“Yes, sir!” The receptionist sat down and punched the button on an intercom. “Karen, please come to the front desk.”
Within moments a young woman wearing a senior Warrior Weaver apprentice badge appeared. “Master Tristan! A pleasure, sir!”
“Can you escort Master Tristan to the office on level five?”
Karen smiled. “Yes, sir. This way.” She punched a code into a security panel on the back wall and part of the wall slid open. “Blast proof,” she said casually. “When we heard you were assigned to Winged Victory we were hoping you would stop by the offices before you shipped out.” They stepped onto a lift. “I’m so sorry about Alden. I trained with him when I was on Earth. He was a good man.”
“He was.”
They stepped out of the elevator onto a floor decorated in soothing greens and browns, giving it the feeling of a park or forest. Karen led him down the hall and through another security door, this one opened onto a large office. There was a large desk and chair, an impressive array of computer monitors and a sideboard sparkling with bottles.
“Can I get you anything, sir?”
“I’d like some spiced tea, and bring coffee for General Muher, he will be here within the hour.”
“General Muher?” Karen gasped. “The General Muher?”
“As far as I know there is only one,” Tristan replied as he sat down at the desk. “Will you escort him up when he arrives?”
“Yes, sir, and I will get that tea right now, sir!”
Tristan nodded and waited for her to leave before powering up the computer and punching in the secure codes to contact Brian Rhoads. While he waited for the Guild Master to answer, he watched the people in the street below, mostly civilians, but there were some Naval and Weaver uniforms as well.
“Tristan!” Brian boomed over the connection. “What’s going on up there? I’ve already gotten one report from Darius.”
“I don’t know, Brian, I was hoping you might have heard something.”
“There are rumors of rumors, a lot of finger pointing and a few dragons so angry they look like a puffball factory exploded.” Rhoads laughed, but Tristan could hear the worry in the laugh. “There’s a group calling itself Galactic Freedom that took responsibility for the bombing of a cargo ship destined for Victory yesterday. “
“And the others?”
“Different groups.”
“That’s not helpful,” Tristan grumbled. “Things aren’t rosy onboard either.” He proceeded to bring the Guild Master up-to-date on what was happening on the Victory and what Riggan, the Air Weavers and Barrett had told him.
“Sir, General Muher is here,” Karen said as Tristan was closing the connection with Rhoads.
“Send him in, please.”
Muher strode into the office and sat in the chair across from him, waiting while Karen placed a cup of coffee in front of him. He watched her go, then turned to Tristan with a wink. “She likes me.”
“Hero worship is different than ‘likes you’, you know.”
“I know, more’s the pity,” Muher said with a sigh. Taking a drink of his coffee, he looked up at Tristan. “We are neck deep in a pit of vipers, aren’t we?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been doing a little poking and prodding around and there is a lot of unrest on the ship. The lower decks are close to revolution for some reason—and not against the Navy that pressed them, but against the Guild and Dragon. They are the ones who prevented Fenfyr from helping yesterday when the plating blew.” He leaned back. “And Shearer and I had a good, long look at that and, I am sure you won’t be surprised, that it was no accident. It was a small shaped charge. Really good work too. Maximum damage with minimum explosive used.”
“Why?” Tristan asked.
“Shearer thinks it’s one of those ‘Save the Vermin’ groups. I think they were trying to take out the sails.” He frowned. “They were a little sloppy and that’s why it didn’t work. Whoever set them expected the sail to catch about ten feet lower than it did. If it had been the mainmast we would have been without sails, because as you know, once the willowisps catch they blast apart like fluff in a string wind. Lucky for us, they—whoever they are—screwed up.”
“Are you sure? Why would they be after the sails?”
“Well if it’s the STV idiots, they just want to stop us from making war on the poor, poor Vermin. I think we should introduce them to a survivor someday. If it’s someone else, I don’t know. I’ve heard rumors. You know the dragons suspect that the Navy has Vermin tech and plans to use it.”
“How would destroying the sails…?”
“Don’t ask me. There is something wrong on that ship. Fenfyr was down at that lower hatch, sniffing away. He said it smells wrong and then took off to talk to Darius. I asked for entry and was told there was no atmo. I pointed out there were plenty of Air Weavers and was told it was storage for a new weapon, poison to humans.”
“So which is it?” Tristan asked.
“I have no idea.” Muher set the cup down. “I heard you took Stemmer’s servant.”
“Yes.”
“He hates you, you know, maybe not specifically, but at least in general.”
“Riggan?” Tristan was confused.
“No, Stemmer. He was acquitted because the witnesses against him disappeared, but he was originally a suspect in the Stars Plot.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Tristan said.
“Yes. We need to keep you alive, and they damned near killed you last time.”
“They tried to take out the whole Guild Council,” Tristan said defensively.
“Right, they did, but that didn’t work, and as near as we can tell, they have one target now.”
“Who?”
“You.”
Tristan laughed. “Why would they kill the only person that can fly their ship?”
“Because they don’t need you? Remember they made the run at Alden first. You’re next. They have someone lined up to step in—or at least that’s our best guess. One of my men who spends time in the less savory parts of our worlds reported that some Navy-types were looking for Rogue Weavers. Thinking about that, I heard that Alden left the Dragon Compound and disappeared. Do you think he would go Rogue?”
Tristan opened his mouth to tell Muher about his conversation with the Warrior Weaver, then stopped. The fewer people who knew what was going on, the better, in fact, he didn’t see anything wrong with fanning the flames a little. “He might. He was angry when I saw him, he wouldn’t be assigned to another ship for a long time.”
“But he was second…”
Shrugging, Tristan straightened some papers and sighed. “He is a proud man, and his craft was everything. I can’t see him trapped, unable to fly, so he might find a way to achieve that.” That much was true.
“It’s a pity to lose a man like that to the Rogues.”
“It is, hopefully he will come to his senses and come back to the fold,” Tristan said earnestly, wondering just what Alden was up to. If he was missing, he might already be working his way onto a ship. “What does Darius say about it?”
“Darius? He said ‘you humans are usually annoying.’ That was all I got.”
“The dragons aren’t always helpful.”
“No. We should get back to the ship before it gets late. They plan on sending out a pressgang tonight. It would be a good excuse to make a run at you.”
“Fine, give me a few minutes to finish this report and we can head back to the ship.”
“Okay by me,” Muher said, picking up his coffee and putting his feet on the desk.
When they left the Guild offices, Tristan could sense a different atmosphere in the crowds. Instead of the easy bustle of shoppers, now the area seemed to be full of people moving out of the area as quickly as possible. He could tell Muher was on edge, the man’s hand was hovering near his sidearm as they walked through the crowds. Most of the civilians smiled and moved out of their way. A few actually st
opped and thanked them for their service—a new experience for Tristan—but most seemed intent on leaving and getting out of the district.
They were halfway down the long wide boulevard when Tristan heard screams. Instinctively he turned towards them, meaning to go help, only to find himself stopped by Muher. “Don’t be a fool,” the general said.
Tristan nodded and kept going, trying to ignore the screams that were becoming more common the closer they got to the Naval docks. The Winged Victory did not need that many more crew members, so the pressgangs must be looking for crew for any of the ships that were currently in dock. A young woman was kneeling on the pavement, blood spilling over her shirt. Tristan clenched his fists in frustration. He wanted to help, but he knew that it could be a trap. He’d seen it when he was young, a member of the pressgang would be injured and then wait for a potential victim to come, by the time the victim realized it was a trap, it was too late.
“Where are you going?” a deep voice growled from the dark to their left.
“Back to our ship, back off,” Muher snapped.
“Now, maybe we don’t think we believe you.”
“I don’t care,” the general said, his hand still over his as yet holstered sidearm.
“We’re thinking maybe you should come along with us.”
“No.” Muher drew his gun, but a chain snapped out of the dark and wrapped around his wrist. Tristan heard the crunch as bones broke.
“Now,” the man said, stepping from the shadows with three other men. “Let’s discuss this like gentlemen.”
“No,” Tristan said.
“And you’re going to stop us, Warrior? We aren’t frightened of your kind, we’ve pressed a few of you, too.”
“I doubt that.” Tristan forced a cold smile. He would have to get that bit of information back to the Guild as soon as possible.
“It’s true. We’ve taken them and sold them to the highest bidder more than once.”
“You’re slavers?” Muher said in surprise.
“Who’d you expect, that namby-pamby pressgang working the shopping mall? No, we came after something we could sell, something of value and him…” He pointed at Tristan. “Him would bring a good price. Warriors always do.”
“You made a mistake with this one,” another voice said softly.
“And why is that,” the slaver said, still focused on Tristan and Muher.
“Because this Warrior is my friend,” the voice continued.
“I’d listen to him,” Tristan said, grinning.
“Why?”
“Because,” Fenfyr said, stepping into their line of sight, “I am a lot bigger than you and you look very tasty?” The slavers started backing away. “I alerted the Corps patrol, they should be… Here they are now.”
Five men in Dragon Corps uniforms pulled up next to them in one of the electric cars they used for transportation on the station. Four of them go out with guns levels on the slavers. One of them headed towards Tristan and Muher with a first aid kit in his hand. He checked Muher and made sure Tristan hadn’t been hurt then turned towards the slavers. “You will be coming with us.”
“No.” The slavers were trying to get away.
“I’ll bring them,” Fenfyr said happily.
“No tasting on route,” Tristan said, smiling at the dragon.
“Yeah, yeah, no tasting makes it hard to torture.” The dragon sighed, a huge whuff of grapefruit-scented air whipped around them. “I will be back on the ship as soon as I dispose of these men.” The dragon’s eyes were glinting. “Less than an hour.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“We’ll escort you, sirs. Just to make sure you get on the ship okay, and the general gets to sickbay safely,” one of the men, wearing Master Sergeant’s stripes, said. “Sorry, we heard the slavers were out, we never guessed they would come after you!”
Tristan got into the back of the transport. So, the Dragon Corps knew about the slave trade? Or was it only on this station? He needed to get a hold of the Guild and Darius again, everywhere he turned, things seemed to take a new twist. He was still deep in thought when they reached the gangway for the ship. Tristan headed up, and managed to get onboard without being piped on. He went to his cabin and Muher was taken to sickbay.
Riggan was waiting with a pot of tea. “I heard what happened, sir.”
“How?”
“The only thing faster than light, sir, is gossip. Are you injured?”
“No,” Tristan said, stripping off his jacket. Riggan took it and hung it in the closet. “General Muher was, they broke his wrist.”
Pouring the tea, Riggan made a tsking noise. “They’re getting bolder. They always go out on nights when the pressgangs are out, that way no one’s the wiser.”
“How common are they?” Tristan asked, sinking into the comfortable chair by the stern gallery door.
“More common than they once were. They ‘recruit’ for all kinds of people, the mines, the cargo-haulers, the pirates, sometimes even the Navy will buy one or two, depending on what they’ve got.”
“The Navy? Surely they don’t need to purchase crew with the pressgangs?”
“No, but they purchase, um, entertainment, sir.”
“Oh,” Tristan said. He sipped his tea. “So most people know about the practice?”
“No, I didn’t say that, sir. There are officers on ships with slaves who never know that there are slaves amongst them. The slave quarters are in the parts of the ship where the officers don’t go, or they are moved during inspection. The slaves are kept off the fighting decks, so when they sweep for the guns the slaves won’t be discovered.”
“Riggan?”
“Sir?”
“Does this ship have slaves?”
“Not yet, sir, no.”
“Well, that’s something.” Tristan put his feet up and waited until he heard the rumble of Fenfyr on the stern gallery.
When the dragon put his head through the door Tristan sighed in relief, feeling safe for the first time all day.
XII
The decks were alive with activity when Tristan walked out onto the quarterdeck from his cabin the next morning. As Weaver, his cabin both opened to the corridor below the deck and had a set of steps that led directly to the quarterdeck. It allowed him quick access to the Elemental Interface when needed. It also allowed him to come and go quietly if he wanted to. Watching the men clean the decks, he tried to relax, they were raising the masts in less than an hour, and it was an activity that was perilous, even on tiny sailing vessels.
“Good morning, sir,” Barrett said.
“Good morning, Mr. Barrett. How goes it?”
“We are on schedule for the masts, sir, and should be set to sail when you are ready this afternoon.”
“Very good, Mr. Barrett.” Tristan paused, considering the wisdom of what he was about to do. “I am having the Air Weavers and General Muher to dine in my cabin this evening, will you join us?”
Barrett beamed at him. “Yes, sir!”
Tristan smiled and leaned against the Interface housing. It was merely a pedestal with a number of computer inputs on it for the time being. He would connect the Elemental Interface right before the ship sailed. He could see Shearer calmly directing the men, even though he could sense a level of tension around him. The crew was worried, and judging but Riggan’s morning report, even more convinced the ship was haunted than ever. After the near loss of their Weaver to slavers and a member of the crew found dead by the soldered hatch, their mutterings were becoming outright complaints. The general consensus was that the masts were going to fall through the bottom of the hull and expose them all to space so quickly that the Air Weavers couldn’t save them.
“Barrett!” Stemmer stormed onto the quarterdeck, ignoring Tristan. “You need to check that mess on the mainmast crosstrees. The sails are a disaster.”
The first officer cast a glance at Tristan. “Sir?”
“The sails, they are in such a state I doubt we
can raise the masts at all,” Stemmer said.
“What is wrong with the sails?” Tristan said, stepping forward.
The captain turned on him with a growl, and Tristan realized the man hadn’t noticed him, rather than purposefully ignored him. “Your sails are a mess, Weaver.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, walking towards the steps that led to the main deck. Some of the men paused to watch as he headed towards the main hatch to below deck. He could hear the captain berating Barrett, and everyone was pointedly ignoring them. When he reached the hatch, Shearer was there, waiting for him.
“Sir?” the boatswain asked as he walked up.
“The captain said there is an issue with the sails on the mainmast. I was going to see what was wrong.”
The other man frowned. “I hadn’t heard. I’ll come with you.” He swung open the hatch and led the way to the lift. “I heard about the attack last night, sir. We never expected that slavers would come after you and the general.”
“You know about them?”
“If you are around the stations long enough, you hear about them. I’ve been sailing for years. It was five years before I heard about them. They do fly under cover a lot of the time.” The lift doors opened. “Have you been in the lower decks before?”
“No.” Tristan opened his mouth to elaborate, but changed his mind.
The corridor was lit with bright industrial lights, quite different from the decks that housed the crew. Tristan could hear the sounds of work going on all around them, the clank of metal on metal, voices raised in song and others shouting orders. Unlike the upper decks, these decks had the massive masts, crosstrees and sails barring their way. Shearer led Tristan on a walkway over the crosstrees for the mizenmast, as they crossed Tristan looked down towards the bottom of the ship. He could see the soft sparkles of the willowisps reflecting on something—then realized he was seeing the shine of a dragon. Stopping for a minute, he bent to get a better look. Two dragons. He recognized Fenfyr, with him was a dragon that shone a soft red in the light of the sails.
The Sail Weaver Page 10