Bright Star

by E G Manetti

  No time. No time. There is barely a period before the next Bright Star conference. Red eargems. Lilian’s cryptic alert is a signal to milord that Lilian has something important to convey and requires milord’s summons. Mayhap milord has sold his soul to the Shade of Socraide Omsted.

  Shaking her head at her own foolishness, Lilian hurries through the corridors. Milord’s summons arrives before Lilian reaches the risers. Passing straight through the reception area, Lilian nods acknowledgment toward Mistress Marieth but does not stop until she crosses the scarlet threshold.

  »◊«

  “You are certain?” Lucius scans his techno group, Lilian at attention behind his left shoulder.

  “Not one hundred percent, milord. Master Simon requires the sample for certainty, but the probability is quite high.” Lilian provides her customarily meticulous analysis.

  “You have the Troy saltmarsh listed with Matahorn’s secondary assets.” Lucius turns his attention from the synthetics to Bright Star. Evaluating Lilian’s careful notations, Lucius comments, “Other than these marshes, the property’s value lies in the untapped copper deposits. You are correct, for Bright Star we would simply sell it and use the proceeds.”

  Lucius sits back in his chair, his fingers steepled, considering this latest development. There is no question that the First Warrior favors him. “Does the sample prove, this property is to be acquired for Bright Star. Blooded Dagger will quietly purchase it for the assessed value.”

  Turning away from the reviewer to face Lilian, Lucius continues, “How long before Trevelyan provides the water sample?”

  “I know not, milord. I have yet to inquire. Not long. Master Trevelyan is amazingly resourceful.”

  »◊«

  The torrential rain that began shortly before sixth bell has ceased as Lucius enters his home with the eighth-bell chimes. Located in the newest section of the Garden Center District, the graceful mansion is set in elegantly landscaped grounds surrounded by stone walls and reinforced gates that adjoin the northern edge of the Garden Center. Following traditional warrior design, the main level is given over to opulent reception chambers, with the family’s quarters and guest accommodations occupying the second and third levels. The fourth and fifth levels are for the servants, storage, and utilities.

  As always, Lucius takes joy in his lovely home, enhanced over the years with Estella’s artistic vision. Anticipating her excitement at the Troy saltmarshes, Lucius strides into his chambers to be halted by the sight of the forlorn figure on the terrace beyond the double doors. Estella’s slender form leans on the balustrade, her white-blonde hair glowing silver in the emerging light of Metricelli Prime’s two moons. Abandoning his satchel, Lucius hurries to his wife.

  At the sound of his approach, Estella turns. It is worse than Lucius imagined—tears wash the brilliant blue eyes and stain the heart-shaped face. Gathering Estella into his arms, Lucius implores, “My love, why do you weep? What has occurred?”

  Resting her head against Lucius’ chest, Estella sighs. “It is more of rage than sorrow, my love. Chin can do no more.”

  “No more? How long?” Lucius closes his eyes against the bleak tidings.

  “Better than we hoped, two years, mayhap three,” Estella returns.

  Two years, mayhap three. At these words, Lucius’ heart lifts. Not long ago he prayed for two or three seasons, now it is years. Opening his eyes, Lucius gently tilts Estella’s chin so he can look into her eyes. “I do not understand, my love. Why tears? Why rage? It is so much more than we dared to hope.”

  A year and a half gone, soon after she passed her fifty-fourth year, Estella was taken with painful seizures, the onset of a genetic malady that had been dormant until then. Lucius enlisted Serengeti’s master medic and Blooded Dagger’s considerable resources to preserve Estella’s life. Within a month, Chin succeeded in halting the seizures and slowing the progress of the disease. Estella remained weak and pain-ridden for a season thereafter.

  Turning her face into Lucius’ palm, Estella sighs again. “I can feel the weight of your arms and sense the warmth of your hand. I can no longer recall the texture of your skin, only that it pleased me. Chin can do naught. If he reduces the dosage any further, the seizures will return and the disease will progress rapidly. I would not survive another season.”

  Chin cannot cure Estella. He can only slow the malady’s progress and keep her free from pain. The treatment comes at a cost. When Estella’s strength returned, she did not completely regain her tactical sense or experience the return of passion. Some of the loss is due to the damage caused by the disease, some by the elixir Chin employs to contain it. For a year, Chin has tinkered with the treatment, hoping to restore Estella’s senses. It is not to be.

  It grieves Lucius to see Estella distressed, but he cannot contain his exultation that she will survive for years rather than seasons. Pulling her close, Lucius confesses, “My love, I am a selfish man, as you well know. I cannot lament that you live and will continue to do so.”

  Estella trembles slightly in Lucius’ embrace as she admits, “I am in no hurry to walk with the Shades, my love. I am weary, though. Will you help me to bed?”

  Wordlessly, Lucius sweeps Estella into his arms and carries her to her chamber. “Lucius, remain with me.”

  Stunned, Lucius looks at his wife. They have not shared a bed since the onset of her illness. Estella would not deny him, but Lucius finds no joy in a woman who cannot respond to his touch. Nor could he bear to use Estella so. Estella in turn would not torment him by rousing passion she could not satisfy.

  “I wish the comfort of your arms and the scent of your skin. That at least I may yet enjoy.” Estella smiles.

  Without another word, Lucius settles Estella into her bed and disrobes.

  Shortly before Remus Gariten was indicted, after a year of celibacy and with Estella’s encouragement, Lucius began to consider some of the ceaseless invitations to dalliance he received. Unwilling to enter into a liaison that could bedevil Estella with social intrigue, Lucius was deliberating over several candidates when the opportunity to attach Gariten’s disgraced daughter resolved his conundrum.

  In this, Lucius once again had the Luck of the First. An apprentice is a common indulgence among the warrior elite. Even those who know of Lucius’ affection for Estella find nothing exceptional in Lucius’ relationship with his apprentice. Were Lilian not so notorious, it would pass completely unnoticed.

  Pulling Estella gently into his arms again, Lucius considers that three years is a long time and the First Warrior has always favored him. Perhaps Chin may provide another miracle.

  “Lucius, do not hold false hope. Three years is a gift. We will receive no further grace from the Shades,” Estella murmurs into Lucius’ chest, savoring the scent of the sea.

  “Estella, I wish you would not read my mind,” Lucius laments without heat.

  Raising her eyes to Lucius’ face, Estella teases, “But it makes such interesting reading.”

  “Enough,” Lucius insists. “Are you not ready to slumber, I would hear of our sons and daughter.”

  »◊«

  Attention fixed on the brawlers in the cage at the center of the arena, Nickolas absently sips ale. The cool beverage proves better quality than Nickolas expected to find in this squalid Refinery District Indulgence at the edge of Crevasse City’s worst slums. His cousin, Jamal, had the right of it. The sporting event is far superior to those normally found in such a marginal nightspot.

  With a roar, the massive brawler favored to win charges his opponent, tackling him at the waist and propelling him backward into the cage bars with sufficient violence to cause the bars to grind in protest. After fifteen minutes of combat, both men are bloody and streaming sweat that has darkened their protective leather armor at their necks, forearms, calves, and pelvises. Several inches shorter and a stone lighter than the favorite, the challenger contorts his slighter frame to duck his head beneath the protective leather collar of his adversary a
nd set teeth to the exposed flesh.

  Riveted, convinced the challenger will soon triumph, Nickolas leans forward in his seat. The premium location provides a full view of the action but well out of the range of blood spatter. Next to him, Jamal shouts encouragement at the favorite.

  As if in response to Jamal’s instruction, the favorite screams in pain and rage as he slams both fists into the challenger’s head, forcing the savage teeth to release. Staggering backward, the favorite presses a hand against his wounded neck, the rapid flow of blood indicating a severe injury. Eagerly, the challenger follows, teeth glittering amidst the blood.

  “Foul!” Nickolas screams as he surges to his feet, his hand reaching for his dagger. The emblem of his rank is as effective as it is ornamental. A step behind Nickolas, his cousin Jamal adds his cry. “Foul!”

  From the other side of the raised seating around the cage, a familiar voice joins Nickolas and Jamal as Fletcher Detrenti adds his shout. “Metal teeth! I cry foul!”

  In rebuttal, others in the crowd yell, “Brawl on!”

  “Foul,” Nickolas roars again to be answered by a nearby “Let ’em brawl!” The voice is owned by a burly man with the insignia of a stellar transport technologist. As Nickolas’ dagger clears its sheath, the man wisely ceases to argue and retreats into the crowd.

  Dagger raised high, enraged by the injustice, Nickolas bellows with the ring of thunder. “Halt the brawl!”

  A score of blades appear as voices echo Nickolas’ cry while simultaneously a half dozen are raised with shouts of “Brawl on!” At the uneven numbers, the daggers supporting ‘Brawl on’ disappear as quickly as they surfaced.

  In the cage pit, the favorite once again tackles his challenger, sending both brawlers to the crevasse dust in a tangle of writhing limbs. Rolling across the floor, the brawlers struggle for advantage as red dust clogs eyes, throats, and nostrils. Blood loss has sapped the favorite’s strength and speed, and the challenger triumphs. Pinning his foe to the dust with his weight, the challenger raises a fist to strike.

  A metal loop drops over the leather cuff on the raised arm and the challenger is halted. Another drops over the challenger’s head and tightens on the leather collar. Enraged by the thwarting restraints, the challenger shrieks defiance as he struggles to complete his strike. A bullwhip lashes across the challenger’s back and is ignored. The next strike has the challenger on his feet, turning to the source of this latest assault. The whip wielder is flanked by two fire-rifles. The challenger halts.

  Coiling his whip, Tiger Sylvester stalks forward. “Smile for me, show teeth.”

  With a reluctant grimace, the challenger bares his teeth, confirming Nickolas’ brief sighting. Top and bottom, from the front through the incisors, the man’s teeth gleam with blade metal.

  “Mouth blades,” Tiger muses thoughtfully as if he has never seen or employed the like. Roughly pushing up the man’s lips, Tiger reaches in and twists sharply, pulling the metal work free, along with a spurt of blood.

  With a howl of pain, the challenger presses his hand against his violated mandibles.

  Raising the fistful of metal, Tiger announces loudly, “Foul! Metal teeth! The match is the favorite’s!”

  Cheers, groans, and catcalls fill the arena at the ruling.

  Turning to the guard who holds the coils restraining the challenger’s wrist and neck, Tiger orders, “Take his teeth, all of them. Then put him on a freighter to the Tenth System.”

  At a sound of protest from the challenger, Tiger turns back. “Another sound, and you’ll lose more than your teeth.”

  Beyond Tiger and the challenger, medics have already sealed the favorite’s wound and are administering potions to counteract the blood loss. At Tiger’s gesture, the senior medic offers, “A sevenday, mayhap a day or so more.”

  “So, it’s a month before he’s any good in the cage.” Tiger snarls his displeasure. Turning back to the fire-rifles, he adds, “Break the challenger’s nose and left hand.”

  At a movement from the challenger, Tiger bites out, “Be thankful it’s not your left testicle. No one steals from me.”

  In the arena above, indifferent to the challenger’s forfeits, Nickolas and Jamal are eager to settle their wagers and be gone. Handing his credit token to the wager clerk, Nickolas runs his free hand through his loosened hair as he remarks to Jamal, “So much for an evening’s light distraction.”

  With a grin, Jamal pockets his credit token. “We should have wagered privately and kept the odds manager’s share.”

  “Here?” Nickolas gives a harsh laugh as he gestures at their surroundings, one of Crevasse City’s least savory Indulgences. “We would be lucky to escape with but a few broken bones if we attempted to keep the fee.”

  “What say you?” Fletcher’s bright voice breaks in on the cousins. “Did Nickolas wager on the challenger?”

  “I wagered against the house,” Nickolas returns grimly. “Given that it is one of Tiger’s, I expected to lose.”

  At Fletcher’s surprised expression and Jamal’s snort, Nickolas snaps, “Jamal, I yield. The black raider’s legitimate enterprises keep to the Order, but it changes naught. He is corrupt and it taints all he touches.”

  “Not so corrupt that it hindered your enjoyment of the brawl,” Jamal jabs back with a grin, unable to resist the urge to tease his so-conservative kinsman.

  “It is not the first occasion you have lured me into infamy.” Nickolas shrugs. For some unaccountable reason, Jamal’s uninhibited sense of adventure often overrides Nickolas’ better judgment.

  Ignoring the byplay between the cousins, Fletcher pursues, “Yet the challenger might have prevailed had you not cried foul.”

  Fletcher has liked the Blooded Dagger protégé from first acquaintance, as impressed by Nickolas’ dedication to the warrior code as he is amused by Nickolas’ rigid adherence to convention. Now Fletcher cannot resist. “You protested against your own gain?”

  “I protested corruption; we all gain by its eradication,” Nickolas returns stiffly.

  “Cousin, peace,” Jamal interrupts. “This was intended to cheer you. As it has not, let us find a better-quality Indulgence. I hear the new one in the River Quarter has a dark-of-night erotic entertainment that should not be missed. What say you?”

  “Jamal—” Nickolas begins to deny his cousin, but weariness suddenly weighs heavy on his shoulders. In the sevenday since Lucius’ reprimand over Martin’s training-chamber brawl with Lilian, Nickolas’ pain at Monsignor’s injustice has not eased. Until Roger kicked the fallen Lilian, Nickolas thought it naught but a routine taunting. He acted swiftly once the situation was clear. Nickolas’ sense of righteousness does not alter the fact that Lucius somehow expected more. Now, all Nickolas wishes is his bed and the comfort of sleep.

  “Erotic? I would view it,” Fletcher interrupts insistently. “Come, let us be off.”

  And with that, Nickolas finds himself caught between his cousin’s enthusiasm and that of Fletcher. And truly, at its worst, the entertainment will be populated by lovely and skilled doxies, all of whom will be available for private attendance after the entertainment.

  Declining Fletcher’s offer of transport, Nickolas settles in next to Jamal in the sleek transport that is his cousin’s pride and joy. Noting that Jamal’s eyes narrow as Fletcher pulls up next to them, Nickolas pleads, “Jamal, no challenges. Fletcher moon races.”

  “A moon racer? Truly?” Jamal laughs delightedly. “This will be enjoyable.”

  With that Jamal sends the transport careening through the narrow alleys of the Refinery District, determined to outpace the moon racer in his even-sleeker transport before they reach the major roadways. Jamal is not intimidated by the notion that Fletcher’s moon-racer reflexes may be superior to his. Jamal owns no doubt that Fletcher’s transport will outstrip his on a straightaway.

  The head start avails Jamal naught. As soon as they turn on to Metricelli Boulevard, the major east–west transport way, Fletcher shoots into
the lead, reaching and crossing Jonathan Avenue in a matter of moments. In heated pursuit, Jamal approaches the major north–south transport way and the demarcation between the Refinery District and the Garden Center without slowing, despite the rapidly increasing boundary warnings.

  “Rimon’s Mercy! Ease off, Jamal,” Nickolas implores even as he knows it is useless. With a burst of speed, Jamal shoots through the intersection a breath before the boundary closes.

  Up ahead, Fletcher’s transport disappears as it turns right into the River Quarter. With a burst of speed, Jamal follows, only to be forced to slow at the turn to avoid a small and happily staggering group that has entered the transitway.

  “Jonathan’s Justice!” Jamal profanes as he waits impatiently while Fletcher shoots ahead to the Indulgence.

  “Jonathan’s Justice, indeed,” Nickolas smiles at his cousin. “As first to arrive, Fletcher will be compelled to pay the table fee for us.”

  With a small chuckle, Jamal moves the transport forward. “It is not a small fee. The entertainment is popular and exclusive.”

  Dark Pleasures has been the talk of the Serengeti protégés since it opened shortly before the rains, the routine downpours ensuring custom as those compelled to remain indoors seek distraction. As Nickolas follows their well-curved escort through the elegant chambers for dining and wager games, he briefly notes a few familiar faces and politely shakes off gestures to join several groups. At the moment, the quiet anonymity of a darkened booth is more appealing than the camaraderie of the wager stations.

  The main entertainment chamber is dimly lit, with booths and tables circling the shadowed stage. Reaching a curved booth fronting the stage, the curvy escort reveals impressive cleavage as she bows to indicate their table. Within the booth, Fletcher is draped casually in the center with one of the best views in the house.

  Mouth quirking in a half grin, Nickolas slides in on one side and Jamal takes the other. It required a hefty tip as well as a table fee to command this position. A moment later, an escort as well muscled as the first was voluptuous sets a tray in front of the trio.