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 contempt towards the audience as dumb numbers to be milked, and add their own politcal projections into a work where it is not needed ans full of 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.