juan, meanwhile, moved with an almost casual confidence, his own attire—a simple leather jacket and dark jeans thus making him indistinguishable from the crowd.

Their destination was an unassuming building tucked between a high-tech parts supplier and a sprawling manufacturing plant. The signage above the door read Chilton Automotive, its clean, bold lettering declaring it a respectable repair shop. Inside, the faint smell of engine oil and grease mingled with the hum of tools and machinery.

"This," one of the agents muttered under his breath, "is the place?"

Juan turned, raising an eyebrow at the skepticism in the man's voice. "Indeed," he said calmly, as if they were standing before the grand doors of a palace. "Chilton Automotive is not just a repair shop; they also print automotive repair manuals. But more importantly, they were the only ones willing to take the risk of publishing Dune."

The incredulous stares of his escort were almost comical. One of the commandos, a woman with an air of military precision, glanced at the grease-stained walls and the row of pristine vehicles waiting for service. "You're telling me Dune was published out of… this?"

Juan nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Great works often come from the most unexpected places."

Inside the shop, the owner, a burly man in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and an easygoing demeanor, looked up from the front desk as the bell above the door jingled. His sharp eyes immediately locked onto Juan, and recognition dawned like a sunrise.

"Holtzman!" the man boomed, his voice carrying over the din of the shop. In two strides, he closed the distance between them and enveloped Juan in a bear hug that lifted him off the ground.

The agents froze, their hands instinctively moving toward concealed weapons, but Juan raised a hand in a calming gesture. "It's all right," he said, his voice muffled against the man's shoulder. "This is exactly the welcome I expected."

Setting Juan down, the man stepped back, his grin so wide it threatened to split his face. "I don't believe it," he said, shaking his head. "The man who brought us Dune has returned! And judging by the look on your face, you've brought us something just as good, haven't you?"

Juan reached into his messenger bag and withdrew the manuscript, its leather cover gleaming faintly under the overhead lights. "Better," he said, handing it over with both hands. "The sequel, which I call Dune Messiah. It's my continuation of the saga."

For a moment, the shop owner simply stared at the manuscript, his hands trembling slightly as he took it. He opened the cover, flipping through the pages with a reverence usually reserved for ancient relics.

"This… This is the second Holy Grail," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I never thought I'd see the day."

The agents exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of bemusement and disbelief. One of the commandos leaned toward her colleague, muttering, "Holy Grail? This guy's running a repair shop, and he's talking like he just found the Ark of the Covenant."

Juan ignored them, his focus entirely on the shop owner. "I trust you still have the capacity to handle something like this?" he asked.

The man snapped the manuscript shut, his grin returning. "Are you kidding? After the earth-shattering success of Dune, I expanded our publishing arm. We've got better equipment, a wider distribution network, and a reputation for quality. You picked the right place, Holtzman."

"Good." Juan said, nodding. "You did not have any reason to take the word of a new writer with a never before seen work, not when you had a respectable auto repair manuals to publish and something not of your wheelhouse. Yet you did. I intend to finish the entire saga with you as the publisher and no one else."

The owner's grin softened into something more thoughtful. "You've got a way of putting things, Holtzman. Don't worry, we'll do right by this."

While the agents looked on, still grappling with the surreal nature of the exchange, Juan felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

The manuscript was in good hands, and the second book of Herbert's masterpiece would soon find its way into the hands of readers across the Inner Sphere.

 

[bryanfran36]

Thorough Testing

Juan Holtzman leaned back in the worn leather chair of Chilton Automotive's cluttered office, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The shop was a far cry from the bucolic countryside of the sprawling estate (and his gilded cage) where he now spent most of his days.

Here, the air was thick with the scent of oil, metal, and the faint tang of ozone from the welding equipment. It was a place where things were built by hand, where the hum of machinery and the occasional curse of a frustrated mechanic were the soundtrack of progress. It felt real in a way that his new life often didn't.

The owner of Chilton Automotive, a grizzled man named Elias Chilton, sat across from him, his hands stained with grease and his face lit with a grin that spoke of both pride and disbelief. Elias had been the first person to believe in Juan's work in Dune.

It was here, in this very shop, that Juan had dropped off the first manuscript of Dune years ago, back when he was just another struggling inventor with a head full of ideas and a heart full of doubt. Elias took a gamble with the manuscript and published it wholesale, and the rest, as they say, was history.

He had all the reasons to reject the manuscript, given his was a company that specialised in publish auto repair manuals and tire catalogues, not fiction publishing. Or the fact that this was another author who had dozens of rejections cloud him and found hismelf on the wrong printer house.

Still Elias took his time reading through Dune, and took the gamble to go where his shop had not gone before.

Juan was also in a reflective mood.

As Juan watched the owner cradle the manuscript of Dune Messiah like a man who had just been handed the keys to a lost treasure vault, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

It had been years since he'd first walked into this unassuming repair shop and changed its fate with a single manuscript. Now, seeing how the shop had flourished in his absence, he couldn't help but be pleased.

The operation and scope of Chilton had expanded.

Though outwardly still a vehicle service center, the subtle modifications were there for those who knew what to look for. The extra storage rooms. The reinforced doors leading to what had to be printing and distribution facilities. The faint scent of ink and fresh paper that mingled with the ever-present tang of motor oil.

"You've done well for yourself," Juan said, leaning against a well-worn workbench as he glanced back towards Elias.

The older man chuckled, still flipping through the handwritten pages with the reverence of a priest examining holy scripture. "You have no idea, Holtzman. When we put Dune out, I figured we'd get a few collectors, maybe some history buffs. But the demand…" He whistled low. "We had to run dozens of multiple printings in the first year alone. People couldn't get enough of it."

Juan's brow furrowed in thought. "Any… unusual interest? People asking too many questions?"

The shop owner's grin faded slightly. "A few. Some academic types, a couple of military officers who thought it was 'an insightful study in leadership' which is a hell of a way to describe it. And then there were the ones who didn't say much at all but bought in bulk."

Juan's eyes narrowed. 'MIIO? DMI? Maybe even ComStar?'

That was worth looking into later.

Still, he nodded, satisfied with the answer. "That's the power of great literature. It must not entertain by shutting the minds of the people for an hour or so. It must move them provoke a feeling of want and desire and to make them think."

Elias grinned, but his expression grew more serious as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Speaking of which, what's with the entourage, kid? Last time I saw you, you were just a plucky dreamer with a manuscript and a head full of big ideas. Now you've got government types following you around like you're part of House Davion. What's going on?"

Juan hesitated, his smile faltering for a moment. He couldn't tell Elias about the shield belt, about the assassination attempt, or about the fact that his work had drawn the attention of some of the most powerful people in the Inner Sphere. Elias didn't need to be dragged into that mess. So he shrugged, downplaying it as best he could.

"It's nothing, really," Juan said, his tone light but careful. "Just some overzealous security. You know how it is. Once you get a little famous, everyone wants a piece of you. The Davions are just... making sure I don't get into trouble."

Elias raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Uh-huh. And I'm the First Prince of the Federated Suns. Come on, Juan. I've known you long enough to know when you're dodging the truth. What aren't you telling me?"

Juan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, Elias, it's... complicated. Let's just say I've gotten myself into a situation where a lot of people are paying attention to me. Some of them aren't exactly friendly. The bodyguards are just a precaution."

Elias studied him for a long moment, his sharp eyes narrowing as if trying to piece together the puzzle. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. "Alright, kid. I won't push. But you know where to find me if you need help. This place isn't going anywhere. And neither am I."

Juan smiled, gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thanks, Elias. That means a lot."

As he stood to leave, Elias reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, wrapped package. "Almost forgot. Got something for you."

Juan raised an eyebrow as he took the package, unwrapping it to reveal a small, intricately crafted model of a sandworm. The detail was astonishing, from the segmented body to the gaping maw lined with razor-sharp teeth. It was a work of art, and Juan couldn't help but laugh.

"Where did you even get this?" he asked, turning the model over in his hands.

Elias shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Let's just say I've got connections. Thought you might like a reminder of where it all started. Plus, it's a hell of a conversation piece."

Juan shook his head, still grinning. "You're something else, you know that?"

"So I've been told," Elias replied, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk.

Before the conversation could continue, one of the MIIO agents cleared his throat meaningfully. "Holtzman, we're burning daylight. You got what you came for."

Juan sighed. He turned back to the shop owner. "I'll be in touch. Same arrangement as before?"

The man grinned, shaking his hand. "You just keep bringing me gold like this, and I'll make sure it gets to the right hands."

The return trip to his gilded cage was uneventful, though Juan could feel the weight of his escort's stares on him the entire way back. He knew what they were thinking.

This?

This was where Dune had come from? Not some grand publishing house or prestigious university, but a damn repair shop in the industrial district of New Avalon? The agents were still struggling to reconcile that fact, their expressions ranging from bemusement to outright disbelief.

Juan, for his part, ignored them. His mind was already shifting gears.

The shield belt.

It was time to move past theoretical work and into practical refinement. What he had now was adequate, a proof of concept that worked in the field. But adequate was not sufficient. The First Prince had been willing to extend him this rare trust, to give him resources and, more importantly, time.

Juan was not about to squander it.

Once back at the manor, he wasted no time in getting to work. His personal workshop had been assembled to his exact specifications: precision tools, diagnostic equipment, and an array of materials that made even his old university lab seem quaint by comparison. He was alone, save for the ever-watchful eyes of his MIIO handlers lurking at the edges of the estate, but that suited him just fine.

He began by reviewing his initial prototype, making careful notes on power consumption, efficiency, and the delicate interplay of the shielding field with the human body. The fundamental principles were sound, but there was room for improvement. The power drain needed to be mitigated. The activation needed to be smoother, more intuitive. And, most of all, it needed to be reliable.

A shield that failed at the wrong moment was worse than no shield at all.

He lost himself in the work. Hours passed, then days. Meals were brought and often left untouched as he sketched, tested, recalibrated, and refined. The whine of energy capacitors and the hum of diagnostic scans became his constant companions.

And in the rare moments when his mind needed respite, he turned to Dune Messiah.

Herbert had done something remarkable with the sequel—where Dune had been a grand ascent, Dune Messiah was the inversion, the slow unraveling of a legend.

Juan saw the parallels, whether he wanted to or not.

Paul had built something vast, something magnificent, only to find himself consumed by it.

Juan had no desire to be a ruler. But he was building something new, something unprecedented.

He would make damn sure he didn't suffer the same fate.

===

Upon returning to the estate (and he had to ask for the proper name or make one the next time) he wasted no time starting to work on the second reiteration of his shield belt.

Juan Holtzman had always understood the value of information. Knowledge, after all, was power especially in a universe where the very concept of technological advancement had been rendered an afterthought by centuries of war, incompetence, and the sheer stubborn refusal of humanity to learn from its past.

Which was precisely why he took no chances.

The second iteration of his shield belt was a systematic, methodical deconstruction and reconstruction of every component, every theoretical assumption, every practical limitation. And unlike the half-mad tinkering of so many desperate Inner Sphere engineers scrabbling to keep a dwindling technological base from collapsing, Juan took copious notes.

Every blueprint was meticulously drawn out by hand and then transcribed onto digital files using the clunky, infuriatingly primitive computing systems available to him. Every revision, every step of the process was documented, recorded, and stored in multiple formats—paper, video, magnetic storage, anything he could get his hands on.

The result was his current desk being cluttered.

Spread out before him on a long, marble-topped table were the finished blueprints, notebooks, and data pads, each filled with copious notes, diagrams, and calculations. Every detail of the shield belt's second iteration was documented in painstaking detail where he put in a clear and relatively simple manner the step-by-step processes, revision histories, and even speculative theories on potential improvements.

He had left nothing to chance.

And, then he put it in triplicate.

Just to make sure nothing was lost. Or more accurately, "lost."

He understood all too well how easily knowledge could vanish in this universe. The very concept of LosTech, of technology that had once been widespread, only to be erased from human reach through ignorance, war, and sheer bloody-minded refusal to preserve it was something that made his skin crawl.

Juan was no deep lore nerd of the universe he was now living in. One of the few things that stuck to him was the common place of blackboxing and tech exclusivity that permeated the Inner Sphere resulting in LosTech. A doctrine perpetrated by the Star League as a means of control and tech advantage gap between them and the rest of the Inner Sphere where they got the advanced tech and the rest got crumbs.

They even made the Houses thank them for it too, or so he remembered from the distant forum posts of another life.

Juan had read too many stories both fiction and real in his youth of brilliant inventors who hoarded their discoveries, clutching them close out of greed, paranoia, or sheer arrogance… only for their knowledge to die with them.

He would not make that mistake.

The First Prince had taken a risk on him, had given him resources and more importantly had given him time. And while Juan could have leveraged his exclusive knowledge to squeeze out more concessions, to make himself indispensable, that kind of arrogance was an excellent way to end up dead in an alleyway, face down in a gutter with a ComStar-blessed dagger between his ribs.

Hubris was a very deadly thing in this universe.

He wasn't the main character of this story, and he wasn't about to act like it.

It would be a different kettle of fish of he had gotten something like say, the Celestial Forge with its vast array of multiversal equipment and followers, or one of those CYOA things where he somehow was the heir to a cache of Lostech mechs and jumpships with their attendant dropships.

This was a setting where casual assassinations were a fact of life, where intelligence agencies played a game of knives in the dark, and where the so-called Holy Shroud viewed technology not as a tool of progress, but as a divine secret to be controlled.

And while he didn't have a full grasp of the political landscape, he understood enough to know that if he kept his work too close to his chest, some overly zealous fool within House Davion would decide he was a liability rather than an asset.

No, he was going to make damn sure that House Davion and not just him and his isolated lab, but House Davion itself had the full, unabridged knowledge of the shield belt.

If something happened to him, if he vanished into an unmarked grave, the project would continue.

Because even if he tried to keep it secret, somehow, someway, ComStar and their mystical bushido-hands pulled out of their asses would leak the technology anyway.

And if the Inner Sphere was going to get its hands on the shield belt, Juan Holtzman would make damn sure it was the Federated Suns leading the charge.

As he worked, he couldn't help but think of Elias Chilton and the sandworm model sitting on his desk. It was a reminder of where he'd come from, of the dreams that had driven him to this point. But it was also a reminder of the stakes he was now playing at.

Ideas were fine and good. The shield belt neede hard numbers and inviolate proof that it did what was proposed on paper.

Juan knew better than to trust theory alone. Engineering was a practical science and one that only proved its worth when the numbers and formulas held up under real-world conditions. The difference between a brilliant idea and a field-ready piece of technology was simple: testing.

Rigorous, methodical, and utterly merciless testing.

So when the first prototype of his refined shield belt was ready, he wasted no time in putting it through its paces.

The testing facility MIIO had built for him stood out against the otherwise idyllic countryside estate like a fortification from a different era. The bunker was an ugly, brutalist slab of reinforced concrete and proof that whoever had signed off on its construction valued function over aesthetics which suited Juan just fine. He wasn't here to admire architecture.

Inside, the testing chamber was little more than a reinforced shooting range with hardened walls, multiple camera setups, and remote monitoring stations. MIIO and DMI agents had gathered to observe, some of them still treating him with wary detachment, while others (especially those with a technical background) watched with undisguised curiosity.

Juan moved to the observation area, a reinforced booth equipped with holographic displays and recording equipment. He took his place beside a pair of agents who were already busy setting up cameras and data feeds. Everything would be documented in excruciating detail in video, audio, and raw data.

If something went wrong, they'd have a record of it.

If something went right, they'd have proof.

At the center of it all stood the test dummy.

The training dummy had been fitted with the shield belt, power supply properly calibrated, and internal monitoring equipment running. Juan checked his notes one last time before giving the order to begin.

"Alright," Juan said, stepping back and raising his voice to be heard over the faint hum of the shield belt. "We're going to run this in phases. Start with the ballistic pistols, then work your way up to the heavy stuff. I want every shot recorded: hit locations, energy dispersion, shield integrity, the works. If this thing fails, I need to know why."

The MIIO and DMI agents exchanged glances. Then, with the professional enthusiasm of men who rarely got to shoot at something with impunity, they opened fire.

"Phase one," Juan said, his voice calm but firm. "Handguns. Begin."

The first agent stepped forward, raising a standard-issue Federated Suns handgun and taking careful aim. The crack of gunfire echoed across the testing area, the sound sharp and percussive. The shield belt flared as the bullet struck, a shimmering barrier of energy dispersing the impact. The dummy remained unharmed.

"Hit registered," one of the agents called out, his eyes fixed on the data feed. "Shield integrity at 99%. Energy dispersion within expected parameters."

Juan nodded, his expression focused. "Next."

The agents took turns, each one firing a controlled burst at the dummy with their handguns. The shield belt held, its energy barrier flaring with each impact but never faltering.

The agents, however, were just getting started.

"Phase two," he said after the last handgun had been fired. "Submachine guns and assault rifles. Let's see how it handles rapid fire."

The agents switched to compact submachine guns, their shots coming in rapid succession. The shield belt's barrier flared brighter with each impact, but it held. Juan's heart pounded in his chest, a mix of excitement and anxiety. This was the moment of truth.

The first volley crackled through as bursts of fire poured in. The results were immediate.

The shield held.

Bullets stopped dead in the air, ripples of golden energy flaring outward like concentric rings in water before the spent projectiles dropped harmlessly to the ground. Every impact sent feedback data to Juan's monitoring systems, measuring stress loads, energy draw, and overall resilience.

He smiled. This was promising.

Another agent stepped forward, raising his ballistic rifle and taking careful aim. The crack of gunfire echoed across the testing area, the sound sharp and percussive. The shield belt flared as the bullet struck, a shimmering barrier of energy dispersing the impact. The dummy remained unharmed.

"Hit registered," one of the agents called out, his eyes fixed on the data feed. "Shield integrity at 98%. Energy dispersion within expected parameters."

Juan nodded, his expression focused. "Next."

The agents took turns, each one firing a controlled burst at the dummy. The shield belt held, its energy barrier flaring with each impact but never faltering. The data feeds filled with information: hit locations, energy readings, shield stability. Juan watched it all with a critical eye, his mind already working through potential improvements.

"Phase three," he said after the last ballistic rifle had been fired. "Heavier weapons. Let's see what this thing can really take."

Then, someone produced an anti-materiel rifle from somewhere and Juan wasn't entirely sure if it had been standard issue for the estate's security forces or if one of the agents had simply brought it along in case things got interesting.

Either way, he wasn't about to say no to good data.

The agent wielding it took his time, adjusting his stance and sighting carefully. The first shot was deafening, the recoil visibly shaking the man's frame. The shield belt's barrier flared violently, the energy discharge bright enough to leave afterimages. But it held.

"Hit registered," the agent monitoring the data feed called out, his voice tense. "Shield integrity at 72%. Energy dispersion spiking, but within tolerances."

Juan clenched his fists, his eyes fixed on the dummy. "Again."

The agent fired again, and again, each shot hammering the shield belt's barrier. The energy readings spiked with each impact, the shield's integrity dropping steadily. By the time the magazine was empty, the shield was flickering, its barrier barely holding.

"Shield integrity at 12%," the agent reported, his voice tight. "One more hit in the same location, and it's gone."

Juan exhaled slowly, his mind racing. The shield belt had held, but just barely.

"Alright," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Shut it down. Let's get the data analyzed and start working on the next iteration."

As the agents moved to secure and sanitise the area, Juan allowed himself a small smile.

Juan exhaled slowly, feeling something suspiciously like satisfaction settle in his chest. He'd passed the first phase of testing. Now came the real work of refinement, optimization, and preparing for the next stage.

Because if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was this: A real battlefield wouldn't be as forgiving as a controlled test.

For now, though, he had work to do. The data wouldn't analyze itself.

And there was the issue of the possibility of laser weapons turning it into an atomic explosion.

Dear God, he hoped not.

The Draconis Combine and the Capellan Confederation would take one look at it and turn the weakness into a strength where they could just kill many Davion troops and the collateral damage was just a fucking bonus.

Another thing to give a heads up to his handlers.

Two days later, he presented the shield belt and its accompanying documentation (including the current ballistic wepaon data refined and edited to be presentable) to his MIIO handlers. They were impressed, though their expressions betrayed a hint of unease at the sheer volume of information he had provided. One of them, a sharp-eyed woman who introduced herself as Agent Voss, raised an eyebrow as she flipped through the stack of blueprints.

"This is... thorough," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "Almost too thorough. You're not worried about someone stealing your work?"

Juan shook his head. "It's not about ownership. It's about making sure this technology doesn't get lost. If something happens to me, I want this to survive. I want it to be used and be out there that says, 'There is more to do than pine for lostech and the past.'"

Voss studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Understood. We'll make sure it's archived properly."

As he left the room, Juan felt a strange sense of relief.

For the first time in a long while, Juan felt like he was making a difference. And as he walked back to his quarters, the sandworm model sitting on his desk seemed to smile at him, as if to say, Well done.

===

Juan, bless his heart was ignorant of the great bombshell that Dune had on the rest of the Inner Sphere.

He was busy these days and well, for a man who grew up with the information of the 21st​ century world a simple search away, with great interconnected streams of information and entertainment at the fingertips of his smartphone and computer, the Inner Sphere was fucking slow and primitive.

It was basically courier ships in space or transmit information across planets with ruinous rates by a monopoly that was Comstar.

Juan had basic assumptions formed by his faulty knowledge and the socio-cultural biases of the Federated Suns also play a factor.
After all, it was more likely that the Combine and the Capellans would ban the book so thoroughly on pain of death since it was not a propaganda book sucking their dick and loudly proclaiming how great they were.

Hell, would the Taurians even read a book that came from Davion space?

Given that the Outback was also part of the interstellar nation, he also thought that people would not have the time, money and will to buy yet another book when survival and wealth was needed above all.

Man plans, and God laughs.

The novel had begun as an oddity as one of those small, obscure pieces of literature that filtered through the borders of the Great Houses without much notice. But then, someone of influence and means (perhaps an intelligence analyst with a taste for the arts, perhaps a noble patron of the literati) had read it.

And word had spread.

===

To the Federated Suns, Dune was a hero's story. Paul Atreides, the noble heir thrust into the crucible of war and betrayal, had captured the imaginations of readers across Davion space. His story, of duty and sacrifice, resonated deeply with the Suns' cultural ethos in a genuine belief in nobility not just by birth but by action.

That the book's protagonist led a rebellion against tyranny while simultaneously navigating the treacherous world of politics was all too familiar to Davion sensibilities. Generals and officers in the AFFS debated the merits of House Atreides' strategies, while the military academies incorporated Dune into their courses on leadership and asymmetric warfare.

Of course, some more perceptive readers pointed out that Paul's rise was not merely heroic—that he embraced the role of a messianic warlord, unleashing religious fanaticism and galactic war. But the average Davion reader, especially among the military, saw a noble leader fighting impossible odds.

Even Hanse Davion himself, after a long night of reading, set the book down and mused, 'If only we had a few Fremen legions of our own…'

===

For the Lyran elite, Dune was a story of commerce and realpolitik. Spice was simply another form of a rare, hyper-valuable commodity, much like germanium or LosTech, and House Steiner understood economic monopolies better than most.

The struggle for control of Arrakis fascinated the Commonwealth's merchant-princes. House Harkonnen's bureaucratic misrule, its corruption and excesses, were all too familiar to anyone who had dealt with the worst of Lyran nepotism. But the Atreides' attempts to establish an effective governance model, only to be crushed by superior political maneuvering, struck a chord as well.

Among the nobility and business elite, the novel was dissected with a focus on trade, influence, and power. The cultural importance of water to the Fremen was compared to the Lyran perception of industrial wealth, of the notion that those who controlled the means of production and economic flows ultimately dictated history.

Katrina Steiner herself read it with keen interest, appreciating its lessons on statecraft. Yet she also saw the darker warning in Paul's rise, of how a leader's idealism could birth a storm they could not control.

===

To the Combine, Dune was not a cautionary tale, nor a work of philosophy. It was a blueprint for conquest.

The story of Paul Muad'Dib, who turned an oppressed people into an unstoppable warrior force, appealed to the Combine's martial sensibilities. The Fremen's discipline and survivalist ethos found ready admiration among the Dragon's samurai caste, who saw echoes of their own Bushido traditions in the desert warriors' unshakable commitment to their cause.

But it was the Bene Gesserit and their secretive manipulation of faith and prophecy that most intrigued the ISF and the O5P. That an entire galaxy could be maneuvered into worshiping a figure of myth carefully cultivated by shadowy forces for the cause resonated strongly with the Combine's cultural management of its own myths, such as the divine right of the Coordinator.

Takashi Kurita read Dune with careful consideration, taking note of its implications for social control. It was a book that reinforced his worldview: power was an illusion woven through faith, tradition, and the iron will of its wielder.

Among the lower castes, the book's appeal was simpler: the story of an exiled prince who took his revenge, reforging himself through suffering and battle. That, the warriors of the Combine understood well.

===

For the fractured Free Worlds League, Dune was a tragedy.

Here was a story of noble intentions, of political maneuvering, of alliances both honored and betrayed. The League, forever a realm of divided loyalties and internal conflicts, saw too much of itself in the fate of House Atreides.

Janos Marik read it with a sense of grim recognition. The balance of power between the Landsraad, the Emperor, and the Guild was all too familiar to anyone navigating the Byzantine politics of the League Parliament. The constant infighting, the maneuvering of economic interests against military necessity, the weight of inherited obligations truly was not fiction.

It was a story House Marik lived every day.

More than that, the book's themes of religious and political movements spiraling beyond the control of those who started them struck a deep nerve. Paul Atreides had intended one future, only to birth something beyond his reckoning.

That, more than anything, was a warning Janos took to heart, ironically having the same conclusion with Katrina Steiner.

===

To the Capellans, Dune was revolutionary scripture.

The story of an aristocracy overthrown by an exiled heir who aligned himself with the common people and the one who molded them into an unbreakable, ideologically driven force resonated deeply with Capellan philosophy.

The Warrior Houses of House Liao found much to admire in the Fremen: their utter devotion to their cause, their strict communal order, their willingness to sacrifice all for the survival of their people. The way Paul Atreides transformed them into a disciplined, nearly fanatical army spoke to Capellan ideals of unity and service.

Maximilian Liao, ever a man who saw grand omens in fiction, found himself fascinated by the religious fervor that propelled Paul's ascension. If faith could shape empires, then perhaps the Confederation needed a new doctrine, one beyond mere state control, of one that could ignite devotion.

And so, in some of the more fanatical corners of the Maskirovka, discussions began. Could such belief be cultivated within the Capellan people? Could Dune itself become a tool of inspiration, its messages of loyalty and sacrifice reforged into something… useful?

===

Across the Inner Sphere, Dune took root in unexpected ways.

It was studied in war colleges and debated in universities. It was censored in some regions and required reading in others. Nobles saw in it lessons of power and downfall. Intelligence agencies saw in it guides to subterfuge and manipulation. Military commanders saw it as a treatise on insurgency and leadership.

The masses saw it as one of the best work of entertaining literature that crossed borders and stars without the "taint" of propaganda. A large, informal fanbase that was slowly organising themselves in the inner Sphere called themselves "Duneheads".

The Great Houses, each in their own way, found something of themselves in Dune.

And they would not forget it.

And then Dune Messiah was published.