Mission Pack 1: Missions 1-4 (Black Ocean Mission Pack)

by J. S. Morin

  The shuttle trip was only to orbit. It lasted mere minutes. The sky above filled with a single ship, blotting out more and more stars as proximity altered her view from the window. The What Goes Down Must Come Up was swallowed up by the Poet Fleet flagship. “Welcome to the Look On My Works, Ye Mighty, and Despair,” one of the deputies said as the shuttle door opened.

  “At least one of these bloody ships is named for a poem,” Mort grumbled as he stood.

  “Not exactly reeking of humility,” Esper replied softly. She followed Mort a step behind and off to his left.

  “On the contrary,” Mort said. “Read the whole thing sometime. Remarkable sentiment for someone who owns a star system.”

  The Look On My Works, Ye Mighty, and Despair was large enough that there were transport vehicles servicing in the interior. A rubber-wheeled buggy pulled up alongside the What Goes Down Must Come Up with a man in a sleeveless gray shirt at the wheel. “Hop in,” he said. “Admiral’s all curious who the hell you both are.”

  Esper made eye contact with Mort, who offered a grin and wink, but no explanation. They both climbed into the buggy, and without preamble, the driver sped off. There was no time after that for thinking, worrying, or puzzling, just white-knuckle terror. The sleeveless-shirted driver tore through the corridors of the ship like a rally racer—or like Carl in anything that flew. They had a moment’s respite when they stopped in a freight elevator to head up six decks, but then with a squeal of tires, they were off again.

  Esper’s heart pounded so that she could feel it in her ears, and when she climbed out of the buggy, her legs nearly gave out beneath her. “End of the line,” the driver said. He gave Esper and Mort a lackadaisical salute and sped off. There were two officers waiting for them. Esper was guessing at the rank by the way they stood, for there was no uniform or insignia anywhere on their person. One was a woman in her early thirties with a shaved head and spikes through each ear. The other was from a race she didn’t know—reptilian, shoulder-tall to his companion, and covered in dull, swampy green scales. If she had to guess his evolutionary origin, she’d imagine he was some Earth-like world’s idea of an iguana.

  “I am First Officer Hazz Shi,” the iguana-like officer said. He gestured to his comrade. “This is Security Chief Indira Jackson. Admiral Chisholm is waiting on the bridge.”

  Esper found it curious that neither was armed. For the first officer, perhaps it might make sense, but for a security chief to go around without a weapon struck her as out of place. The only way that would make sense was if…

  She tugged at Mort’s sleeve to get his attention as their escort headed for a the door labeled “A throne is only a bench covered with velvet.” He looked down and Esper nodded toward Security Chief Indira Jackson. A twitch of a frown graced his brow, but it faded quickly into an understanding smile. A gentle nod confirmed Esper’s assertion: Indira Jackson was a wizard.

  The bridge of the Look On My Works, Ye Mighty, and Despair was luxurious without being ostentatious. The consoles gleamed, with smartly-dressed officers at each station pillowed snugly into leather-upholstered seats. The floor was polished hardwood, or at least appeared so, and beheld a mosaic design in shades of brown. Standing with one hand resting on the back of the command chair at the center of the bridge was none other than the Fleet Admiral.

  She turned at the opening of the door. “Welcome. I am Emily D. Chisholm, Admiral of the Poet Fleet.” By all appearances, she was no older than Esper, certainly not more than thirty. She wore a jacket and slacks in a checkerboard of jester’s motley, tailored to her tall, slim form. At her neck she sported a ruff like a Renaissance nobleman, and she wore her dark hair dangling over it in pigtail braids. For the moment, Esper was at a loss for words.

  “Charmed,” Mort replied, sketching a shallow bow with his arm across his waist. “I am Mordecai The Brown, former holder of the Eighth Seat of the Convocation and Guardian of the Plundered Tomes. And this is my apprentice, Esper Theresa Richelieu.”

  Esper ducked her head in an emergency bow, caught unprepared for Mort to take on her introduction as well as his own. “Ma’am,” she mumbled.

  “I am a great admirer of the truth,” Admiral Chisholm said. “It is as scant a resource in this galaxy as any gem, as any piece of artwork. In return for receiving so precious a gift as unblemished truth, I could forgive a great deal.”

  “What do you want to know?” Mort asked. Esper felt a knot of dread as to what Mort might say if he let loose with too much truth, and worse yet, what Admiral Chisholm might do if she caught either of them in a lie.

  The admiral turned her attention to Esper and her face brightened in a condescending smile. “Are you truly his apprentice?”

  Esper swallowed and shook her head.

  “I thought not,” Admiral Chisholm said. “The Esper Theresa Richelieu that I dug up was a priestess initiate of the One Church. I highly doubt such a dichotomy of soul exists that would allow one woman to serve such opposing masters. Certainly not a dead woman. Tell me, did you fake your death or steal Sister Theresa’s identity?”

  “Faked,” Esper admitted. “I’m not proud of it, but I ruined my career in the clergy and… well, at the time it seemed like a good idea.”

  “And you, Mordecai Brown,” Admiral Chisholm continued. “Are you the same Mordecai Brown who is wanted by the Convocation for a sum that temps even me to violate the hospitality of the Freeride System?”

  “You wouldn’t survive the attempt,” Mort replied, lifting his chin. “If you like truth, let that one stick in your craw. We’re here about that little scuffle in Calliope, not to trade threats.”

  “Very well.” Admiral Chisholm took a step toward Esper, who flinched back a half step. “The miner had an untreated malignant tumor in his left lung. “You caused the rapid growth of that tumor until it killed him in a matter of minutes. Do you deny this?”

  Esper shook her head.

  “Do you deny this?” Admiral Chisholm snapped. “Answer me!”

  “No,” Esper said, looking down at the exquisite floor and imagining herself crawling beneath it.

  “Are you a wizard? Was that why you faked your death?”

  Esper shook her head and realized that wasn’t going to be enough. “No. I just know the one spell.”

  “Why would you claim she was your apprentice?” Admiral Chisholm asked Mort.

  A sly smile crossed Mort’s lips as he paused before answering. “She won’t get it out of me that way.”

  Esper’s puzzlement momentarily overcame her shame. “What do you—”

  Admiral Chisholm waved a dismissive hand. “Indira, enough. I don’t know how you managed it, but she can’t even contact me telepathically. Your reputation doesn’t do you justice, Mordecai Brown.”

  Mort offered a helpless shrug. “You get out into the galaxy, you learn a few things. Those pointy-hatted old fools back on Earth must think my brain’s gone to rot out here, but I get to practice an awful lot of not doing magic. Your Indira seems like a nice enough girl, but she’s got all the ego of an assistant janitor. Universe isn’t going to listen to her when I’ve got my boot on its throat. Sorry, if you two had a ‘thing’ going that I interrupted.”

  Admiral Chisholm’s eyes brightened. “Excellent segue. Speaking of things that are going, that is the crux of the reason behind Miss Richelieu’s arrest. I don’t give a miser’s pity about some thieving local miner, but the Rucker family is operating in my territory. I want to know why, and I want them dealt with.”

  “But you own this whole system,” Esper protested. “Just kick them out.”

  Admiral Chisholm tapped a finger to her lips. At first Esper took it as a shushing motion, but quickly realized that the admiral was thinking. “There is, of course, that option. But I don’t want Don Rucker to bear me ill will. Should any blood relative of his be harmed in the eviction, I would be looking over my shoulder till the end of my days. Better to work through an intermediary. Janice Rucker has some scheme at wor
k here. I don’t know what it is, but she’s far too settled on Carousel for my liking. Miss Richelieu will be staying here until Janice Rucker and the rest of the Rucker Syndicate are out of Freeride.”

  Esper felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. Mort stepped forward, placing himself between the admiral and Esper. “I don’t think so.”

  “I do,” Admiral Chisholm replied. “You’re going to go back to the surface, inform your captain of my terms, and use whatever wits you have to get Janice Rucker to leave Freeride. Until then, Miss Richelieu will enjoy the hospitality of the Look On My Works, Ye Mighty, and Despair.”

  Mort squinted at Admiral Chisholm. “You don’t look worried that I might just kill you where you stand.”

  “An act,” the admiral admitted. “I’ve never tested my anti-wizard defenses against one of your presence.”

  “Mort, don’t,” Esper said, pulling him back by the arm. “I’ll stay. Just … fix this.” She turned to the admiral. “What about Mriy?”

  “I’ve already offered her a job,” Admiral Chisholm said with a shrug. “She turned it down, and has been returned to that heap you so generously describe as a ship. Now, take your leave, Mordecai Brown. Miss Richelieu will come to no harm aboard my ship. Even should you prove unsuccessful, she will merely … remain.”

  Mort nodded slowly and put a hand on Esper’s shoulder. It had a warm, comforting weight. “All right. If you’re willing to play along, I’ll leave you with these… poets.” Esper could only guess that he almost said “pirates” and thought better of it. He turned to the admiral. “If she does come to harm, you can bet I’ll be back to test whatever traps you may have set up in here. Oh, and I appreciate the Shelley reference.”

  “So few do,” Admiral Chisholm replied. With a flick of her fingers, the door to the bridge opened. The man in the sleeveless shirt waited outside, his ground-car idling a few meters down the corridor. The door closed behind Mort. There was a brief squeal of tires, and then she was alone, surrounded by genteel pirates.

  # # #

  Tanny paced her room at the Rucker Resort. It was a tenth-floor suite looking out on the ice-capped mountains to the North, but the glare from the holovid ruined the night view. The fight between Graccio and Martinez had seemed like a good plan to settle her mind. It was just a middle-weight bout; there was no title on the line, just distracting violence to numb her worries. The cool marble sucked feverish heat out through her bare feet, and her pacing kept the floor from warming in any one spot.

  A knockdown in the fight momentarily captured her attention as the announcers went wild and the unseen crowd cheered. Graccio would have been Tanny’s bet if she’d been inclined to place one, but he wasn’t long for the fight by the look of things. Just one more bit of evidence that she was off her game. Normally she was the one to pick the winners when she and Mriy went to the fights in person. Mriy was good at sizing up azrin fighters, but Tanny was better at evaluating humans.

  He was late. When Tanny had discovered that Janice hadn’t put any restrictions on in-room communications, she had immediately gotten on the local section of the omni and dug until she found someone who could help. It had taken a debit against her future pension from the marines, but she had gotten a hold of enough digital terras to place a discreet order for some illicit chemicals. It wasn’t everything she needed, but it was better than what she had. But that was two hours ago, and it should have taken her contact less than half that time to make the drop-off.

  A melodious chime had Tanny rushing for the door. Thoughts of strangling the courier for making her wait were swept away in a floor of relief. She hammered the door release with her thumb. It snapped into the wall with an audible whoosh. As she opened her mouth to make a snide comment, she froze.

  Bill was standing there, a rumpled brown paper bag in his hands. It looked out of place against the backdrop of his tailored Argozzi suit. “Good evening, Miss Tania. We had a delivery for you down at the front desk.”

  Tanny snatched the bag from Bill’s hands. “Thanks.” She pressed the door control once more, but Bill put a hand in the entrance, triggering the safety override that kept guests from getting slammed in doors.

  “Miss Tania, didn’t you learn nothing all them years with guys like me looking after you?” Bill asked. “You looked surprised to see me, which means you didn’t check the security screen to see who it was. Could be it was anyone out here.”

  Tanny glanced to the screen by the door. It hadn’t even occurred to her to check. Either she was getting used to the P-tech all over the Mobius, or she was getting sloppy. “I didn’t want it recorded,” she lied. “It’s none of Janice’s business who I see.”

  Bill held up his hands at stomach height, just enough not to be intimidating. “And Miss Janice don’t care, neither. But it’s all on recording, all the time, just in case—you know, nothing special in this case on account of it being you and all. Gotta tell you, we ran that shit—pardon my Earthy tongue—ran that junk through the chem scanner, just to be safe.”

  Tanny waved a hand in a circular motion. “And?” She wanted this conversation over, and Bill stumbling over himself wasn’t getting any of the drugs into her bloodstream any quicker.

  “Miss Tania, that tweaker who brung this stuff … this is some serious stuff, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Tanny said. “I kinda knew that. I don’t care, as long as it’s all in here.”

  “Um,” Bill said. He reached a finger inside his shirt collar and tugged. “You see… I can’t lie to you, Miss Tania. I had to take some of them pills out.”

  “Which ones?” There were a few in her order that she could live without—in the literal sense, probably any of them. But she had already worked out in her head what the makeshift cocktail would do to her. Re-figuring what she could and couldn’t afford to ingest wasn’t part of her evening’s plan. Drugs. Shower. Bed. That was all she was looking for, with emphasis on the bed.

  Bill took a step back. Tanny could have snapped the door shut between them if she hadn’t wanted answers. “Just the Cannabinol.”

  “What?” Tanny shouted, not caring if anyone heard, or if the security cameras had an audio feed that might pick her up. “God dammit, Bill. That was the one I was really hoping you weren’t going to say. Plus, of all the fucking things … seriously? That shit’s harmless compared to the rest.” Cannabinol would calm her, and more importantly settle her stomach to keep her from vomiting up the rest of her purchase. In fact, until it had time to kick in, she wasn’t planning on touching the rest.

  “Hey, I made your dad a promise a long time ago to keep you off that kinda stuff,” Bill said.

  Tanny reached out, grabbed Bill by the collar, and hauled him back into the room. “Listen to me, Bill,” she said quietly, her face centimeters from his. “I spent eight years in the marines. They gave us stuff to keep us on top of our game. I’ve been taking it all this time, even since I’ve been out. Look me in the eyes. Right now, I’m dry on all but the one thing that will let someone my size snap your neck like a dry twig. But I like you, Bill.” She let go of his collar. “So I’m going to let you go downstairs and bring back that Cannabinol. NOW!”

  # # #

  In a back room behind the hotel bar, there was a gathering that wasn’t open to the general public. The chairs were high backed, cushioned like a dream, and gathered in a circle around a table strewn with cards, chips, and glasses of booze. Four holovids played around the room, all sports, but no one was watching. It was all just atmosphere. The room Tanny’s cousin had provided was nice enough, but Carl felt more at home surrounded by people.

  “Hey, look who be back,” Mikey Whistles hollered, grinning with his gap-toothed smile. Bill slouched and shook his head as he lumbered in.

  “Told you,” Carl said, draining the last of a bottle of Amberjack Ale. He tossed a taped-shut cardboard package to Bill, who snatched it from the air with a scowl. Carl pointed around the table. “Pay up, boys. Bill can lie his ass off all he wa
nts, but that girl’s getting high tonight or killing someone.” No sooner did he set the bottle down, but one of the waiters scooped it up and replaced it with a fresh, cold one.

  There were grumbles around the table, but a mix of chips and hard-coin terras made their way into Carl’s pile, turning barrel-scrapings into a proper hoard. Carl pulled it toward him, just enough to make room for cards to settle in front of him. He might stack them; he might not. It all depended just how fast he started losing them.

  “How’d you know?” Janice’s cousin Veronica asked. She wasn’t family to Tanny, being from Janice’s mother’s flock, but she had a coincidental resemblance to Tanny in her build that Carl was finding harder to ignore, bottle by bottle. “You’d think he coulda slipped one past her.”

  Two-Shot Pete chuckled from his belly. He hadn’t lost so much as a terra betting on the ruse. “You ain’t known Carl long enough, then. I think no one’s got Princess Tania figured out but him.”

  “Maybe we just pity bet him,” Gazlir said with a sharp-fanged smile. He was azrin, with ash gray fur and the tip of his left ear missing. He had given Carl a growl when introduced, and when Carl laughed it off, he had earned a bit of the azrin’s gangster’s respect. “Since his rusty ship’s falling apart.”

  Carl laughed despite the sting. “Oh, that one hurts. Cheap shot, taking aim at my ship. Behind his back, no less. You come on board sometime and talk shit about Mobius.” Carl pointed an accusing finger at Gazlir, using the hand that held his beer.

  Bill slunk away to go deliver Tanny’s Cannabinol as the poker game went on. Carl was determined to at least hang onto enough for a used holo-projector by night’s end. All he had to do was play safe and… there was a second thing, but after four bottles of Amberjack Ale, he couldn’t think what it was.

  “Why you loopin’ ‘round the borderland in that heap, anyway?” Mikey asked. “Don would’a taken you any day of the week—twice on Tuesday.”

  Carl tipped his chair back and held up his hands. “What can I say? Tanny won’t budge on it. If it were just up to me, I’d be wearing a cheap suit like Gazlir’s and using terras to fill my swimming pool.” He pointed to Gazlir, whose sleeveless suit probably cost as much as an engine overhaul for the Mobius. But he had to give the guy some grief for disrespecting his ship.