by Stefon Mears
The Horizon Cusp’s Deception Drive needed only one lacuna, a single space elemental to transport them through the solar system (and, Machado admitted, another smaller lacuna to keep them appraised of the space around them). But the ship required more than a dozen air elementals to ferry it within a planet’s sky.
Machado sent a mental note to Saravá to remind him later: Machado wanted to calculate the ratios of elementals needed for ship travel and determine where the optimal balance lay.
Machado tapped into the feed of information coming from the sensors’ sylphs. Almost out of the hangar, perhaps ten minutes more before the lacunas could feel enough space around them to take over.
More systems checks, all responding within the parameters Machado considered safe. Which, he noted with irritation, were narrower than those Jitters would have set, if I’d let her.
Thoughts of the Chief Engineer brought a response from Machado’s familiar: “Everything functions as you predicted, Master.”
Machado swept once more through the main systems, double-checking his work, but by the time he felt the Deception Drive take over he had not found anything to concern him.
His official work finished, Machado prepared to withdraw from the tapestry and return his attention to his body, perhaps to celebrate his good work with a snack.
But so long as he was here...
Machado ran his thoughts along the designs of his most recent addition to the ship’s thaumaturgic array — emergency wards that could partition the life support systems in case of a breach.
He had finished the third of ten latent magic circles inscribed in key places when a tremor in the tapestry drew his attention. He turned his focus to investigate, but it was gone.
Somewhere near the bridge, thought Machado.
If the Horizon Cusp’s spells formed a tapestry, then the bridge was the key visual element that tied everything together. Machado dropped his other investigations and sifted through every spell connected to the bridge controls, beginning with life support.
Just as he dug into the control elements he felt the tremor again. Not coming from the bridge. Not coming from his spells...
Machado spread his mental self wide, encompassing the bridge and the two decks below it; every spell, latent and active, spread itself before his scrutiny.
There. A throb, almost like a pulse point in a wrist. The tremor comes from the resonance of ... the ship’s safe?
Machado yanked his mind back into his body so fast his bulk careened from its lotus position like a drunkard. Back in control of his physical form, Machado slapped his hands against the deck for support and launched himself to his feet like a Buddha beginning a 100-meter dash.
He reached his desk and slapped his comm pad, speaking before Ms. Jefferson’s head finished appearing above it.
“Bridge! This is Machado. We have a problem.”
Chapter Seven
At his station on the bridge, Jacobs finished calming his ship’s mage, and cut the connection. He looked up through the transparent ceramics of the domed hull and sighed at the stars.
Barely into space and already a problem.
As he descended the stairs from his station, he said, “A fine take-off, Mr. Burke. Mr. Grabowski, keep a weather eye on the scanners once we’re past rush hour. Anyone tries to ride our wake to Venus, I want to know. Ms. Jefferson, find Chief Goldberg and send him to my office. Mr. Tunold, keep an eye on things for a few minutes, won’t you?”
Jacobs heard the expected chorus of ‘Aye, Captain,’ with one exception. Tunold said, “Problem, sir?”
“Remains to be seen, Ex Oh.” Jacobs stopped just shy of the low, curved door, turned back to his executive officer’s frown, and said with a smile, “Don’t worry, Kris. I won’t hog all the fun.”
Tunold said something in reply, but Jacobs was already closing the door behind him.
Jacobs held his pace to a leisurely stroll down the sloping passage to Crew Deck One. His office was not far, and he saw no point in hurrying down just to stand around waiting for Goldberg.
But when he reached his office door, Goldberg stood waiting, along with Machado, and the tall, dark assistant ship’s mage, Cromartie. Machado’s mouth pulled wide and his brow pulled down: irritation, likely at whatever’s in the safe. Storm warning in Goldberg’s eyes, his jaw positioned to crack his neck at any moment.
Someone’s already on the Chief’s bad side.
Cromartie had that distant look mages get when they’re thinking about magic but should be thinking about the world around them.
“Captain—” started Goldberg.
“This comes first, Chief,” said Jacobs. “Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me.”
He opened his door and led them through his office, through his personal quarters, and into the short, narrow hall behind them that ended in the ship’s safe: two meters wide by two meters tall, fashioned from a carterite-steel alloy and sealed up with spells so tight that the hull probably felt inadequate by comparison. In the center sat a false combination dial in the shape of a twenty centimeter wide ship’s wheel.
Jacobs turned to the three cramped men. “Chief, let the record show that we will be opening the ship’s safe at the request of our ship’s mage, who has detected a possible threat inside.”
“Acknowledged,” said Goldberg, enough curiosity in his voice to outweigh the impatience in his eyes.
“Mr. Machado, if you will recount the reason we are here.”
“Sir, can’t we just—”
“Regulations are clear. Unless the threat is imminent, we will follow procedure.”
“Fine.” Machado spat the word out as he might a jalapeño pepper found in his chocolate ice cream. He rushed through a summary of what he had detected.
“Without a formal passenger request, the chief of security and I must agree that the need is sufficient to open the safe. I agree. Chief?”
“I confirm.”
Jacobs placed his hand on the wheel and said, “I, Captain John Jacobs, acting in the interest of ship’s safety and with the confirmation of the chief of security, hereby require the safe to open.”
The door swung open. Inside the safe were several boxes of passengers’ valuables (most often cash and jewelry), a few enchanted items that had to be safely stowed in transit, about a dozen dueling swords, and a sealed leather pouch, barely large enough to contain a memopad.
“The pouch,” said Machado.
“Safe to touch?” asked Jacobs.
Cromartie narrowed his eyes, perhaps uncertain, but Machado gave a definite nod.
Jacobs reached for the pouch, but Goldberg cleared his throat, so softly it was almost too quiet to hear.
Jacobs closed his reaching fingers. He felt an urge to reprimand Goldberg for daring to correct his captain, but Jacobs had to admit that the sound had been the most diplomatic utterance Goldberg had ever made in his presence.
Jacobs drew his back straight and waved his hand in an after-you gesture. Goldberg pinched the edge of the pouch between his index finger and thumb, slid it to the edge of the safe, and lifted it high enough to give them all a good look.
“Pulsing at steady intervals,” said Machado, finger moving to ensure his assistant spotted the pulse.
“Courier’s seal,” said Goldberg.
“Of course,” said Jacobs. He held out his hand and Goldberg, with only a slight hesitation, handed over the pouch. Jacobs reached out his other hand and slammed the safe’s door shut hard enough to make Machado and Cromartie wince.
“Chief, would you have someone fetch our courier?”
◊
The last time Donal had flown on this ship, he had felt quarantined, isolated in a cabin at least six decks away from any of the other passengers. Admittedly, tensions had been high and it had been done for his own safety. Not that it had helped...
But still, it felt good to have a cabin — a luxury suite cabin no less — down on Promenade One alongside the rest of the passengers. And if Donal�
�s cabin sat a little apart from the others, well, that was just enough to provide breathing space.
And with any luck, thought Donal, having a cabin so close to Li Hua’s will come in handy...
Not that he expected her to have much social time on the cruise, since she was working. Donal had yet to even see her since they boarded.
Donal forewent the bubble and took an access ladder down to the Main Deck, entering through the hatch door. The main passenger deck spread out around him like a sanitized version of a Greek village. Shops and boutiques, bars and restaurants, game rooms and exercise areas spread out in rows of standalone buildings cut from marble, fitted without mortar, and polished to a shine. The air carried a hint of dust and sea smells, but those were illusions, like the ceiling, which appeared to be a vivid blue daytime sky, complete with fluffy clouds and a sun that moved through the sky on schedule, and would later set to let the moon and stars provide evening mood lighting.
The attention to detail made Donal smile. The sound of voices broadened his smile a little more. If other passengers were already exploring this deck, perhaps the voyage would feel casual despite the small passenger count.
Nevertheless, Donal recalled Fionn from its silver faun pendant.
The fae deerhound assessed the situation and said, “Hoping for an early massage?”
“You read my mind.”
“Shall I scout ahead and get your name on the list? There may be competition.”
“Donal!” came the commanding crack from a voice Donal recognized. He turned to see the speaker, Donatello Mancuso, business magnate, possible would-be dictator, and Donal’s personal college sponsor.
Fionn immediately faded from visible to everyone to visible only to the sight of magicians.
Donal smiled, hoping it didn’t look forced. Mr. Mancuso — Donatello, he wants me to call him Donatello — stood with his pair of secretaries, Ms. Stevenson and Mr. Davis, who both looked so blonde and crisp that they could have modeled for a young married couple. His and hers midnight blue suits.
Donal didn’t know the four others standing with Mr. — Donatello — but they had the look of money: old enough to be out of college but young enough to not go gray, with tailored clothes expensive enough to pay the cost of Donal’s suite for a full year’s cruise.
But apparently looking over the crowd required a moment longer than Donatello wanted, because the whip-like man with the pencil mustache and black hair raised his hands in a clear gesture that said, ‘I am not accustomed to waiting.’
Despite himself, Donal trotted down the row between buildings to reach the conversation. He could feel Fionn withholding comment as he slapped his smile back in place, extended his hand, and said, “Good to see you, Donatello.”
“Glad to see Tai Shi’s been improving your wardrobe,” said his patron, while gripping and pumping his hand as though trying to throttle money out of a deadbeat, “but what the hell are you doing here?”
Between Donatello’s rapid-fire delivery and the amused looks on the faces of the three men and one woman Donal did not know, Donal had not yet managed an answer before Ms. Stevens leaned in and whispered in her boss’ ear.
“A delivery?” barked Do— Mr. Mancuso. He may want me to call him Donatello, but there’s no way he’ll be anyone but Mr. Mancuso to me. “Why are you delivering packages? Why aren’t you in school? Stevens, has there been any breakdown on our end?”
“None, sir.”
Mr. Davis cleared his throat politely, and Mr. Mancuso said, “Right. Pleasantries. Donal Cuthbert, meet Natasha Romanov of The Romanov Group, Ricardo Montenegro of United Manufacturing, and Saito Akio, of Saito Industries. Donal here saved my life, and is apparently continuing to work as a courier despite the fact that I’m paying for him to become a Hierophant.”
“A magician,” said Mr. Saito, with a slight bow that kept his eyes on Donal. “Excuse me.” And Mr. Saito stepped away as though he expected Donal to start casting spells. Mr. Montenegro uttered something polite and pleasant before making his own quick getaway, but Ms. Romanov said nothing. She only narrowed her eyes at Donal, then turned and sauntered away.
Wait. Romanov?
A flick of Donal’s eyes told him that Fionn had made the connection as well, and his cú sidhe circled around to stand guard between Donal and a potential enemy.
“Petty idiots,” said Mr. Mancuso with a disgusted glance after his departing companions. “As though any magician who would save my life would threaten their secrets. You aren’t here to steal secrets, are you Donal?”
“No, sir. I—”
“Then would you care to tell me why you appear to be refusing my gift?”
Something dangerous moved through Mr. Mancuso’s eyes. Not as though Donal were in any immediate danger, but as though Mr. Mancuso was not a man to look kindly on those who rejected his largess.
“I’m not.” Donal held up his hands in near surrender. “I can’t move onto campus until the end of August, and I’ve got to eat and pay the rent in the meantime. Plus Li Hua isn’t the cheapest date I’ve ever known.”
That last got a chuckle out of Mr. Mancuso.
“I bet she isn’t. But I’ve told you, boy, we’ve got you covered. You like to earn your own way, and I respect that. But you should have come to us if you needed money. Stevens, I left enough in the Cuthbert Budget to handle incidentals?”
Stevens gave a single, tight nod.
“Thought so. Never cut corners to save a dime, Donal. Always ends up costing you a dollar later.”
“I wasn’t—”
“And don’t play poor when you’ve got a rich uncle. Now you give up this courier business and let 4M take care of you until you’ve got at least one doctorate and can start earning some real money.”
As so often seemed to happen to Donal while talking with Mr. Mancuso, he felt at least three sentences behind.
“All right ... Donatello ... I’ll make this my last delivery.”
“Yes, I suppose you have to finish it. Wouldn’t do to leave a job half-done...” Mr. Mancuso tapped his fingers together as though looking for a loophole.
Donal half expected him to somehow find one, but they were interrupted by a white-uniformed member of the ship’s watch. Donal noted that the bruiser of a woman had a Pacifier strapped to her hip, like a white billy club declaring to all who saw it that the watch was ready if trouble called.
“Donal Cuthbert,” she said. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”
“Later,” said Mr. Mancuso. “We’re talking.”
“I’m afraid I have to insist, Sir. Ship’s business, by order of the captain.”
“It’s all right,” said Donal, relieved to have an exit from the conversation, even if it meant he was in some kind of trouble. Mr. Mancuso always put him in mind of his grandmother’s stories of the daoine sidhe, and Donal felt that Mr. Mancuso would have been more than at home among the unseelie. “Probably just a question about the security requirements for my package. Nothing to worry about.”
Donal hurried after the watchwoman, Fionn following as though Donal needed a rear guard. Of course, if the Romanovs were still angry about the package Donal delivered on Luna, he might need more than a rear guard.
◊
Donal entered the captain’s office and felt his breath catch. The captain, seated at his desk, had the scowl of a commander ready to order men to their deaths. Standing to the right of the desk was the chief of security — Mr. Goldberg, if Donal recalled correctly — and to the left stood Magister Machado, with Initiate Cromartie hovering behind the heavy magician. None of them looked happy.
The Magister’s eyes tracked Fionn’s entrance, but he said nothing.
The captain, the chief of security, and the ship’s mage. All waiting for Donal. He could imagine no way this meeting could go well, especially with that look on the captain’s face.
Sitting on the desk in front of the captain was Donal’s courier pouch. Still sealed, at least.
The door shut with a click that rang out all too final in Donal’s ears.
◊
Poor kid looks like he’s been brought to trial, thought Jacobs. Pale, ready to start shaking or sweating any second.
“Have a seat, Mr. Cuthbert.” Jacobs knew better than to force a smile that would have come off as a snarl. He waited until the boy settled on the edge of his chair, eyes sliding between Machado, Goldberg, and Jacobs himself.
Jacobs pointed to the pouch on his desk to give Cuthbert something to focus on. “We need to know what you’re carrying.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, Sir. Couriers are never told what we’re transporting.”
“Protects the package against mind magic used on the courier,” said Cromartie in his deep, smooth voice. “I did a stint delivering off-world a couple of years back.”
Jacobs saw Goldberg nod absent confirmation of Cromartie’s statement, though whether he was confirming the assertion or the facts of the Initiate’s personal history, Jacobs could not be certain. He decided it didn’t matter.
“And I suppose you can’t tell us where it’s from or who’s going to receive it?”
“No, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” The kid at least had the grace to look apologetic. “May I ask why it matters?”
“Did you notice the way it pulses?” asked Machado, with what sounded to Jacobs like more curiosity than suspicion in his voice.
◊
Donal felt puzzlement spread across his face, but rather than ask he slipped his mind through to a deeper phase of consciousness and looked at the package. First he noticed the tight, protective weave of spells that sealed the contents against damage or tampering: everything remained intact. Next Donal spotted the wispy remains of the concealment spells he used to divert attention from the courier pouch when he was carrying it.
