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

by J. S. Morin

  The Bradbury was oriented so that it was visible through the canopy. Even as the Mobius sank into the astral, it never wavered. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred meters away.

  Carl shouted from the cockpit. “Mort, you daft old shit! You’re bringing them with us! This isn’t how escapes work!”

  Trusting that Esper would mind her footing for her, Mriy kept watch on the sky. The gray deepened and darkened. It took on an aspect of violet. All the while, the Bradbury remained fixed in place, towed along with Mort’s magic.

  From the cockpit, the comm blared. “Vessel Mobius, I don’t know how you’re doing this, but you have thirty seconds to return us to realspace or we will open fire, cargo or no cargo.”

  Mort gave a wave at the ship on the other side of the glassteel dome, and the tone of his chanting shifted. The purplish tinge of astral space faded to the accustomed gray, and this time, the Bradbury faded from view, no longer following in their wake.

  Cupping a hand to his mouth, the wizard shouted to the cockpit. “All clear. Let’s see their star-drive gizmo dig them out of that mess!”

  As Mriy let Esper settle her back into bed, she could hear Carl and Tanny arguing over the course to plot that would put them farthest from Harmony Bay’s influence. Or the nearest medical facility. Or someplace remote. Or a place with xeno-cosmetic facilities. Mriy let her head sink into the pillow and closed her eyes. Not everything hurt. Her heart was at peace. She was home.

  # # #

  Mriy looked at herself in the mirror. Everything in her mouth was sore, and the taste was strange. She opened wide and inspected the ceramite implants, trying to remember what her natural teeth had looked like. If there was a difference, she couldn’t tell. The cosmo-surgeon had done his job.

  She flexed the claws of her left hand, wincing as the sheaths flexed around tender tissue. Her false claws were a silvery black, made of a material she couldn’t pronounce in English. They were sharper than her old ones, and would need to be replaced every few years, depending how roughly she treated them. It would be days yet before she was willing to try them on anything tough like fresh meat. It was strange to think that there were parts of her that were no longer her own.

  A tentative knock at her door meant that Esper had come to check on her again. “Enter,” Mriy said, wincing in anticipation of a pain that didn’t come as she spoke. It was a promising sign.

  Esper opened the door and smiled. “You’re looking much better this morning.”

  “I am feeling better. But the answer is still ‘no.’”

  “You’d feel ship shape after a big meal,” Esper countered. It was a sweet gesture. While useless to the point of infuriating in the wild, Esper was of great use elsewhere. Simple kindness was something Mriy had taken to underestimating.

  She sat down on the bed and gestured for Esper to join her. The human joined her, sitting a meter away. Being shirtless was taboo among human women, but not at all so for azrin. She slid over and wrapped her arms around Esper, who stiffened for a moment before relaxing. “You have been a better friend than I deserve. Young as you seem at times, you are my elder, and wise in ways I don’t see easily. My wounds pain me, and I know you could ease them. But I will recover, and my recovery will reinforce the many lessons I’ve learned since the hunt. I have no mother who wants me. My clan is foreign to me now. But I have two sisters and three brothers instead—and a dog, I suppose.”

  Esper tried to put her arms around Mriy but could not come close to reaching. She stopped trying and settled for being held, leaning against Mriy’s chest. “I’ve thought about going home, too. I don’t think it would go well. For better or worse, this is my home now. You all are my family.”

  “I only wish I could have seen Neep while I was there,” Mriy said softly. She winced and her ears twitched. That was something she hadn’t meant to mention.

  “Who is Neep?” Esper asked.

  Mriy swallowed. Esper was family; she would understand. “He was my pet. I was two when I named him; Neep is a childish name.”

  “What kind of pet?” Esper prodded. There was a sweetness in her question; humans had such weaknesses for pets. It explained much of what Kubu got away with, despite being able to speak and understand.

  Mriy sighed. “A hyoba—a tiny hominid. They… they look like little humans, just knee high. Neep is the noise they make, like a dog’s bark. I don’t mean anything by having one. I know they’re illegal, but I was only—”

  Esper laughed and pulled herself from Mriy’s embrace. “That sounds adorable.”

  # # #

  Captain Carl Ramsey slumped down onto his bed and leaned back against the wall. With datapad in hand, he got back to a little side project he had started working on. It was time to update the notes for his eventual memoir.

  We cleared out of Meyang before those shits from Harmony Bay found their way out of astral. I never imagined that the ship I ratted out to ARGO would be one of theirs. I get plenty of shit around here for bad plans that we pull off anyway, but this was a damn fine plan if I do say so… we just got unlucky.

  Mriy was in bad shape, but she’s tougher than composite steel. We needed to get her to a medical facility, someplace where we wouldn’t worry about Harmony Bay grabbing us. Normally we stick to the edges of society—the borderlands, the systems just outside ARGO space, the little pockets of savage space without inhabited systems. Even Meyang was uptown for us. But Roddy figured that with our scraped-clean records, we could afford a trip to Phabian and found a doctor on one of the outer worlds that was willing to work for cheap on an azrin. I hope we never have to tell Mriy that he was a veterinary specialist. Since we blew our stolen take from the delivery for the weasel, she shouldn’t be asking too many nosy questions about how we pulled it off.

  I’m thinking that it’s time we lay high for a bit, since lying low’s gotten us in so much trouble lately. We can take our respectability and see how far we can push it before we piss someone off.

  Mort’s beside himself with glee that Esper managed to summon fire while she was out hunting with Mriy. I guess it goes to show that wizards get what they want. I just hope she never finds out who was in that confessional. Maybe I can hold that over him to get him to finally turn my hair back to its original color. I just hate to think what he’ll come back with if I start fighting dirty.

  Kubu’s going to be a problem, sooner or later. He’s behaving better, but he’s going to bankrupt us on food alone. Not to mention the fact that he’s putting on ten kilos a week and it’s all going into muscle and bone. There isn’t a flabby bit of that mutt. In a month, he’s going to be bigger than Mriy, and in three I’m wondering how he’s going to fit through doors. I think “Mommy” is going to have to make a hard choice soon about his future.

  I’ve still got my suspicions about how this whole business started. It was so seat-of-the-pants at the time that none of us had a chance to pick it apart and see if the pieces fit. Damn convenient that Mriy had someone point her to a relative in need of rescue, one who just happened to be the perfect key to unlock her old life if it had played out like she expected. She never said who tipped her off. I wouldn’t be half surprised if it was Mriy who hired that bounty hunter in the first place. I’d never be able to prove it, but if she did, she’s been learning something around here.

  Carl paused and reread the last few paragraphs. With a frown, he scanned back and reread a few previous entries. Dreams of publishing his life’s story someday and living off the holovid deal evaporated before his eyes.

  “If anyone reads this, I’m a dead man,” he muttered to himself, then deleted the file.

  Guardian of the Plundered Tomes

  Mission 4.5 of the Black Ocean Series (bonus short story)

  J.S. Morin

  Copyright © 2014 Magical Scrivener Press

  Eleven wizards bore down the weight of their ancient eyes upon the twelfth of their number. Mordecai The Brown swept his gaze around the vast table’s circumference, s
eeking pity or sympathy in any of his fellows. He found nothing but scorn. The air hung heavy and still in the Convocation’s Grand Council Chamber, the echoic reaches of the vaulted stone ceiling finding no sound worth magnifying or repeating. Sunlight poured through stained glass windows depicting Merlin bestowing Excalibur upon Arthur, St. George slaying the last dragon on Earth, and the sinking of Atlantis. The beams caught motes of dust in their trails and made time flow like cold honey. Everyone waited for him.

  “I can offer no explanation,” Mordecai replied. He sat with his arms resting on the table’s timeworn stone surface, hands tucked within opposing sleeves, wet with perspiration. There was no wizard among them who was his junior, but he was not the least of their number. He held his chin high and fought to keep his breathing steady.

  “Do you dispute the library census?” Bertram Hancock, the holder of the First Chair, asked, shaking a leather-bound ledger. It had a listing of every book in the Convocation’s libraries, from the memoirs of long-dead wizards to mundane works of history and mathematics. It also contained listings of the books known as the Plundered Tomes, volumes confiscated from wizards who once opposed the Convocation. A few were harmless, but most were forbidden to even open, for the dark magics described therein contained the roots of the malevolence that had spawned those ancient enemies.

  One of those tomes was missing.

  As Guardian of the Plundered Tomes, responsibility fell to Mordecai. “I’ve verified it myself. The census seems to be correct.”

  “No one gets in or out of the vault without your knowledge,” said Pao Wenling, the holder of the Third Seat and Inquisitor of the Convocation. Her statement had the vague sense of a question lingering about its edges, but stung as an accusation.

  “I had always presumed so,” Mordecai said, “but I admit the possibility that someone has.”

  “You’re couching your words carefully, Mordecai,” Bertram said, tapping the fingertips of one hand on the census ledger. It wasn’t as if Mordecai was going to forget that it was there.

  “Too carefully, perhaps,” Wenling agreed. The rest of the wizards looked on, mere spectators. They were there to witness, to add gravitas… possibly to lend aid in overpowering Mordecai if things turned impolite.

  He searched for a sign that anyone disagreed with Wenling’s assessment. In the Fourth Chair, Ronald Sternenlicht wouldn’t meet his eye. In the Sixth Chair, his cousin Ezekiel knit his brow and tried to make Mordecai look elsewhere. Diane Smythe, in the Eleventh Chair, spared him the twitch of a smile, and that was the best he was going to get.

  “So what is it, then?” Mordecai snapped. “Vague accusations? Discrepant reports? A bloody book is missing, and we all know it. What are you more interested in, having someone’s eyes out for reading a forbidden tome, burning me at the stake for letting him, or finding the damned thing and getting it back?”

  In the silence that followed, Mordecai began to worry that perhaps retrieval of the book was not their highest priority. Options swirled in his mind, contingencies for avoiding a stake-burning that would only be figurative in the sense that outdoor human barbecues were illegal on Earth. Wenling and Bertram exchanged a look across the table. Mordecai held his next breath, wondering how many more like it were left in him.

  “Very well,” Bertram said. “As the guardian responsible, I charge you with finding and returning the book, and dealing with the perpetrator of the theft. You have three days. Come sunset Friday, we will have either the book or your resignation.”

  “Thank you,” Mordecai said. “Three days will be plenty.” Plenty of time to get away.

  “I will conduct my own investigation as well,” Wenling said. She graced Mordecai with a smile that said she was trying to help, but the look in her eyes made him suspect she would be investigating him.

  “Well, then,” Bertram said. “There is much to be done. I see no reason to detain either of you. Council is adjourned.”

  # # #

  The air outside Convocation Hall was crisp and fresh with the scent of autumn leaves. Boston Prime was one of the few urban areas left on Earth with tree-lined parks, thanks to the wizards who paid exorbitant taxes for land with nothing but dirt and flora. Mordecai savored the walk back to the churning bustle of the surrounding city.

  Nancy was waiting for him on a bench, watching the sunset over the cityscape. She turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Hey there, handsome,” she called out as he approached. She was dressed for the weather in a baggy wool sweater and her hair pulled up under a matching knit hat.

  Mordecai reached down and offered his hand to help her up, and she kissed him as he pulled her close. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “Ooh, that doesn’t sound good,” Nancy said, falling into step beside Mordecai and taking three steps for every two of his. “I’d hoped you’d clear everything up in there.”

  “Didn’t shake out like that,” he replied. “They gave me three days. I’ve got to find the book and bring it back by Monday night.”

  “Oh,” Nancy replied. Then after a moment’s pause, “I guess you’ll have your hands full this evening.”

  Mordecai could read her like a written page. “What’d you have planned?”

  “The kids are staying with your parents for the weekend. I got us tickets to a show… it was a birthday surprise.”

  Mordecai snorted. “It’s not my birthday. But you knew that.”

  Nancy’s smile cut through the knot of worry binding his guts. “I can’t surprise you on your birthday anymore. You get all defensive and paranoid, and I wanted a real surprise this year. But now…”

  “Aw, hell,” Mordecai said, kicking a twig off the flagstone path. “The damn book can wait. Where we going?”

  “You sure, Mort?”

  “Absolutely.” Since his investigation was going to be a farce, losing time wasn’t a concern. “Anything to clear my head. Just… well, it’s not some singing show, is it?”

  She laughed. “Yes, Mort. I’m dragging you to the opera. I always torment you for your birthday, don’t I?” When he raised an eyebrow in mock alarm, she relented. “It’s a comedy show, as hokey and old fashioned as I could find.”

  “More like it…” he muttered.

  They passed under a wrought iron archway that allowed passage through the ivy-laden red brick wall surrounding the Convocation grounds. Beyond the reach of the subtle magic that kept the peace and solitude of the wizards undisturbed, the modern world rushed in. The air swarmed with the repulsor lights of uncountable cars, freighters, and patrol ships. Luna was visible in the sky above, the blue-green surface of Earth’s only moon half full.

  At the sidewalk’s edge, a line of taxis bobbed, waiting for passengers. Mort picked one at random and opened the door for Nancy.

  “Good evening,” the driver said. “Fifty terra, anywhere in the city. One hundred for the region. Five for anywhere planetside. I don’t do off-Earth. Where are we heading tonight?” The spiel was well rehearsed and fluid, with no polite point for a passenger to break in with a question.

  Mordecai looked to Nancy, since he had no idea where they were going. “Orpheum Theater,” she said to the driver. “See? Oldest theater in Boston Prime. Plus we don’t even cross an ocean tonight.” For a notorious homebody like Mordecai, being stuck in a science-powered vessel for half an hour or more always fouled his mood.

  “Excellent, ma’am,” the driver said. “Fifty terra, digital or hard coin?”

  Mordecai held up the palm of one hand and a symbol appeared between his outstretched fingers, the stroke of lightning crashing through the letter C. The symbol of the Convocation. “Convocation’s tab,” he said gravely. It always helped to keep a serious tone when acting the part of a wizard, lest regular folk get the impression that wizards were people just like them.

  The driver straightened in his seat, his easy friendliness turned formal in an instant. “Yes, sir!”

  Mordecai and Nancy tucked their hands into opposing sleeves
and settled in for the ride. It was a gesture, more than anything—reassurance to the driver that they would work no magic. Few wizards were foolish enough to try spells while aboard a moving vehicle, but it never hurt to show good faith and good manners.

  # # #

  The Orpheum Theater had a pleasant weight of age. It was almost seven hundred years old, and Mordecai imagined that he could feel the ghosts of performers long dead watching over the place. It had been refurbished a number of times, but always with an eye toward preservation rather than modernization. A wizard’s critical eye could pick up a holoprojector here, or a security scanner there, but looking past those, it was easy to let the mind drift back to a simpler era. The seats were upholstered patterned cotton, the curtains red velvet. The ionic columns were a throwback to ancient Greek times even when the place was new, and the vaulted ceiling hearkened to Renaissance architecture.

  Nancy caught him gawking. “You like it?”

  “How is it that you’ve never taken me here?”

  “You’re the most curmudgeonly thirty-two-year-old anyone’s ever been,” she replied. “If I’d have known old theaters would pique your interest, I’d have tried them years ago.”

  Mordecai said nothing in reply. He wanted to tell her that she could take him wherever she liked. That anywhere would be fine. That she was all he needed to be happy wherever he was. But he didn’t trust himself. He risked ruining the night if he let slip how desperate he was. There were three days, and Convocation be damned, he was going to milk them for all their worth.

  Their seats were mezzanine level, front and center, looking down at the stage from so close that he could loft a paper starship down at the performers. As the audience filled the theater, ambient music rose from unseen sources. “What’s this?” Mort asked, unfamiliar with the tunes.