Fortuna

by E G Manetti

  Lilian briefly considers packing her personal slate, a remnant of her university years. Deciding that she will have little time for personal projects, Lilian returns it to its stand on the cracked and pitted jade surface of her clothes chest. The only other ornament in the room is a small carved box holding the dark red crevasse stone powder collected when Lilian toured the mine and refinery.

  “Try this, dear one.” Helena’s return interrupts Lilian’s careful and precise placement of garments.

  The small package of sheer, sea-green silk appears to be dress length until Lilian realizes that it has been finished on all four sides with silver embroidery.

  “It is a wrap meant for Sinead’s attendants,” Helena explains. “The color is off, so I have not used it. It should suit you well. Try it.”

  Helena stands, arms crossed and head cocked while Lilian wraps herself in the sheer silk. Trained to shrine attendance since her eighth year, Lilian has no difficulty in twining the length gracefully around her waist so it falls to mid-calf and then gathering the extra length across her breasts where the delicate fabric clearly delineates the shape and peaks. Deftly she pulls the extra length over one shoulder and down past the small of her back, where it tucks under the warbelt. It will not stand up to rigorous activity, but that will not trouble milord.

  Normally worn over prelate’s vestments, the sheer silk is more a veil than a wrap. As Helena had predicted, Lilian is stunning in the vibrant color that gives her creamy complexion a glow, brightens her gray eyes, and brings out the dark red of her hair. Regarding herself in the looking glass, Lilian nods. Milord will not disapprove.

  “My thanks, and my thanks to Sinead.” With her words, Lilian offers her mother an exuberant embrace. “I shall honor Sinead on Fortuna.”

  Sevenday 97, Day 1

  “What say you, Katleen? Is all well? Have you any concerns?” Lilian paces anxiously around the kitchen.

  Rolling her eyes over her breakfast, Katleen recites, “Mistress Rebecca will arrive sometime after seventh bell this evening. She is to have your chamber. You have refreshed the bed linens. The household funds are in my safe box. Should I require more, Mistress Rebecca will advance it. Should something untoward happen, Mistress Rebecca will alert Seigneur Trevelyan.” Slipping a slice of fruit under the table to Gloribelle, Katleen gives a long-suffering sigh. “Shall I continue?”

  “Katleen, do not feed your pet from the table,” Lilian corrects without heat. “If needed, you can also send for Chrys.”

  “Or the scholars at my school.” Katleen rises from the table with Gloribelle at her heels. “Lilian, Maman and I managed nine years without you. Think you we cannot manage two sevendays?”

  “That was different. We . . .” Do not. It will serve no purpose to remind Katleen that when Lilian was at the university, they were warriors with half a dozen servants and extensive funds. Leading Katleen along the covered walkway to the house, Lilian reaches for serenity. “You speak truly, Katleen. There is no cause for such nerves. You are clever and sensible, and shrine and Cartouche are our allies. Your escort will arrive in moments. Is there aught you wish before you depart for school?”

  “Yes, to stay and see you off properly,” Katleen sulks, irked that she must depart for school before Monsignor Lucius arrives for Lilian. Not only is Mr. George a favorite of hers, but she is desperate for a closer look at the man who holds such control over her sister and all their lives.

  “To gawk at Monsignor is your true purpose,” Lilian retorts as the front entrance chimes. “I think not. Much as I love you, sweetling, that is not a well thought. Go to school. I shall bring you something special from Fortuna.” With a quick embrace, Lilian sends her sister with Sinead’s Devoted to attend the Universalist school.

  It never fails to amuse Lilian to imagine the interaction between Katleen’s shrine escort and equally devoted adherents of the Universal Way. Two sets of devoted, neither of whom would willingly encounter each other could they avoid it, both committed to the safety of one disgraced minor child. Lilian remains amused by the image less than a half period later as Mr. George hands her into the transport.

  “What amuses you so, Lilian?” Milord smiles from his relaxed position in the transport, slate loose in one hand.

  “I beg pardon, milord. It is an unworthy humor,” Lilian says to her knees, embarrassed by her ill sense of humor. “It is the image of my young sister being so carefully handed from Sinead’s Devoted to the Universalists. The only one at ease in the encounter is the minor child. Truly, it is wicked of me to take amusement at others’ discomfort.”

  With a laugh, milord grasps her face for a quick kiss. “Then we shall be wicked together, for I find the image amusing as well.”

  A laugh and a kiss, mayhap this will be well. Milord settles back in his seat and begins to work his slate, Lilian following suit. In the half-period transit from the Garden Center District, past Serengeti Headquarters in the Commerce District, and through the Refinery District, Lilian is able to complete her monthly reviews of Desperation operations. As she begins her instructions to the Desperation Mine and Refinery chiefs, they reach the city limits and the high-velocity transitway.

  At the subtle change in the motion of the transport, Lucius looks up from his slate. Beyond the windows, the warehouses and fabrication facilities that edge the city thin and then disappear. They are replaced by verdant plains where herds of cattle and sheep will graze until the dry season drives them into the hills. In twenty minutes, they will cover the fifty miles to the stellar transit center.

  Stretching out his legs, Lucius glances over at his apprentice, her head bent over her slate, fingers moving rapidly. Her good humor pleases him, evidence that she is recovering from the violence of her assaults at the hands of Grey Spear. The relaxed posture exhibits naught of strain that could have her startling at shadows. The journey to Fortuna is already benefiting his apprentice.

  Immersed in his thoughts, they are almost to the pavilion before Lucius realizes Lilian’s competent tapping has ceased. Her earlier relaxation is gone, replaced by ramrod posture, a stoic expression, and a tight grip on the slate satchel where her thorn resides. What troubles the woman? Before Lucius can explore this latest enigma, Mr. George opens the transport door.

  The Shimmering Horizon is among the most luxurious transports in the Twelve Systems. For most of the year, it travels between the commerce centers of the Third and Second Systems. Only during the green season does it travel to Fortuna. The only transports that are finer do not transit to the Fourth System at all.

  Following milord from the transport, Lilian gazes up at the rounded pyramid shape of the stellar transport. Graceful and oddly delicate for all its mass, it puts her in mind of the inverted bowl of a stemless wineglass—if that glass were silver and copper alloy. The arrival pavilion is set at a level midway up the structure, where the passenger accommodations begin. The level below contains the operational section of the vessel and the crew quarters. Below that is the cargo hold, and at the bottom, the complex technology that powers and controls the spacefaring craft.

  As a deferential steward escorts them through the main passenger level and into a private riser, Lilian calculates the amount of Vistrite needed for the anti-gravity surface that will help propel them through the atmosphere. A full core for a launch platform of this size. The riser takes them two levels to the top of the Shimmering Horizon and to the quietest and most secluded section of the transport. Another core’s worth of Vistrite to run the systems that enable the Shimmering Horizon to traverse the distance between stars. Lilian knows she is distracting herself with trivialities, but she cares naught. At the entrance to milord’s quarters, a Blooded Dagger Militia guard stands at attention.

  As the steward guides them through a well-appointed and commodious reception salon divided into three seating areas and a dining section, Lilian multiplies the Shimmering Horizon Vistrite by the four other launch platforms of similar size and the six smaller ones. As the stew
ard demonstrates the controls for the wall-sized reviewer on the long interior wall and the window that runs the length of the chamber, Lilian estimates the benefit to Serengeti when the stellar transit center increases by half with the opening of the Thirteenth System. The mental exercise is soothing, a reminder of her value to Bright Star and milord. There is naught in this voyage of the disgrace of her last stellar journey.

  There are two doors off the reception salon. Directly opposite the entry door are the double doors that lead to Lucius’ bedchamber and an adjoining freshening closet. Accessible through an entrance next to the reviewer is the servitor’s chamber, complete with a door that connects to milord’s freshening closet.

  Lilian cannot fail to make the obvious comparison between the luxury of milord’s accommodations and the spartan nature of the militia transport that returned her to Metricelli Prime two years gone. Repressing a shudder, refusing to allow the memories of that ordeal to overwhelm her, Lilian focuses on the stellar transit center beyond the window. She is not looking forward to when the planet disappears, replaced by the star-filled void.

  “What think you, Lilian?” Milord tosses his jacket on a chair and drops onto the oversized couch opposite the reviewer.

  That I pray this stellar journey will be more agreeable than my last. Do not voice that. “The accommodations are very fine.”

  Milord’s eyes narrow and his lips firm in unspoken command. Cautiously, Lilian adds, “Much nicer than the utilitarian accommodations of a militia transport.”

  As Lucius suspected, evil memories of her protocol review haunt his apprentice. Although Lilian does not know it, Lucius owns the only monitor recording of Remus Gariten’s Final Draught and the ugly scene it included. The vicious militia corporal who allowed Lilian’s abuse no longer lives. Trevelyan’s operatives eliminated that particular threat to his apprentice with their customary efficiency. It occurs to Lucius that the pervert might not have been the only one. Media reports of prisoner abuse are common enough. Reaching out a hand, Lucius beckons to Lilian. Pulling her down next to him on the couch, he encircles her shoulders with one arm. “Were they cruel to you?”

  Raising startled eyes, Lilian shakes her head in denial. “No, milord. For the most part, the militia officers were indifferent. Prisoners are but cargo to be transported safely, free of damage, and with as little effort as possible.”

  A shadow flickers across Lilian’s face, and she adds, “There was one very nasty corporal. Fortunately, I was no longer a prisoner when I encountered him.”

  With a gentle squeeze, Lucius encourages Lilian to continue. If there is aught of the corporal Lucius does not know, he will know it now.

  With a lightening of her features, Lilian adds, “He came to a violent end some months gone. It was in the media. I admit, I pray regularly for the well-being of his murderers.”

  Stunned and amused, Lucius pulls Lilian in for a kiss. Releasing her after several enjoyable moments, Lucius notes with pleasure Lilian’s wide eyes and red, swollen lips. A heartbeat later, sharp intellect replaces Lilian’s bemusement and a hint of wariness. “Should I be naming Seigneur Trevelyan in my prayers?”

  Demon shit. Lilian is well aware Trevelyan’s services are often less than legal, and she is beyond intuitive.

  Lilian’s eyes darken. Lucius’ silence is answer enough. “Milord has viewed the recording.”

  “I have,” Lucius admits, wondering at her distress. The man was a threat to Lilian, and she was pleased to pray for his killers.

  Lilian drops her eyes, her fingers nervously tracing the weave of her cheap linen skirt. “Milord is not . . . my behavior . . . I . . .”

  Provoked by Gariten’s verbal abuse of Helena and Katleen, Lilian put her thorn to her sire’s throat and compelled him to swallow the Final Draught. Raising a weapon to her sire violated multiple taboos; threatening patricide bordered on an annihilation crime. None of this troubles Lucius. Cupping Lilian’s chin, he tilts her face to meet his gaze. “Peace, woman. You have no cause for shame. The corporal should never have permitted Gariten’s tirade. It was the corporal’s duty to administer the Draught. You did naught but what was necessary.”

  Lilian’s eyes flare and brighten with emotion. Lowering her lashes, Lilian turns her face into his hand to kiss Lucius’ fingers. Her murmured ‘my thanks, milord’ is felt as much as heard. The gesture sends a familiar stab of lust to Lucius’ groin and a curious warmth to his heart. Unable to resist, he asks, “Will your prayers add my name to Trevelyan’s?”

  “There is no need, milord.” Lilian’s eyes are full of conviction. “Milord’s name has long been included.”

  Both lust and the odd warmth ignite into heat. Lucius drags Lilian close, claiming her mouth.

  Milord’s mouth descends in a plundering kiss, scattering Lilian’s wits and swamping her senses. Relief that milord is not horrified by her behavior at Gariten’s execution blends with wonder that milord saw to her protection with the assassination of the corporal. Lilian knew that once she proved her bond, the corporal would have used that incident for blackmail. Had milord not had the man slain, it would have fallen to Lilian.

  To Lilian’s regret, milord proceeds no further than a kiss. Gently releasing her, milord says, “We have some bells until planet exit. It would be well to take advantage of the communications network while we may.”

  Nodding, Lilian shifts to the other side of the couch and takes up her slate. She is anxious to complete the fisheries analysis before communications become difficult. At midday, Lilian begs to retreat for a few moments. Returning to the salon, she discovers milord seated at a table, a meal for two arrayed before him, his slate resting on its stand. At milord’s gesture, Lilian collects her slate and takes her place. They eat in silence, both focused on commerce. As soon as milord rises from the table, Lilian follows, retreating to her chamber to cleanse as milord disappears into his. When she returns to her place on the couch, the phantom servitors have removed the debris from the meal.

  Within a bell, chimes sound, alerting Lilian to deactivate her slate. Milord is already moving to a chair that faces the window where passengers can have a clear view of Metricelli Prime dropping away. A low hum is felt more than heard as the vessel begins to rise, the launch platform reversing the effect of gravity to push the Shimmering Horizon away from the planet’s surface. In moments, the vessel is a thousand feet about the planet’s surface, Crevasse City visible in the distance, the dark shadow of the Great Crevasse cutting through the plains to the hills. The hum is joined by a quiet rumble as the Shimmering Horizon’s launch engines add to the propulsion provided by the stellar transit center. In a very few heartbeats, the landmarks disappear, the Central Continent a patchwork of plains, hills, rivers, and lakes. Above them, the midday sky darkens to twilight. Unseen force presses Lilian into the chair as the Shimmering Horizon pushes through the outer edge of the atmosphere and into the black of the void between stars.

  The rumble of the propulsion systems softens as the vessel reaches the maximum velocity allowed for transit within a system and passes one of the two moons. As Metricelli Prime turns into a small green ball, Lilian releases her grip on the armrests, flexing stiffened fingers. It will be two years before construction completes on the SEV1 and it launches for the Thirteenth System. Even with all their plans and preparations, so much could go amiss. Even minor systems issues could become catastrophes in the beaconless expanse where there will be no other transports to assist, no system governor’s militia to mount a rescue. Lilian is overwhelmed at the thought of the courage it will take the SEV1 crew to leave the last beacon behind and head into the void with nothing to guide them but the markers left by the Serengeti XII probe. Naught but a fragile trail of candles across a vast darkness.

  “It is a fearsome notion,” milord echoes her thoughts.

  Whether milord can read her mind or is simply that intuitive, there is no purpose in dissembling. “Yes, milord, all those stars and only twelve that are beaconed. It would b
e very easy to get lost in the void.”

  Gazing into the inky black scattered with pinpricks of light, Lilian’s mind starts to work through the SEV1 plans again, seeking flaws and risks. Nickolas and Fletcher will be on the SEV1. They will not be lost.

  Again, as if reading her mind, milord says, “Then we must make very certain that the SEV1 does not get lost.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  »◊«

  Shortly after third bell, the release chimes sound. They have left the Third System and accelerated to the point where the stars are streamers of light as the Shimmering Horizon leaps toward the next beacon. Scheduled to meet with Seigneur Marco, milord releases Lilian to explore the transport with a command to return by sixth bell.

  Ten minutes before sixth bell, Lilian returns to milord’s empty suite. Mindful of Chrys’ and Rebecca’s advice, Lilian retires to her chamber, leaving the door open for when milord returns. No larger than milord’s freshening closet, the chamber contains a narrow bunk affixed to the wall, with enclosed shelves above it to hold Lilian’s travel bags. A small worksite, with drawers for her personal items, is set at the foot. Opposite the bunk is the cramped freshening closet and even smaller clothes closet.

  A rapid inventory reveals that the phantom servitors have been about their duties. Lilian’s travel bags have been unpacked. Her garments are so remarkably free of wrinkles that it is certain someone has steamed them. With a sudden, horrified suspicion, Lilian explores the drawers below the worksite to find her lingerie neatly organized and paired. The phantom servitors have overreached themselves.

  “What is that, Lilian?” milord asks from the entrance of her quarters.

  “I beg pardon, milord. I did not hear milord approach. What is milord’s will?” Milord is in casual disarray, jacketless and with his tunic shirt open below the hollow of his throat. Forcing her gaze from the distracting hollow, Lilian meets milord’s regard and awaits instruction.