The Sail Weaver

by Morrigan, Muffy

“What?”

  “The sails are shipping right now, you will be on Terra Secundus tomorrow, the ship will sail in three days.”

  “Um…” Tristan looked at them all, feeling stupid again. “What was that?”

  Fenfyr growled again.

  “We’re beating them at their own game. We are going to move the sailing of Winged Victory up by a full three weeks. Whatever they were planning will have to be stopped and something new started. It will give us time to figure out what is going on here, and you can get the ship out to the Rim, there was a Vermin attack last night. Terra Duodecimus was nearly destroyed. Luckily the frigate Surprise was there, they managed to stop the attack, but they can’t keep them away for long.”

  “So I leave when?” Tristan asked.

  “As soon as you talk to Alden. We will have your things packed, but wear the Warrior Weaver uniform when you ship out.”

  “Okay.” Tristan stood, feeling a little stunned. “I’ll go see Alden.”

  “Tris?” Fenfyr asked softly. “I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

  “Thanks,” he whispered back and walked out of the room.

  By contrast to the rest of the Dragon’s Compound, the small medical area reserved for humans was small, and sized for people. The cavern itself was even lower in height than the rest of the area. Dragons could come into the area, and occasionally did, but generally they left the care of humans to humans. Tristan stopped as he entered, the familiar smells triggering the memory of his own time there. After the bombing of the Guild Council the few who survived were brought to the dragons for protection. From a council of eighteen, there had only been three left. A group calling the act the Stars Plot claimed responsibility. The Guild and dragons had gone after them and discovered at least some of the guilty parties had been active-duty Naval officers. Tristan vaguely remembered when they first mentioned it to him. He had been gravely injured, the only thing that saved him was the fact that the huge granite council table had blocked him from part of the blast. Absently rubbing his leg, he swallowed back an upwelling of grief. With the exception of Brian Rhoads, he’d lost his closest friends and more. Miri, the Master Warrior, and his lover, had been killed, blown apart beyond recognition. Tristan cleared his throat and shoved the memory away. At least those responsible had paid for their crime.

  He enquired about Alden at security and was shown to a room at the back, deep in the recesses of the medical cave. After a quick rap on the door he walked in, only to stop momentarily in shock. The man he had known for years was gone and in his place was a broken human being. A patch covered one eye and the right arm was gone below the elbow.

  “Alden?” he asked softly as he walked towards the bed.

  The Warrior’s eye opened. “Sir.”

  Tristan grasped his hand. “No rank here, Alden.”

  “Thank you, si… Tristan.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I won’t get to fly your sails.”

  “Me too,” Tristan answered with a rueful grin.

  “Who did they pick to replace me?” Alden blinked, a tear leaking down his face.

  “Not replace, just fill your spot until you’re able to fly.”

  “The sails have to be attuned, you don’t have to feed me a line, I know the deal,” he said bitterly.

  “Not really, you don’t. I’m flying her maiden voyage.”

  “You?” The comical look on Alden’s face was a hint of the man Tristan had known before—haughty, sure of himself and a little disrespectful of authority.

  “Yes.” Tristan sighed. “It was Darius and the Guild’s choice. They want to catch the Navy off-guard.”

  Alden nodded, glancing around the room. “There is something going on, we all know it. I… I was thinking of a plan.”

  “Plan?”

  “I wanted to run it past you before I proposed it to Darius and Rhoads, sir.” The man was suddenly looking him in the eye, like he was gaging his response.

  “What is it?”

  “We need to know what’s going on, and we know there is a group of Rogue Weavers serving the Navy and others.”

  “The pirates.” Tristan couldn’t keep the disgust out of his voice.

  “Right, so I was thinking, when they release me from here—no one knows I’ve been here—I will ‘leave’ the Guild publically and join the Rogues.”

  Tristan considered the proposition. They had tried to infiltrate the Rogues many times, but their spies had always been discovered. “Why would they take you?”

  “You bastards let this happen to me. I can still fly and you dry dock me because of injuries sustained in the line of duty? Can you believe it?” Alden’s voice dripped with derision. Tristan stared at him in surprise, then relaxed when the man grinned at him. “I’ve been working on it.”

  “You would be a catch for them. They will want something—proof—to let you in though.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too, and I thought we could arranged a little faked intelligence I could take with me. Something that is ‘top secret’ that I took before I left.”

  “It could work.” Tristan mulled it over, considering the question from every angle. If Alden pulled it off, they would finally have a foot into the Rogues and a way to maybe break the group up. The fact that men and women he had trained were working for pirates deeply distressed Tristan and he took the Rogues’ offenses personally. “Talk to them about it. Tell them I am behind you one hundred percent.”

  The grin that lit Alden’s face traveled up to his eye. “I won’t let the Guild down. I support Guild and Dragon.”

  “Thank you.” Tristan squeezed the man’s hand. “Have someone let me know what’s going on.”

  “I will, sir, and thank you.”

  “No, thank you, Alden. You know what this means.” He saluted the Warrior with a smile and turned to leave.

  Chris Muher met him at the door. “Your shuttle is waiting, you should change.”

  Tristan swallowed against the sudden dryness in his mouth. He was really doing this. He squared his shoulders and walked to the small room Muher had pointed towards. The uniform hung there, rank clearly indicated. He grinned, they would have had to custom make this one, he was the highest ranking Weaver to ever wear a Warrior Weaver’s uniform. He ran a hand over the sleeve. It was time.

  VII

  The trip from Earth to Terra Secundus took five hours. Tristan spent the time reading, trying to ignore the stares of the other passengers. There had been a public shuttle leaving at six bells in the forenoon, and he was on it, his ticket purchased at the gate so there was no forewarning to anyone who might want to make an attempt on his life. The trip itself was uneventful for the most part; a young woman behind him had a child with her who kept kicking the back of Tristan’s seat. By hour four, he was tempted to say something, but just let it pass. The less noticeable he was the better. When he walked up the gangway to the station, he still had a phantom rhythm beating in his lower back. Even with that he stepped out and into the station with a smile on his face.

  Small puffs of white clouds drifted overhead as Tristan made his way through the busy corridor leading to the Naval docks. The artificial sunlight touched his face even though there was a slight chill in the air. It was autumn in the Northern Hemisphere on Earth and Terra Secundus reflected the season. The digital photos on the wall were full of golden yellow, deep red and soft brown leaves fluttering down from the branches overhead.

  He could see his reflection in the shop windows as he passed, the dark uniform standing in contrast to the brighter clothing of the civilians moving around him. A smile ghosted over his lips, he’d never really expected to see that particular reflection. Turning his head, he caught the dark ponytail, clubbed with a formal bow over his collar. It still had a feeling of unreality to it. He shifted the satchel he was carrying and moved on.

  Tristan was surprised when someone slammed into him, the man in a Naval uniform growling as he walked past. He stared at the man in shock. He knew the friction between t
he Guild and the Navy was more open on some of the stations, but this came close to being a disciplinary offense, particularly since the man was only wearing the uniform of a boatswain’s mate.

  “Ass,” a young girl said. Tristan looked over, she was wearing a shirt that had a figure of a dragon in front of massive sails, in bright pink letters it said “I support Guild and Dragon.” She smiled shyly at him. Tristan smiled back, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks, and walked on.

  “Sir?”

  Tristan looked up. A man wearing a Naval uniform and the stripes of a First Officer stood in front of him. He looked vaguely familiar for some reason. “Yes?” Tristan replied, putting on his official face, his eyes cold as he appraised the man.

  “Are you for Winged Victory, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sir! It’s a pleasure, sir! I am Thom Barrett, First of the Victory,” he said, his hazel eyes shining as a lock of brown hair tumbled over his forehead.

  “Barrett? We’ve met? In my office?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You were a captain.”

  “Technically, I still am, I am functioning as First because I wanted the Victory.” He grinned. “There was no way Davis was getting me off her.”

  “Why not?”

  Barrett smiled. “It’s hard to demote one of her designers to a garbage scow for long.”

  “Designer?” Tristan looked at him again, reassessing his initial impression.

  “Yes, sir! I was on the team that designed the Constellation, too. I missed the chance to serve on her. Captain Jackson was a good man, though, his loss is sorely felt.” There was something in Barrett’s eyes that warned Tristan this was a point of grief for the man. “I was given a small frigate escort for her, but after the loss of the Constellation, I was recalled and asked to help with Winged Victory… Oh, sorry, sir, I tend to run on at times.”

  “Of course, Mr. Barrett,” Tristan said, wondering if the overly talkative, almost too talkative, officer was something of an act. If Barrett was capable of designing a ship like the Victory, he was no fool.

  “We weren’t expecting you until later, sir.”

  “There was an early transport from the Guild.”

  Barrett nodded, still smiling as he glanced around the crowd. “Can I offer you an escort, sir?”

  Tristan weighed the offer, shifting the satchel on his shoulder as he considered it. As they got closer to the Naval docks, the chance of an incident would grow; if he was with Barrett, it was less likely. Deciding that a confrontation before he even reached the ship was a bad idea, he smiled his official smile at Barrett and gestured with his hand for the man to lead the way. “Thank you, Mr. Barrett.”

  “I am just back from leave, I haven’t been on her since they finished the officers’ quarters. I was slinging my hammock below decks before I left.” He chuckled. “I haven’t had to do that since I was a mid, I don’t fit as well as I once did.”

  Tristan hid a smile at the man’s chatter, Barrett reminded him of a midshipman far more than the officer he was, a child-like enthusiasm eddying around him. Despite the man’s seeming youth, the Naval officers and enlisted men moved away with a quiet acknowledgment of his authority.

  “Oh! Oh, look!” Barrett had stopped and was looking out a tiny porthole. “A dragon! A big one!” He turned to Tristan with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, sir, you see dragons all the time, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Tristan said.

  “I’ve seen them around the station and when I was out on the Endeavor we had a scout, of course, but she didn’t mingle with us at all, just perched on her roost now and then.” His eyes were fixed on the porthole, tracking the movement of the creature beyond them. “And I’ve been working on Winged Victory, the plating’s been up and… Oh!” Barrett turned to him with wide eyes. “Oh, sir, is that…?”

  Tristan moved so he could peek around the man, smiling as Fenfyr wheeled around a cargo ship lumbering out into space, his silver scales glinting in the dull light from the station. “That’s Lokey Fenfyr.”

  “The Lokey Fenfyr? Why is he here?”

  “Yes.” Tristan hoped that the look of awe on Barrett’s face wouldn’t be replaced by something else once he got to know Fenfyr. The dragon didn’t really take the dignity of his position seriously. “Didn’t they tell you? He will be serving as scout for the maiden flight.”

  “Oh, sir, really!?!” Barrett took one last look out the porthole and turned back into the crowd. “Fitting for Winged Victory, though. She’s the most beautiful thing the Navy has ever produced.” A gentle smile lit his face. “I’ve worked on her since day one, I even served some time on a construction gang, just to keep my hands on her and the men focused. You will love her the instant you see her, sir, she has a grace despite her size.”

  “Grace?”

  “Oh, I know I haven’t seen her with her sails. I know there are those who say she never will sail, but she is so beautiful and I know, deep down in my bones, the sails will take to her and she will be able to fly,” the man went on enthusiastically. Tristan hoped that if there was something amiss with the ship, this open and friendly man had nothing to do with it.

  “Her sails will love her,” Tristan said softly. From the moment he had gathered the willowisps together he had felt an affinity for the ship and knew the first delicate task—the sails bonding to the ship—would be accomplished easily. The Guild informed him before he left Earth that the sails were on the ship and waiting for the maiden flight.

  Barrett led the way across the crowded dock towards the airlock at the far side of the bay. Tristan followed, keeping his face carefully neutral even though each step caused an increase in his heart rate as it started to really sink in that he was here. A huge thump boomed through the deck, causing everyone to freeze, and look up towards the ceiling and the massive Dragon’s Portal slowly spinning open. The door clanked open and Fenfyr dropped down to the deck plating, his wings and feathers tucked against his body. The dragon let out a huge whooshing sound, his body adapting to the atmosphere after being in space. Tristan resisted teasing him about his tendency to make an entrance, and Fenfyr knew it. The dragon’s sly chuckle rumbled through the deck plating before he looked at Barrett with his head tufts forward.

  “Lokey Fenfyr of the Guild Dragons,” Tristan said, waving his hand in the dragon’s direction.

  Barrett bowed. “First Officer Thom Barrett of Winged Victory,” he said, straightening and eyeing the dragon with awe.

  Fenfyr inclined his head in a short bob, grumbling softly before glancing around the docks with a snort.

  “Mr. Barrett?” Tristan snapped, the man was staring at Fenfyr as if he’d never seen a dragon up close.

  “Sir?” Barrett blinked at Fenfyr then turned to Tristan. “Sorry, sir! This way.”

  As they approached the portal to the gangway for Winged Victory Tristan felt his mouth go dry. He had no idea what he was walking into, and he knew that even though he was comfortable as a Weaver, this was the first time he had served, truly served, as Warrior. It was a daunting feeling, that flutter of nervousness in his gut as he considered the enormity of what he’d agreed to—or been railroaded into at least.

  “Mr. Barrett, sir!” a man in a petty officer’s uniform said, snapping to attention.

  “Shearer,” Barrett said with a nod.

  “It’s good to see you back, sir.”

  “It’s good to be back. These are Winged Victory’s Warrior Weaver and Lokey Fenfyr who will serve as scout.”

  “Sirs!” Shearer straightened even more. “Boatswain James Shearer, sirs.”

  “Shearer, good to meet you.” Tristan nodded at the man.

  “Sir! Thank you, sir.” Shearer saluted, opened the portal and strode up the gangplank. He stopped and turned back, boatswain’s whistle in his hand. Its shrill blast echoed around them and Tristan looked up as the crew stood to attention when Barrett walked up the gangplank. Tristan followed, Fenfyr right behind him, the metal bending u
nder the dragon’s weight.

  “Barrett! What the devil do you mean by…” A short man stormed across the deck, his uniform impeccable as he stomped towards them. He stopped as Tristan stepped onto the deck beside Barrett. His face went from a frown of irritation to outright hostility. “Captain Gary Stemmer,” he growled. “Are you the Weaver?”

  Tristan eyed him coldly. “Yes. This is Lokey Fenfyr of the Guild Dragons,” he said as Fenfyr stuck his head over the edge of the airlock then slipped onto the deck with a silent, fluid grace.

  “We weren’t expecting you yet,” Stemmer snarled, every line of his body indicating disapproval.

  Tristan glanced around the deck, lifting his eyebrow as he looked back at the captain. “Obviously. We sail in three days and this is what greets me?” He was aware that Barrett had stiffened in anger beside him. “You aren’t even ready to drop the sails.”

  “They only just arrived,” Stemmer snapped, a sneer on his face, his tone bordering on outright insubordination.

  “The point is they have arrived.”

  “I am captain here.”

  “And I am Weaver.” Tristan felt Fenfyr’s growl of agreement tremble through the deck beneath them.

  Stemmer’s eyes were fixed on the dragon towering over them, his feathers and tufts puffed out, making him seem even larger. The captain swallowed nervously, his face turning from white to red. “We haven’t had time to inspect them!”

  “Inspect?” Tristan asked mildly, Fenfyr rumbled beside him. “My sails? We will drop them as soon as I see my cabin.” He turned to walk away.

  “Are you giving me an order, Weaver?”

  Tristan turned back. “Yes,” he said firmly, waiting to the count of three before he walked across the deck and down to the doors of the Weaver’s Quarters, the largest in the ship, a deck above the captain’s and complete with a stern gallery. He dropped his bag on the table and wandered through the large cabin, taking his time and letting Stemmer stew for several minutes. After checking to make sure his trunks were still locked, he headed back up to deck.