Chapter 2

“In this universe there is no such thing as a safe place or safe way. Danger lies along every path.” – Zensunni Aphorism

Beneath the crumbling façade of a South Suburb townhouse, Shizu Varmoth leads the way, his footsteps silent on the rough-hewn sandy earth. He pauses at each turn of the tunnel, nostrils flaring at the acrid tang of fuel and the rank stench of sweat-soaked straw. Behind him, Zibid-i Paro follows, every sinew coiled for motion, while Dali Tarek Nivahn moves like a shadow, his keen eyes darting to every corner. Glowglobes overhead cast trembling circles of light on damp walls as Shizu’s hand brushes against the tunnel’s jagged ribs, searching for tripwires or pressure plates. Here, every breath tastes of old refuse and distant menace.

The passage descends into a cramped chamber of stacked crates and wooden boxes, arranged in a makeshift maze that funnels intruders around a sharp corner. A dull glow seeps from beyond, and anxious whispers drift through the barrier of wood—muted voices bristling with urgency. Zibid-i slowly moves forward for a closer look. His hand rises, a silent semaphore: four figures. Three clutch knives; another, the one-eyed leader, has a Maula Pistol hanging from his waistband. The leader’s voice cracks: “House Varmoth are onto us! We need to move now!”

Shizu steps forward, activating his personal shield, its iridescent field enclosing him like a protective cocoon. He holds his Kindjal menacingly and in a low and unwavering voice, says calmly, “Don’t move, and you won’t get hurt.”

Silence cleaves the air. The raiders freeze mid-whisper, knives trembling in stilled hands. For a heartbeat, time hangs suspended between the hiss of displaced air and the distant drip of condensation.

Then a figure lunges from the shadows—a fifth attacker aiming a crude blade at Shizu’s ribs. The shield flares as steel sparks off its surface. Shizu pivots, and his blade deflects the blow in a single, fluid arc. Zibid-i surges forward, his own dagger slicing the attacker’s throat. Blood spills to the ground and the man crumples, his life draining swiftly.

Dali steps into the lantern‐haloed space, his lasgun raised, voice ringing clear: “On your knees now or you’re next!” The raiders, haggard and wide-eyed, slump to the floor. Shizu’s shield winks off, revealing the carved lightning‐moth crest on his chest. Within moments, Lavro’s slender form appears behind them, Lady Kleya’s calm silhouette following.

The one-eyed leader — Ulako Hibb by name—finds his tongue beneath Kleya’s measured gaze. His Maula Pistol clatters to the floor as he confesses: “We have been paid by House Harkonnen. We did the sabotage. We hurt Geeta Varmoth in the fight and took her to a sietch—but Talaval Weir and Soram Vieno…they did not make it. The Harkonnens left their bodies for the worms.” He pushes a bloodstained note across the gridded floorboards: “Continue the campaign. Make your fourth target the merchant quarter. If you can double the casualties, I will double your pay. —H”

Shizu kneels to examine a nearby crate. “Explosives from Giedi Prime,” he murmurs, lifting a drum stamped with a stylized factory crest. Dali finds fuel containers and detonator wires for pyrebottles tucked beneath crates. Lavro unrolls a set of maps marked with recent guerrilla strikes. The evidence sits heavy between them—proof of a wider Harkonnen conspiracy.

By dusk, word of the raider’s defeat echoes through Arrakeen. Crowds gather in the streets, whispering blessings to House Varmoth as they return to the glittering residency. New allies emerge from every quarter, heroes who struck a blow to protect the people of Arrakeen.

The party decide that the only way to get Geeta back is to accept the overdue invitation to a dinner with the Harkonnens. So the following evening, an ornithopter sweeps through the twilight sky carrying the party to Carthag. The palace of House Harkonnen sprawls below—a formidable edifice of black basalt and maroon banners. Soldiers in polished boots march in formation below - a military parade in lockstep through the square, gleaming lasguns flashing under floodlights, as the ornithopter settles on the rooftop landing pad.

Four guards usher them through carved double doors and down a whisper‐quiet corridor. An elevator chute delivers them to a cavernous reception hall, walls lined with Harkonnen banners. A tall, slim figure strides forward, lips pursed red with Sapho stain. He inclines his head in practiced courtesy. “Ah, our guests from House Varmoth,” he purrs. “Welcome, welcome. I am Piter de Vries, Mentat to Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. The Baron is off-world and I am afraid Governor Rabban elsewhere occupied this night, so I have been given the honour of hosting you. But please, introduce yourselves.”

Shizu bows his head. “Shizu Varmoth, representing the noble House Varmoth. My apologies for Count Lucar’s absence.”

Zibid-i inclines in turn. “Zibid-i Paro, at your service, I am an aide to the House.”

Lady Kleya steps forward, her posture unyielding. “I am Reverend Mother Kleya Leanne Naser Varmoth.”

Dali inclines with a rakish grin. “Dali Tarek Nivahn—fixer for House Varmoth.”

Lavro offers only, “I am Lavro.”

Piter claps once, and soft footfalls lead them into a narrow dining hall. A long table gleaming under an obsidian chandelier, place settings for eight. Servants hurry in: one in a black suit tending Piter, two in rough gray tunics offering platters to the party. Exotic fruits and spiced cheeses appear, each slice brighter than the sunrises of Arrakis.

Piter leans close to his servant, who whispers in his ear. He stands, a smooth smile curving his lips. “My new friends, thank you for your patience. Your wayward comrade has arrived.”

He remains poised as Geeta Varmoth enters in a coarse gray tunic. A short, bald physician in a white suit with Suk emblems guides her forward. Piter inclines to her. “Good to see your health restored, m’Lady. Doctor Gatley, your savior.”

They sit. Silver‐filigreed plates clatter as the appetizer course passes—swordfish pâté and herbed salad leaves from Caladan. Each bite a reminder that beneath Harkonnen hospitality lies calculated power.

Shizu’s voice is polite steel. “How did you find Geeta?”

Piter’s smile cools. “An ornithopter patrol discovered her near a Fremen sietch—apparently she and her crew attacked it. She was the sole survivor.”

Dali leans forward. “And the attacks on Arrakeen?”

Piter circles the lie smoothly. “Wild Fremen, regrettable but inevitable.”

Kleya’s calm scrutiny hollows his posture, as she asks about Geeta’s recovery. Piter answers quickly, “She has been treated like family—nothing untoward.”

When Geeta speaks, her voice trembles. “I feel… normal. My wounds have healed, but I miss my stillsuit.” She glances at Piter, uncertain. “I don’t remember what happened to Talaval or Soram.”

Doctor Gatley, sipping spiced wine, leans in. “I simply applied an Ecazi bacterial compound to speed recovery of her crysknife wound. My own innovation—quite effective.”

Piter’s courtesy turns to thinly veiled condescension, his eyes flicking between Geeta and the party as though rewarding them for concern. The main courses arrive—grilled shark steak in a velvet-smooth saffron sauce with vinegar‐glazed tubers. Piter’s line of questioning Geeta never falters: “Do you feel some hostility toward the Fremen? Is it possible your rumored hotheadedness led you into some action you now regret?” Each suggestion dismissed by Geeta’s firm denial.

Dessert is served—coffee dew crystals and chocolate bonbons on black damask china. Zibid-i leans toward Piter. “We will send you moth-silk garments in gratitude for the return of our kinsman.”

Piter inclines, voice silky. “I’ll have my tailor send you my measurements.”

Under Arrakeen’s twin moons, the party glides back to their Arrakeen residency, full of uneasy certainties.

The next morning, the party embark on the ornithopter breathing in the cool pre-dawn air, bound for the sietch where Geeta was found. Shizu’s youthful bravado grips the controls, banking hard over dune and shadow. Geeta winces as pain flares from her side—her wounds recalling their fierce toll. Shizu rights them, landing softly on sand scattered with a sparkling spice.

They disembark, boots sinking into sand that shifts like memories. The sietch yawns empty—walls crumbled, silent.

Geeta’s gaze sweeps the ruins, lips tight. “I don’t remember this place” she whispers.

Lavro crouches by a faded mural of Fremen sigils. “This place hasn’t seen life in years,” he declares. “Geeta must have been brought here by those raiders before the Harkonnens retrieved her.”

Night falls as they return to the House Varmoth residence, glowglobes flickering against embossed stone. The hour is ripe for strategy: should they confront the Harkonnens directly; strike the merchant quarter as a plot against the Harkonnens; or confront the administrators of Arrakeen, House Seraut, about the attacks?

As the desert wind moans beyond the high walls, the Varmoth champions summon their courage. In Arrakis’s eternal night, House Varmoth’s fight for power has only just begun.