by E G Manetti
Exiting the riser at the thirty-fifth storey, Lilian makes her way to milord’s commerce suite, her feet carrying her on the well-known path without conscious thought. The luxury of the top level of headquarters no longer astounds her, the poured-gold Blooded Dagger Cartouche that marks the lintel of milord’s commerce suite as familiar as the scarlet conservator’s seal that hangs from her belt. With a practiced gesture Lilian adjusts the gold warbelt so that the clasp lock dangles in the hollow of her right hip, the seal in the center. Three pea-sized rubies, a Vistrite gem, and one Mercium are arrayed between. Warm from contact with her body, the belt and its ornaments reassure her of milord’s trust and protection.
Eighth bell begins to chime as Lilian passes through the reception area to the scarlet door of milord’s office. At the fourth chime, she crosses the threshold, seeking and finding milord behind his ebony desk, the sleek expanse more than sufficient to support Lilian’s frame during the act of passion. I am the sum of my ancestors. Lilian banishes the wayward thought as she comes to attention.
Milord’s dark eyes are sharp with intellect, his broad shoulders extending the width of his scarlet leather chair. Not conventionally handsome, his stern features are softened by warm olive skin and the thick dark hair that falls to his nape. Tall, virile, he is the most compelling man Lilian has ever encountered, an errant sentiment she keeps locked in the vault of her reserve to avoid shaming them both.
Lucius dislikes the appearance of his apprentice. He has not cared for it for days. He thought that when the Despoiler interrogations ceased she would recover. After two sevendays, naught has changed. Her trim form has dropped weight to an unhealthy degree and her athletic grace lacks the vibrant energy he finds entrancing. The black suit of a Blooded Dagger apprentice accents her pallor. The severe warrior queue that binds her dark red hair reveals a face tight with tension. The sculpted features are sharpened by fatigue, her red-rimmed eyes sunk in shadows. The battle was brutal, the Despoiler interrogations worse. It is possible the horrors have robbed her of slumber.
Five Warriors take the apprentice protocol. The woman needs rest. Rising from behind his desk, Lucius leads Lilian to the scarlet sofa. “Do you slumber?”
Her gray eyes widen in confusion. “Milord?”
“At night, are you able to find sleep?”
Lilian’s fingers rub her conservator’s seal in a familiar sign of discomfort. “I . . . yes, milord. For the most part.”
“What are you not voicing?”
Her fingers clench on the seal. “I wake bells before dawn and sleep will not return.”
“Are you troubled by evil dreams?” It would not be unusual in the aftermath of battle. After the pirate actions, his slumber was troubled for more than three years. There are yet occasional nights when the dark dreams return. “Master Medic Chin can provide soothing potions.”
“No, milord.” Lilian shakes her head. “While I keep the thorn under my pillow, I rarely suffer evil dreams.”
At her words, he nods, recalling her practice to sleep with the ancient three-sided blade. Her personal blade is a shrine relic and a powerful talisman small enough to comply with the stricture that allows commoners to carry a personal blade of no more than six inches. “What then?”
“I know not.” Lilian’s shoulders sag. “My mind wakes and refuses to slumber.” She lifts her chin. “It is not all ill. I am able to use the bells to advance the work on the Bright Star decision trials and code that was neglected since the battle.”
Sliding an arm around her shoulders, Lucius gathers Lilian close. The first stellar exploration venture in two centuries, Bright Star is critical to the advancement of his ambitions and the future of the Twelve Systems. The neglected tasks must be completed by the time they reach Fortuna and there is less than a month before they depart. Nonetheless, even Lilian’s formidable abilities have limits. “A mind dulled by fatigue will err. If you cannot slumber, I will have Chin provide his potions.”
»◊«
Adelaide’s grace. Lilian frowns at her slate, ignoring the associates filing into the governors’ review chamber around her. They have but a few moments before the Bright Star review begins. With Lilian engaged in the Despoiler investigation, it fell to Blythe to complete the work on the final algorithm for the advanced decision trial, and she has failed. “This is ill.”
“I am sorry.” Blythe bites her lip, bright red rising beneath her freckles and reaching the roots of the strawberry-blonde coronet. Around them, the governors’ conference chamber is beginning to fill.
Five Warriors take it. It has been half a year. Blythe should have better control of her emotions and expression. “If one of rank sees that blush, they will assume fault.”
“I am sorry,” Blythe repeats, pressing her lips together and attempting a neutral expression.
I am the foundation of my family. Lilian’s fatigue is making her unreasonable. Blythe achieved excellence in complexity analysis, not the mastery needed to complete this algorithm. In Lilian’s absence she did her best. Truly, if there is fault, it is in Blythe’s academic mentor. The master scholar of Rimon Prime University refused to participate without extracting an extravagant contract from Seigneur Marco. If Blooded Dagger were not so beset between the aftermath of battle and the Fortuna preparations, the seigneur would have sought out another expert. “You are not at fault.”
Blythe’s cornflower-blue eyes brighten, and the flush fades. A few months older than Lilian, Marco’s apprentice seems eons younger. Some of that youth is due to features that hold sweetness and no guile, and some to years spent in a Second System backwater followed by the sheltered existence of a scholar’s academic assistant. Only her full figure testifies to her twenty-six years. For the most part, Blythe’s inexperience and sweetness arouse Lilian’s protective instincts. This day, she finds it trying.
Honor is my blade and shield. Irritation will not resolve the problem. Lilian turns to the algorithm, scanning the errors. “It is not so bad. The corrections will require no more than a sevenday.”
“But we are supposed to start the multiple-participant trial. How will we manage to have both ready by Fortuna?”
“We will not.” Lilian raises her eyes from the slate, irritation fading with the solution to their dilemma. “The scholar can make the corrections. Seigneur Marco’s terms were more than generous.”
“Oh.” Blythe’s eyes widen. “I should have thought of that. Seigneur Marco ratified the contract this past Third Day. Seigneur will be pleased to receive value for the payments.”
Lilian bites back a waspish reply about bribery overcoming the scholar’s scruples. Before Seigneur Marco’s intervention, the scholar refused to discuss his complexity and chaos models with Gariten’s tainted offspring. This day. Dwelling on the scholar’s disdain serves no purpose. “If we start by first day to come, we will have enough done on the group decision trial to demonstrate on Fortuna.”
“A group entertainment, Conservator?” Seigneur Aristides takes the seat next to Lilian, waving her back to hers. An inch or so taller than Lilian, Seigneur Aristides is a slender whippet of man. His hazelnut complexion goes to dusk as it covers finely hewn features in which reside soft brown eyes. Lilian is not deceived. The perfectly groomed seigneur uses his casual elegance and easy manner to mask a sharp, manipulative mind.
With a murmured excuse, Blythe disappears into a corner to await Seigneur Marco. With the headquarters free of Despoilers and the cleansing of the Serengeti empire well underway, milord has focused his cartouche and cartel on advancing Bright Star. As media management seigneur, Seigneur Aristides is central to orchestrating support for the venture.
“I beg pardon, we were discussing the SEV1 decision trials,” Lilian says. “The individual trials prepare the officers and crew for their individual roles transiting the beaconless expanse. For success, a group trial is essential.”
Seigneur Aristides motions Douglas to join them. Seigneur Aristides’ former apprentice and Lilian’s f
riend, Douglas is a striking young man with a warrior’s build, rugged features accented by a blade of a nose, and bright green eyes. With a deferential half bow, Douglas takes the indicated chair while the seigneur continues. “If the individual trial could be an individual entertainment, why cannot we use the group trial for a group entertainment?”
“I had not considered it.” To Lilian’s surprise, milord’s fancy to use the SEV1 training exercise to create a popular entertainment has been well received. Several entertainment consortiums are vying for the rights.
“It would be a more lucrative venture than solo entertainment. It will also gather greater numbers of subscribers.”
Lilian has learned enough about entertainments to know that the more subscribers, the more popular the entertainment becomes. As the popularity of the entertainment increases, so does the opportunity for Bright Star to lure investors at favorable terms. Clever of Seigneur Salamander. Do not. Do not. That Maman covers her bedchamber walls with murals of the cartel elite in the guise of woodland creatures is not something known beyond their household and Sinead’s Shrine. Lilian wishes it to remain so, and she dare not allow her amusement at her mother’s portrayal of Seigneur Aristides as a salamander-shaped wizard lure her into a stricture violation.
Douglas shifts uncomfortably in his seat to Seigneur Aristides’ right. After three years standing to the left, it must be odd to sit and be on the right. “If Seigneur pleases? Most group entertainments feature competition. One that is cooperative would be new. Would reaching the Thirteenth System be sufficient excitement?”
“A race, perhaps?” After a moment, Seigneur Aristides shakes his head. “Not exciting enough.”
Although it seems strange to Lilian that there could be aught more exciting than racing to the uncharted system with the Five Warriors, she suspects he is correct. “Joining the Five Warriors in exploring the galaxy would not be sufficient for my sister. Without demons, ghosts, or Servants of Anarchy to defeat, she considers it tame.”
“Servants of Anarchy are popular and appropriate adversaries for the Five Warriors.” Seigneur Aristides nods. “But few subscribes will wish the role.”
At the media management seigneur’s words, Lilian has the unpleasant experience of two thoughts attempting to manifest at once. Forcing her thoughts to march in line, Lilian masters the easier thought. “Seigneur, for solo entertainments, the game is the foe. Is it possible to make it so for a group entertainment? Is it essential that subscribers battle other subscribers?”
“I do not believe it has been tried. What do you suggest?”
“That the entertainment be developed to allow for an imbalance between those who subscribe to be the gallant SEV1 crew under the command of the Five Warriors and those who choose to be their Servant of Anarchy foes.” Dropping her voice, she says, “Seigneur Trevelyan might find it useful to investigate those lured by the Servant of Anarchy role.”
“Mistress Lilian, you have a devious mind.”
With so many Despoilers dead, they have no way of knowing how many they have missed. The upper levels of the cartel have been scrubbed clean, but the investigation is far from complete for the far-flung empire. Seigneur Trevelyan and Governor Moira would both find a list of Servant of Anarchy subscribers valuable. “My thanks, Seigneur. Although, as I recall my sister’s entertainment, those Servants of Anarchy had little in common with the foes of the Five Warriors.”
“A lack you could correct.”
Lilian’s expertise in the Five Warriors and their foes was invaluable in the interrogations, it also took her away from tasks she cannot neglect further.
“Have you the bells?” Douglas asks. “I beg pardon, Seigneur, but—”
“No, no. You are correct,” Seigneur Aristides says. “There must be others with sufficient knowledge. Lilian, who do you recommend?”
Relieved she can provide what is needed, Lilian replies, “Send to Dean Joseph at Mulan’s Temple. The Department of the Ancients contains excellent resources on the origins of the Five Warriors and the nature of the Servants of Anarchy.”
»◊«
The review proceeds as Lilian expected, Seigneur Marco outlining the schedule of events for the Fortuna voyage and hull launch, the financial status and projections, and the progress on the SEV1 construction. Much of the information is known to Lilian, and her mind wanders to the group decision trial and algorithms she must develop. Next to her, Seigneur Aristides rises, the movement rousing her from her internal landscape. The seigneur’s media management arrangements are intricate and designed to portray Serengeti as the noble continuation of the Five Warriors’ commitment to Order and the eradication of Anarchy. At the governors’ table milord is relaxed, his eyes sharp as he evaluates the seigneur’s design and its impact on both investor and public opinion.
From his place by the reviewer, Seigneur Aristides glances at Lilian, a hint of discomfort marring his habitual charm. “Monsignor, there has been a recent development. We have begun countermeasures, but they will take some time to achieve results.”
“Countermeasures?” Milord straightens, eyes narrowing. “What ill is this?”
“One of Rimon’s Prelates has denounced Bright Star. He claims that canons forbid exploring the area of the expanse that holds the Thirteenth System.”
Milord scowls. “Rimon? That is preposterous. Rimon’s Lord Prelate supports Bright Star.”
“Rimon’s Keeper Kyndel reports the Lord Prelate has privately rebuked Newton but does not wish to draw more attention to the matter with a public repudiation,” Seigneur Aristides replies. “At the moment, I agree. Our countermeasures will turn Newton and his followers into a jest, but not if his lunacy is given weight by a formal acknowledgement from the Lord Prelate.”
“Lunacy? What exactly does Newton claim?”
“As to that,” Aristides glances at Lilian, “I have a media stream from yesterday.”
A rotund man of average height and garbed in Rimon’s vestments holds forth in the center of a warrior ring. At a guess, Newton holds fifty years, his round face unlined and topped with thin, light brown hair. He would be nondescript if it were not for his flashing black eyes and the energy that explodes from him as he rants. “Rimon’s interdiction must stand. Serengeti must discard the scarlet whore of anarchy or she will lead them to doom. Bright Star is a black hole. Rimon will smite them all. Socraide’s Shade is misled. Darkness comes with this venture.”
The chamber is tomb silent. Lilian fixes her gaze on the now-dark reviewer, aware that all in the chamber know that Newtown refers to her. The reference to milord as Socraide’s Shade is also unmistakable. Newton truly is a lunatic to publicly challenge milord’s commerce judgment.
“Lunatic indeed to believe we will overlook such calumny.” Milord echoes her thoughts. “What are your countermeasures? Once Newton is discredited, Rimon’s Lord Prelate will permit me my will.”
“For the moment, the media considers the Newtonites a jest,” Seigneur Aristides replies. “We will play on that. There will be a series of seemingly unrelated media programs revisiting the laughable rogue prelates of the past and the outcomes of their madness.”
Milord considers Seigneur Aristides over steepled fingers. “Good, but not enough. Newton or one of his followers may attempt to fulfill his prophecy by sabotaging the hull launch. Make it known that security will be exhaustive and that there will be a respectful but unswerving commitment to the safety of the SEV1 launch visitors. None who would put the visitors or the launch at risk will be tolerated, no matter the guise in which they appear.”
“As Monsignor voices. It is also essential that none of Serengeti or Bright Star acknowledge Newton in any way. It will only draw attention to him. It would be useful if the Rimon devoted among the consortium partners were very public in their devotions for the next month.”
»◊«
A light mist clouds the two-storey windows of milord’s office and obscures the vista of the cityscape and the Garden Center, th
e view as dismal as Lilian’s mood. Milord has said naught since they left the Bright Star review and has shown no interest in using the midday respite for the indulgence of passion. Instead, he settled them in the causal seating area, where he has been lost in thought for almost a quarter period.
With milord distracted, Lilian reaches for her slate. Newton’s rant struck a chord. It is as she suspected, the terms whore of anarchy and certain doom are prevalent among the threatening correspondence of the past sevenday. Lilian does not know if she should be relieved or concerned. Newton’s outcry against Bright Star began soon after the battle and has been gaining momentum for a sevenday. It is unlikely Newton and his followers have aught to with the Despoilers, but that does not mean the Newtonites will not act on their threats.
The quiet hiss of the door recessing announces Mistress Marieth’s arrival with the tea tray. The regal woman says naught as she transfers the tea and small bites from the cart to the low table in the center of the casual seating area. By now, the entire cartel knows of Newton’s rants, his slander of milord, and Lilian’s part in it.
Honor endures. Lilian raises her eyes to the executive servitor, bracing for an eyebrow lifted in censure. There is naught but the executive servitor’s customary cool detachment. As Mistress Marieth exits, Lilian collects the pot and prepares milord’s tea, adding precise amounts of citrus and honey.
Accepting the tea, milord frowns. “What ill is this?”
“Milord?” Lilian stares into the teacup. It is as milord prefers it.
Setting aside the tea, milord picks up her slate. “This. What do you?”