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

by J. S. Morin

  “You don’t have Carl’s talent for it.”

  “Huh?”

  “For lying,” Esper said. “You’re as subtle as a sermon. You want me to volunteer to go back, so you don’t have to tell me I’m not welcome.”

  “Mriy hadn’t said anything before, but it can get rough out here,” Tanny said. “If we don’t get to the prey first, we’re expected to try to ambush Hrykii’s pack to take it from them. People are going to get hurt out here.”

  “All the more reason you need me,” Esper reasoned. After all, healing was the one thing she seemed to have tidied up in her repertoire. “I won’t give up.”

  “Then you’d better keep up tomorrow,” Tanny said. “And you’d better get to sleep. You’re going to need the energy.”

  # # #

  In the end, Mort and the Yrris Clan found a human-food restaurant with a 500-kilometer delivery radius. In an act of magnanimity, he offered to introduce them to one of Earth’s most azrin-friendly cuisines. He sat surrounded by azrin in the Yinnak’s dining hall, which was smaller than the common room of the Mobius and designed for creatures with their feline legs pointing the wrong way. He thought it gave him some insight into the trouble Mriy must have had with human chairs.

  “What is this?” Yuanan asked. He had gray-fur was missing the tip of one ear. His coloration was natural, not a sign of age, Mort had learned.

  “We call it sashimi,” Mort replied. “It’s got all sorts of fancy names by the meat inside, but damned if I know most of them. This place had a menu with azrin dishes, light on the vegetable components. Mine’s the stuff in the yellow plastic container. The rest is for you fine folks to share.”

  It had cost a small fortune between feeding a dozen azrin and paying some poor slob to trek it out to them, but Mort was looking for some way to break the ice with Mriy’s family. He might be holed up with them for days, so friendly terms were a lifestyle improvement over their cold silence and blank looks.

  Frouniy opened the much larger white package and unwrapped several bundles. “Shrimp. Tuna. Some other fish. Is this all ocean food?”

  Mort gave Frouniy a nod of confirmation. “There are some specialty dishes that use other meat, but since this is your first time, I’m sticking to the traditional.”

  “Traditional is good,” Yuanan agreed. In the absence of Yariy, he had been acting as guardian. Mort had overheard two of them talking in the next room.

  “Before Seerii eats, you eat,” Ryhma said, narrowing her eyes and leaning in as if Mort was going to flinch or blanch or make some other damned fool slip-up in the commission of betrayal. It would have been funny if they weren’t so deadly serious. Not one of them had an ounce of guile for human deception.

  Mort snickered. “I took the precaution of only ordering things I’d eat. Figured you lot might be paranoid.” He picked up a tuna roll and popped it into his mouth. It tasted funny with a thin wrapping of beef jerky in place of seaweed, but not a bad sort of funny. Just wasn’t what he’d expected. “How many you want me to try?”

  “All of them,” Yuanan said.

  “Fuck that,” Mort said. “I got my own to eat, and I’m not a bottomless pit. Use a science thingy to check it, or have one of your own taste the food. You don’t trust it, pitch it in the snow.”

  “You will eat it,” Yuanan snarled, rising to his feet.

  “Listen, Fluffy, if you think you can bully me, give it a go,” Mort replied. He reached out and picked up one of his tuna rolls and popped it into his mouth. He chewed as he continued. “But I’m not in the mood for your shit.”

  “If you were a hunter, you’d have gone with Mriy, if you’re so worried about her,” Yuanan reasoned. “I think you are a warm wind.”

  Mort leaned over to Seerii, who had stayed out of the confrontation thus far. “Did he just accuse me of flatulence?”

  Seerii shook her head. “He accuses you of talking more than being. He thinks you bluff.”

  “Oh.”

  Mort swallowed his tuna roll and stood. Yuanan must have seen something in his unconcerned posture that gave him pause. The azrin cringed back, but held his ground. Mort stepped forward, put a hand on the azrin’s chest, and shoved him through the nearest wall. There was no crash, no splatter; Yuanan simply passed through solid steel—or whatever azrins made ships out of. Mort wasn’t sure on that front.

  “What did you do to him?” Seerii demanded. The other Yrris bystanders scrambled to put distance between themselves and Mort. Warm wind indeed.

  “I threw him outside into the snow to cool off,” Mort replied. “And Mriy asked me to join her pack, but I refused. Wouldn’t have been fair. I could sniff that ox of yours out by the magic—don’t tell me I couldn’t. Then I could have ridden it back here, killed it at your feet, and been back sleeping in my own bed by nightfall. But I didn’t. Wouldn’t have been fair. I’m very interested in this contest playing out fair.”

  The azrins watched him in silence. They seemed not to know whether to attack him en masse or offer a surrender, exchanging glances that may have carried more communication than met the (human) eye.

  Yuanan burst back into the room, throwing open the door in the process. He was dusted with snow, and his boots were leaving wet prints on the floor as he strode over to Mort, teeth bared. “How dare you—”

  Mort didn’t move, except to stuff another tuna roll in his mouth. Yuanan reached for him, but found his footing gone from beneath him. Without so much as the shove he’d given the last time, Mort levitated Yuanan and threw him through the wall yet again. Ryhma crept over and pressed a hand against the wall, but it was fully solid.

  “I can keep this up all night,” Mort replied. “I haven’t even broken a sweat.” He glanced around the dining hall. Mriy was a tough nut to crack when it came to reading facial expressions. Her clanmates were not so reserved. Mort found a mix of fear, anger, confusion, and hints of amusement at Yuanan’s plight. He held out the white container to Seerii. “Grab some sashimi. I didn’t poison the goddamn things. I’ve killed more people than all of you put together, and I’m long past being shy about it.”

  Seerii reached a tentative hand and picked up a shrimp roll in two extended claws. “This will be a fair contest.”

  # # #

  The Mobius climbed into orbit at a leisurely pace, leaving the azrins’ take on Fiji far below. The crew was gone, off playing savages in the snowy wilderness. Carl was checking into his sword-fighting resort. Roddy had the ship to himself. All he heard were the mechanical sounds of the engines, the life support, the hum of the computer coolant system. It was bliss.

  He’d never liked the ship’s control layout. It had come as-is and configured for human comfort. The seat was too long and too far back from the yoke, and everything just seemed to be spaced wrong on the panels. It was hard to pin down exactly why, but the ship clearly had not been built with laaku ergonomics in mind. Ignoring the mild annoyances, he keyed the comm for the local ARGO patrol fleet.

  “Orbital control, this is Earth-registered vessel Mobius. Request long-term orbit.”

  “Vessel Mobius, state your reason for orbital clearance.”

  Roddy shrugged, though the comm was voice only. “I’ve got some maintenance to do, the ship to myself while the crew’s planetside, and I just wanted the view.”

  “Will your maintenance interfere with your ship ID broadcast, engine signature, or involve deviation from a proscribed orbit?”

  “None of the above,” Roddy replied. “Sub-system overhauls and preventative maintenance only.”

  “You are cleared for long-term orbit. Transmitting a trans-polar orbital path. Enjoy your sightseeing.”

  “Thank ya kindly,” Roddy replied and shut off the comm. “I give those boys too much shit sometimes. This garrison seems pretty laid back.” He followed the transmitted heading, then rolled the ship up so the forward windows looked down on Meyang.

  By the side of the seat, Roddy found his guitar case. Of late, it had seemed more lik
e Carl owned it—he certainly played it more these days. But it belonged to Roddy, and it was past time to brush the rust off his fingers and play it a little. It was a double-neck, a style invented by humans even though they couldn’t play both at once. It was the laaku that had taken the design and made a proper instrument out of it. His guitar had been made on Phabian, in a little factory just outside Kethlet. It was as old a friend as he had.

  He strummed both sets of strings and cringed. Carl had an ear for good music, but he was as good as tone deaf when it came to playing it. Roddy spent the next few minutes with an acoustic analyzer, tuning each string to mathematical perfection. Each chord he tried rang beautifully. “There ya go, baby. That’s the guitar I know.”

  He reclined the pilot’s chair and slouched back until he could comfortably balance while all four hands played. He picked a human song. He’d grown up on human music, thanks to his old man. It wasn’t one that was supposed to have a guitar part, but it was the first thing that came to mind, so he made it work. Before human contact, laaku music hadn’t had lyrics except for hymns; it had just seemed sacrosanct to those laaku from way back.

  “That’s just one damn pretty ball of rock down there,” he mused as he played. Phabian had looked like that once, a long, long time ago. There were still a few nature preserves; it wasn’t Earth, after all. But the blue-green orb covered in wispy clouds only existed in pictures, in museums, and on the Earth-likes. It grated a little that the term had caught on. They were Phabian-like, to Roddy’s thinking.

  He strummed with his feet for a moment while he grabbed a beer from a six-pack he’d brought with him to the cockpit. After a long pull and a refreshed gasp, he set back to playing with all four hands, this time singing along with his own accompaniment. He picked up midway through.

  “…and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”

  # # #

  Whatever Tanny had said to Esper in the night, it had not been to give up and return to the Yinnak. Every time Mriy looked over her shoulder, she expected to see the human fallen hopelessly far behind. Each time, she was surprised to find her keeping pace. It was Auzuma that was the trouble. He was lagging, and Mriy didn’t know how to get rid of him in any way that would save face.

  Auzuma had been with the Yrris Clan since before she was born. He might outlive Seerii, if their relative health was any measure. How could Mriy win back the title of heir, then take over the clan while Auzuma was still chaplain? He would oversee the blessing of inheritance—or would he refuse to perform it? The old man was as beloved in the clan as any blood relative. How could she shun him in taking the title and keep peace in the clan afterward? He would be within his rights to leave.

  “Meal,” Mriy shouted, judging that the sun was high enough to be called noon. She had to admit, it was refreshing not to look at a chrono to tell the time. She slung the knapsack off her back and rummaged around to find her jerky. It was poor fare, but sat easy in the stomach. With wild game, there was always the risk that the animal was sick or had some foulness to it. Not to mention the wasted time in hunting quarry beside their prize.

  “Kubu hungry!” Kubu chimed in, bounding back from one of the side excursions that had become his hedge against boredom.

  “You’ve eaten twice since breakfast,” Tanny replied. “Remember the snow hare? Remember the beaver?”

  “The beaver was very wet,” Kubu replied, nodding. “The bunny was yummy. Kubu still hungry.”

  “Well, you’ll have to find your own while we walk, because I don’t think we’ve got enough in the supplies to keep up with you.”

  “Who’d have thought he’d get fat running fifty kilometers a day and hunting for his own meals?” Esper asked. She dropped her knapsack, and it barely dented the snow.

  “He’s not getting fat,” Tanny countered. “He’s growing.”

  “What is that?” Mriy asked, ignoring the discussion of the dog and pointing to Esper’s knapsack.

  “My gear,” Esper replied. “I couldn’t make Tanny carry it two days in a row.”

  “Let me see that,” Mriy said. She stalked over and hefted it by the straps. It was feather-light. Then she unclasped the flap and looked inside. It carried all that it ought to have; Esper hadn’t ditched her supplies in a gully somewhere as Mriy had initially suspected. “How?” She shoved the knapsack into Esper’s arms.

  Esper dropped it in the snow once more. “Magic.”

  She had been speaking too often with Roddy and Carl. Their snide sarcasm was rubbing off. “We are not allowed modern devices on the hunt. Whatever anti-grav you snuck into it, turn it off.”

  “Ma-gic,” Esper replied. “Hocus pocus. Dark arts. Mort was exaggerating when he called me a wizard, but he has started teaching me a few things.”

  Mriy picked up the knapsack once more. “You did this? Not Mort?”

  “Last night it weighed a ton,” Esper said. “After I got the fire to work, I figured I’d have a go at making the gear lighter. It’s not so hard keeping up anymore, but I must say, you’ve got awfully long legs.”

  The human pulled out a food bar from her pocket and unwrapped it. The contents let out a whiff of factory-processed chemical flavorings that seemed out of place in the mountains.

  “What is that?” Mriy asked, leaning in to sniff at it. “It smells like fruit.” She was no expert at non-protein foodstuffs, but had grown accustomed to some of the smells while aboard the Mobius.

  “It’s actually six kinds of fruit, plus all the vitamins and minerals a woman’s body needs,” Esper recited. “It’s a delicious part of a balanced diet.”

  Mriy’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard the adverts,” she muttered. It was a Snakki-Bar, one of those lazy human foods. They supposedly did all the work of three meals, but tasted awful and weren’t satisfying.

  Esper shrugged. “I know you don’t like them. Trying one was enough. But I can’t eat that stuff you brought, and I can hardly think about Kubu’s meals without losing mine.”

  “How much of that magic did Mort teach you?” Mriy asked. A plan was forming. Maybe they were not the weak pack after all.

  Esper backed away a step. “Ooooh no. I see that look. I’m not a wizard wizard. I’m not even a pretend wizard. I’m just learning a few things. I’m not making anyone’s fur fall out or pulling knives out of people’s hands. I can still lose an argument with a campfire.”

  “You can still cause painful hunger with a touch,” Mriy said. The human was speaking in false modesty; she had killed with her magic.

  “As a last resort,” Esper replied. “For defense only.” She took another bite of her Snakki-Bar.

  “Right,” Mriy said. “Defend the kill. Defend honor. Win the hunt.” She clapped Esper on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine when the time comes. Eat up. This won’t be a long break.” Esper coughed something in response, but it was lost in a mouthful of mealy, meatless food substitute.

  # # #

  The holovid was in azrin, which made it hard to follow. One of the occasionally annoying features of the translation charms that all the crew wore was that they didn’t translate what the wearer could already understand. Since Mort’s understanding of the Jiara dialect was better suited to slow conversations, he was having trouble keeping up. It wasn’t that he cared what happened to the two azrin mercenaries trapped behind enemy lines on some generic extrasolar planet—well, maybe he cared a little—it was that everyone else in the room understood and he didn’t.

  Being the dumbest one in the room was a splinter in Mort’s craw. It didn’t matter that it was the dialog to a holovid with a title that translated roughly to “Two Deaths Died Well.” Mort had written off the two main characters from the opening title shot. It was more that these brutish, oafish savages had one up on him in the brains department. He had always preferred a shutout victory, especially when dealing with people he had already cataloged among his mental inferiors.

  “How long these hunts usually last?” Mort asked in a down moment. The tw
o protagonists were reloading science thingamajigs into their guns.

  “Hmm? What?” Frouniy asked. He was the nearest Yrris to Mort, at the back of the viewing room.

  “I said—”

  But there was a huge explosion in the holo-field, and the noise drowned him out as the Yrrises cheered. Mort tucked his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt and slouched down. He didn’t care what happened to the two doomed azrins on the holovid. Given the unimaginative title, they were going to die well, and that was apparently the important thing. Mort didn’t need to see the ending.

  With a subtle suggestion to the universe that electro-whozamawhatchits didn’t need to be shooting light all over the place, the holo-projector flickered and gave out. There were mixed groans and shouts of outrage from Mort’s fellow viewers. One whose name Mort hadn’t asked got up and popped open the access panel to check inside as his kin badgered him with questions and suggested methods of diagnosing the problem. After a minute or two, the suggestions died down and left a sulking impatience in their wake.

  Never one to let an opportunity pass, Mort struck up a conversation to fill in the silence. “So, how long is everyone expecting this hunt to last?”

  This time, Frouniy was not too distracted to answer. “Tomorrow. The day after at the latest. Yariy has a good nose and can think like the prey.”

  “How long would it take for Mriy, if her pack was going to win?” Mort asked.

  A few azrin laughs—the same hissing chuckle that Mriy used—told him that other ears were listening in. “A year,” Frouniy replied. “Maybe if some poacher found our prey and didn’t respect the ritual markings, they might stay out long enough that an elk might be born that looked like it. Mriy could paint it up and bring it back as a winning kill.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Of course it’s not,” Seerii said. “He jokes at you. Mriy hunts for the kill, not the track. She was four days in her ascension hunt, while her cousin Yariy did hers in an afternoon. She’ll kill anything she finds, but this prey isn’t a challenge for a killer. It’s a tracker’s race.”