FLETCHER

With the Thirteenth System secured, Fortuna and Fort Rimon are increasingly critical to both the Bright Star consortium and the Serengeti Group. The stellar transport construction fields are projected to double in the next five years, as is the Fourth System demand for vistrite and its synthetic alternative, mercium. It will take the combined resources of all three Serengeti cartouches—Blooded Dagger, Grey Spear, and Iron Hammer—to meet the anticipated demand. ~ excerpt from Serengeti Bright Star Strategic Plan, Serengeti archives

Fletcher stared at the bowl of steaming cereal. Redolent of spices and laden with nutrients and protein, it should have stirred his appetite. Instead, he felt no tinge of hunger, no desire to pick up the spoon.

His twin was a few inches shorter than Fletcher, but they shared dark hair, dark eyes, and chestnut skin tones. His well-defined features were echoed in hers, but Brianne’s narrower chin gave her a pixie-like air, her gentle curves and lithe grace suited her serene manner.

She and his parents had arrived on Fortuna the day before Fletcher and the Nightingale reached Fort Rimon. After a sevenday, duty called his parents back to commerce, but Brianne remained and rarely left his side. It was her distress, reaching through the twin bond, that had finally pulled him from gray space.

For the two days since waking, he had drifted in and out of slumber. When wakeful, he had been plied with fruit juice and then dense protein smoothies. The healing enclosures had kept him alive but could only do so much to provide sufficient calories and nutrients in the absence of solid food. The evening gone he complained about both the blandness and lack of solidity. Now, he regretted his complaint.

Master Medic Chin spoke from the doorway. “Without solid food, you will not regain your lost mass or be able to build the strength to endure surgery.”

The notion of alloy limbs was disquieting, but the sight of half a body was repulsive. With dogged commitment, Fletcher raised the spoon to his mouth and forced down a mouthful.

Brianne held the mirror up, allowing Fletcher to check his appearance. The medic’s aide had removed the scruff from his chin but there was little to be done with the half inch of stubble that covered his scalp, his shoulder-length ebony locks shaved away by the medics. Nor was there anything to be done about his gaunt and pallid features. Shaking his head, Fletcher used his remaining hand to pull the light blanket more securely over his left shoulder. It could not hide the absence of a limb, but at least he was not displaying an empty tunic sleeve.

According to Master Chin, Monsignor Elenora, Iron Hammer Preeminence, had visited Fletcher more than once while he was in gray space. Had it not been for Fletcher’s resistance, she would have returned as soon as he woke. It was a testament to the medic’s rank and courage that he had held her off until Fletcher was strong enough to receive her while sitting. It was on the tip of his tongue to reply in the affirmative, but it would not serve. “I doubt that Monsignor Elenora will wish to discuss aught that is within security-privilege, but it would be awkward if I am mistaken.”

The door had not closed on Brianne when the monsignor swept in, accompanied by Seigneur Kemeha, Fletcher’s mentor when he was a protégé.

Monsignor’s sharp eyes swept over Fletcher, her habitually severe expression softening. “You are much improved.” With a sharp nod, she took Brianne’s abandoned chair. “Your courage in battle has brought honor to you and our cartouche. Your sacrifice in defending Monsignor Lucius will not go unrecognized. Rest assured, Iron Hammer will spare no expense to see you fully restored and returned to cartouche service.”

In a rare display of affection, Seigneur Kemeha squeezed Fletcher’s right shoulder. Iron Hammer’s Bright Star seigneur, he was a stocky man of average height with heavy square features, and dark eyes. A few strands of silver in his mahogany curls testified to his six decades. “Your valor has earned an honorable discharge from the Nightingale’s service.”

Monsignor’s expression lifted. “It has also earned you elevation to master associate. When you are well enough, the contract awaits your review.”

Master associate. Even for a warrior of Fletcher’s rank, the elevation was years before he could have earned it through routine commerce. If he were not already heir to his uncle’s signet, he would be able to apply for his own within a decade. He should be thrilled but he would trade it all to retain his lost limbs.

The still flame is power contained. The opening stanza of Mulan’s contemplation steadied him. Somehow, he would survive this, but the ambitions he had once held so dear rang hollow.

Teeth gritted, hand slippery with sweat, Fletcher clung to the hanging bar, heaving his shoulders and then torso from the bed.

The forge flame strengthens and shapes. Exhaling with the mental recitation of Mulan’s contemplation, Fletcher’s return to a prone position was more a controlled fall than lowering. Releasing the bar, he wiped his palm on the bed linen.

Fletcher could not decide which was worse, the trembling in his muscles from such minor exercise or the trainer’s unrelenting cheerfulness.

The wild flame destroys and cleanses. Grasping the bar, he pulled up, ignoring the burn in his shoulder, biceps, and abdominals. Four more pull-ups later, and the trainer called a rest.

Fletcher swallowed a growl with his juice. The reminder that he was not strong enough to use the freshener was even more irksome than the trainer.

Fletcher could not decide what was worse, the forced good spirits of the Nightingale flyer pilots or the occasional fascinated glance at his left side, quickly averted. Only the paucity of their numbers kept at bay his envy of their sound bodies. Half the Nightingale flyers had lost their lives in the battle for the Thirteenth System.

Nickolas laughed at a weak jest and then brought the visit to a close. “The master medic was adamant that we remain no more than a half period.”

Nickolas dropped into the nearest chair. “Your friends care for you and wish you soon recovered. All within the cartel and Bright Star wish the same.”

“I deny the pity. They grieve for your wounds as they grieve the fallen. As for the rest—” he shrugged. “What would you have of them? They wish to raise your spirits, not dwell on your wounds.”

The reasoned response left Fletcher feeling churlish. “For truth, I lack the energy to put on a bright façade. With you and Brianne, I need not dissemble, but with others . . .” he searched for words to explain. “Polite discourse is wearisome to a painful degree.”

Fletcher held in high regard the Serengeti seigneur who had oversight of the Bright Star consortium. Seigneur Marco was also close kinsman to Lucius Mercio. Fletcher could no more refuse him than he could refuse Monsignor Lucius. According to Master Chin, both Lucius Mercio and his consort, Lilian Thornraven, had visited while Fletcher was in gray space. He had expected they would return and found himself feeling slighted that Marco was sent instead.

The door chimed a warning and opened to admit Seigneur Marco and a slender woman of Iron Hammer. Dark haired, with black almond-shaped eyes set in delicate features and a golden complexion, Clarice Serengeti was a lovely woman of thirty. A former apprentice and now protégé to Serengeti’s legalistics seigneur, she was one of Lilian’s closest friends.

Sudden concern washed away Fletcher’s self-pity. Whatever brought Marco instead of the Blooded Dagger preeminence, it was naught of routine commerce, or he would not be attended by an Iron Hammer protégé.

Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with deep-olive skin, Marco was average height with a square build, heavy features, and a preference for the more dapper styles of commerce wear. His taste for the flamboyant did not hide his sharp intellect or ruthless nature. It was well known he had masterminded the formation of the Bright Star Consortium, ensuring that Lucius Mercio and Blooded Dagger controlled the enterprise.

When all were seated, Marco said, “First, on behalf of Monsignor Lucius, Blooded Dagger, and Serengeti, you have our eternal gratitude for protecting Monsignor even at the risk of your life. We praise the Five Warriors for your survival and vow that no expense will be spared to restore you to full health.”

The words were gracious, but the seigneur’s expression was that of a man under extreme stress. Summoning his honor, Fletcher inclined his head. “It was my duty and honor to serve Bright Star and Serengeti. Is Monsignor Lucius well?”

“Uninjured in the battle.” Marco’s expression darkened and he glanced over at Nickolas. “You did not speak?”

Shock stopped Fletcher’s breath. The brilliant young woman had designed the advanced training simulations used by the Nightingale crew. With them, she had envisioned every possible disaster and reduced the astronomical risk of the venture to manageable levels. Without her, they would never have reached the Thirteenth System. Without her bringing the free-trader fleet into the battle, they might have lost. “Who? Where? When?”

Marco shook his head. “Who, we do not know, but suspect despoilers. As to where and when—during the victory celebrations this past Seventh Day.”

Marco nodded. “Monsignor Lucius is beyond distressed. He has locked transit from the planet and searches every corner.”

Serengeti’s security-privilege seigneur and spymaster would leave no stone unturned. As his operatives, Lilian’s two closest friends in Blooded Dagger would be involved. Clarice, alone, was able to come to him on Lilian’s behalf.

Clarice nodded, “Know that all of us within Thornscore beseech the Five Warriors for your rapid recovery. It is Lilian’s will that if there is aught we can provide, it is yours.”

Fletcher recalled amusement when he learned the name of the enterprise Lilian founded with her cadre of former apprentices. The woman was notorious for her skill with the thorn—a small, three-sided dagger. A weapon he first saw her use a half decade gone at a festival brawl where he aided Lilian and her sister. If he was whole, he would join the search for Lilian. But he was not. “Please inform Monsignor Lucius that I will beseech the Five Warriors for his consort’s safe return. Although, if she retains her thorn, her captors face great danger.”

The banked flame is power hidden. Sweat streaming, his lungs, abdominal muscles, and shoulders burning, Fletcher crunched his torso toward his remaining thigh.

“Five. Hold for a three count.” The rehabilitation trainer’s voice grated on Fletcher’s nerves. “One. Two. Three. Relax.”

The still flame is power contained. Lowering his torso back to the mat, he gazed at the ceiling in dark amusement. Never had his deity’s prayer been more appropriate than with every muscle burning and trembling. Every remaining muscle. He counted to three and then rose into the final crunch.

Ignoring the perky count from his trainer, Fletcher held position until his vision blurred. Collapsed on the mat, he inhaled deeply, and then rolled to his side when coughing shook him.

His lungs were not damaged by the fireburst, but sevendays of inactivity had weakened them and reduced his lung capacity. Four sets of five crunches had taken almost a period. He was pathetic.

Grabbing his friend’s hand, Fletcher made it to his knees. Knee. Nickolas’ grip tightened and lifted, his other arm coming around Fletcher’s back. Fletcher’s balance wavered and then stabilized. If it were anyone other than Nickolas, it would gall Fletcher to need his support.

The medic’s chair moved into view, guided by Brianne. With an encouraging smile, she held the chair in place while, with Nickolas’ aid, he hopped a half-turn before dropping the final few inches.

Brianne handed him a towel to blot the sweat from his torso, bared but for the sealed dressing covering his left shoulder. On the right, Mulan’s dragonfly tattoo had survived unmarred. Only warriors wore their deity’s mark on their bodies. A reminder that they were bound to adhere to the standards of warrior honor and valor.

“If I do not press my limits, they will not expand. I should be able to do fifty without strain, and with my feet—foot raised.”

“The threshold for surgery is thirty with a planted foot.” The perky tone was back. “Mind my directions,” he chirped, wagging a finger, “and you will be through surgery and back on two feet in no time.”

Brianne must have sensed Fletcher’s impulse to break that wagging finger. She turned the chair, calling over her shoulder. “Thank you, Master Trainer. We must hasten. Fletcher has visitors.”

Brianne guided the chair into a riser while Fletcher frowned his displeasure. Other than Nickolas and Brianne, Fletcher wished for no more visitors other than his parents who were not expected for two more days. The riser opened into the corridor to Fletcher’s chamber. “Whoever it is, they can deal with my sweat stink. I will cleanse after.”

Nickolas flicked the back of Fletcher’s head. “Do not be surly. We would not have gone against your wishes if it were not important. It is Katleen.”

Nickolas nodded. “There is proof Lilian has been taken off planet. Until she is located, they can do more for Lilian at Serengeti Headquarters in the Third System than they can do here. They depart on the morrow.”

Fletcher’s chair cleared the chamber door, and a slender teenager hurtled toward him, red-gold curls flying. “Fletcher! I am so happy you are out of bed. I wanted to come sooner, but . . .” her smile faded, and she sent Nickolas an uneasy glance.

Twisting his lips in what he hoped was a welcoming smile, Fletcher said, “Well met Katleen. May the Five Warriors protect and defend your sister.”

She returned his smile with a tremulous one. “I am so sorry you were injured. I ordered this before Lilian—” Katleen swallowed and reached into her satchel to pull out a small silver box. “Here. It is an Eleventh System design. A phoenix.”

Clarice rose from a chair to tousle Katleen’s curls. Her pleasant expression offered no hint of whether she was as repulsed by his half-body as Fletcher was. “Allow Fletcher to open the gift.”

A blush suffusing her freckled cheeks, Katleen eased back, giving him space to maneuver the chair near the window. The eleven-year-old he rescued from a festival brawl five years gone had grown into a vibrant young woman.

The little box was hinged and opened with a flick of his thumb. A gold lozenge half the length of his index finger rested on silver silk, attached to a gold link meant for a belt or satchel strap. It was set with a violet stone, a golden starburst at its center.

A swirl of gold and violet exploded into a holograph of a bird that turned to flame and dissolved. Fascinated, he watched the bird reform before the holograph faded. It was a charming, if odd, gift. The violet stone was close in hue to the amethyst that was the primary color of the Iron Hammer Cartouche and Katleen adored all shades of purple. “A phoenix, you said?”

“It is from an Eleventh System myth. About rising from defeat stronger and renewed. It is where Captain Raleigh’s Phoenix Enterprises gets its name. Since the Phoenix Enterprises ospreys arrived at the eleventh hour to defeat the despoiler fleet, it has become a symbol of victory and good fortune.”

Fletcher rubbed the purple stone, its smooth surface cool and slick. Such a pretty fable. Fireburst had burned away half his body, but he would somehow become new again.

Katleen’s expression turned uncertain. “I thought . . . that is, I wanted you to know . . . the part about victory and good fortune.”

Fireballs. He was being churlish. None of this was the child’s fault and she sought to comfort him even though her sister was missing. “It is a wonderful gift.”

Clarice gave a bright laugh. The sound was as elegant as the woman. “It is a perfect gift. If I bird can rise from ashes, then Master Fletcher, a warrior of Mulan, will do no less.”

Ignoring the stab of loss at his Lieutenant honorific, Fletcher twirled the ornament in his fingers and forced another smile. “Like this remarkable bird. I will fly again.”

Clarice blinked against tears and swallowed hard when Katleen feathered a kiss against Fletcher’s brow. Five years gone, Clarice, along with Chrys, Rebecca, and Douglas had joined Lilian in defending eleven-year-old Katleen from festival drunkards. Unarmed against warriors with blades, Clarice and Rebecca did not expect to come out whole. Then Fletcher and Nickolas descended and routed the rabble, earning Clarice’s loyalty. At the time, Fletcher was a media darling—heir to a warrior signet, brilliant, charismatic, a renowned moon-racer, and Serengeti protégé.

In the intervening years they had been battle companions in open and stealth warfare against the despoilers. He had starred in many fantasies, but she was far too logical to mistake fantasy for reality. She had watched his affections wax and wane with a handful of lovely women. Fletcher was not profligate in his affections, but he did enjoy women.

Katleen gave a deep sigh as the door recessed. “He is fractured but will heal. Encourage him to cling to the phoenix. He must not lose hope.”

As bizarre as they sounded, Clarice knew better than to dismiss Katleen’s words. The child had been touched by the Fifth Warrior, as had her mother, Sinead’s seer. “Music? Color? What did you hear in his voice?”

“The bright magenta effervescence is gone, as are the cymbals.” There was sorrow in her expression. “Those bits will not return.”

“They will not return.” Katleen took a deep breath, her serene smile like her mother’s. “But the Five Warriors are gracious, Mulan even more so. What was lost will be replaced with something stronger. There are flecks of silver halfway between blade metal and platinum. And a hint of drums. The heavy ones of a saga, not the bright ones of a pageant.”

“I do not know how much longer Seigneur Herman and I will remain on Fortuna, or if Fletcher will allow me to visit again. But I will do what I can.”