by Stefon Mears
That got a wolfish smile out of the captain. The man’s shoulders lost a bit of their hunch.
“Sorry to keep you from your duties, Mash. I may need someone to explain the technical side of the magic to make sure he understands the strength of the wind crossing our sails. I’d let your second do it, but Mancuso’s the type to respect credentials more than information.”
The bubble opened before Machado could offer his own view of Mancuso, that of a Faust. Mancuso’s the sort to gather and verify all the best possible information, then make the decision that most furthers his own goals.
The corridors were wide on this deck, easily three meters across and high, with rich golden carpeting and even the occasional painting: mostly Greek and Roman themed.
Ten paces off the bubble Jacobs stopped outside the door of one of the premiere luxury suites. The captain raised his right fist, checked his movement, took a deep breath, then knocked politely.
Machado snorted before he could stop himself, drawing an evil eye from the captain intense enough that Machado almost raised a ward by reflex.
Scarcely a moment passed before the door opened, revealing a tall blond man in a suit and haircut to match, the sort of man that tries to use conditioning and expensive tailoring to make up for a lack of personal strength. “Captain Jacobs, a pleasure to see you again. What shall I tell Mr. Mancuso brings you here?”
“Just let him in, Davis,” called the sharp voice of Mancuso. “Jacobs doesn’t wait any better than I do.”
Davis took a step to the side, and Jacobs strode into the room, leaving Machado to follow, an assumption that Machado would tolerate only from his captain.
Machado had never been inside one of the top luxury suites of the Horizon Cusp, and what he saw now nearly made him whistle in admiration. He made a mental note to improve the accommodations he required on the rare occasions that he allowed himself to be flown off-world for consulting purposes.
The plush sea-green carpeting emitted a gentle wave of relaxation that soothed the feet with every step. The coat room to his right had spells woven into it that could clean any article of clothing left in it overnight, similar to the ones Machado had cast on his own dresser and closet. Next to the closet was a bathroom with secondary purification spells on the faucets, filtering their water beyond what the main system did. An unnecessary extravagance in Machado’s opinion, probably done to impress those who would notice.
The main room itself had three indigo couches surrounding a coffee table that looked to have been carved from a conch shell. Over by the porthole — a porthole that took up most of the external bulkhead — sat another couch the color of golden sand, flanked by two matching recliners the size of loveseats and a quartet of end tables that looked to have been pressed out of yellow sand. Spells of comfort wove through all the seating, and the tables had sections designated for maintaining warm or cool temperatures for drinks and food.
Right now each of those tables had an assortment of finger food — all Earth-based — mostly fruits, vegetables, cheeses and candies.
In the recliners by the porthole, reading, sat a woman who could have matched Davis for blondness and suited-ness, save that Machado’s quick read of her spoke better of her strength and confidence. Something in her bearing.
Mancuso and a guest sat on the triangle of couches, where they had clearly been having a relaxed chat. Mancuso’s suit lacked its jacket, and his expensive-looking black shoes were propped on the coffee table. Across the table from him, dressed in a more casual sweater and slacks, sat an Arabic man with a red tint to his features that spoke of more time on Mars than in the lands of his ancestors. Younger than Machado would have expected from someone having a casual conversation with Mancuso, probably only a couple of years older than Cuthbert.
Mancuso gestured to his two standing visitors with a tumbler of brown liquid that Machado suspected of being Scotch old enough to remember technology.
“Captain Jacobs. Making a personal visit to my humble abode without so much as a link of warning. And with the ship’s mage in tow no less. Pity Tai Shi’s not here. She might have learned something.”
Still not pausing for breath, Mancuso directed his next words, but not his eyes, to the man seated opposite him.
“Farbod, may I present Captain John Jacobs, my partner in Starchaser Spacelines, and our ship’s mage, Ronaldo Machado. Gentlemen, may I present Farbod Kianoush, CEO of Sandstorm Transit. What can I do for you, Captain?”
Machado noted that Mancuso pronounced every name with exact precision. Machado’s own name had sounded so natural coming off the man’s lips that it would have matched the accents of Machado’s native São Paolo.
Jacobs nodded at Kianoush, changing Machado’s mind about extending a hand for shaking. Machado almost did it anyway, but decided his captain needed to take lead here.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Kianoush,” said Jacobs. “I do not mean to be rude, but I must ask you to excuse us. I have pressing ship business I must discuss with my partner here.”
Machado saw Mancuso’s eyes widen the barest fraction. The blond woman rose from her seat and began to approach, her book abandoned on an end table behind her.
Before another word was spoken, Machado saw an emerald green deerhound phase in through the wall. Cuthbert’s familiar? Without sparing a hint of focus, Machado called forth Saravá and sent the ghostly onça to intercept, allowing a fragment of his own attention to ride along.
When Mancuso did speak, he said, “We’ll have to pick this up later, Farbod. The timing may be inopportune, but if Jacobs says it’s pressing business, it is.”
Kianoush nodded, made his goodbyes, and left. As he did, Machado slid more of his attention over to the familiars, but the deerhound had already left. In the swift mind speech Machado shared with Saravá, they quickly exchanged:
What was that about?
The Journeyman needed the tycoon found, Master.
Purpose?
Innocent, by my judgment.
Machado let the situation stand at that for the moment and returned his attention to the conversation in front of him. Kianoush had left and Jacobs was saying, “Someone’s using the courier package to track us. I want to dump it, but that would violate our IIX contract.”
Mancuso steepled his fingers. Machado stared at that, wondered at the sort of man who used such an obvious gesture as a conversational gambit.
“Machado,” said Mancuso, “I assume you’re here to tell me that the tracking magic in the package can’t be disabled?”
“Hard to judge for certain without opening the package, but I don’t think so. If I had designed the spell, I would—”
“Do something impressive, no doubt. Your credentials aren’t in doubt here, Machado, but that doesn’t mean I expect to follow all of your explanations. Send Tai Shi a copy though. She should hear about anything that affects security. For right now we’ll accept as given that you two believe our options are: either accept being tracked or break Starchaser Spacelines’ most valuable asset.”
“Our ships and crews are our most valuable assets,” said Jacobs.
“Ships and crews do us no good if no one buys passage,” said Mancuso. “When all is said and done, this voyage is going to look to the press like either a vibrant business expanding into a new market or a desperate company praying a publicity stunt will keep it in the black. Dump that package and which do you think we look like?”
“PR doesn’t do us any good if we don’t survive.”
“I saw the increased security bill that 4M has to pick up for this little trip. You can’t fool me, Jacobs. You were expecting trouble.”
“The last time you were aboard my ship, someone was willing to kill us all to get to you.”
“So you’re ready for a fight. And you seem to know fights and space travel. But tell me something, what will double the price of your share be worth if Starchaser Spacelines loses its exclusive IIX contract?”
Machado didn’t fight the rise of his eyebrows at t
hat question. Was the captain thinking of selling? Jacobs’ hesitation answered the unspoken question.
“Not much,” Jacobs finally said. “But you’d be the one buying.” Jacobs smiled then, the sort of feral smile Machado remembered from barroom brawls in the occasional spaceport during the early days of his tenure with the captain. “I’m an old man. I’ve been expecting to die at space for decades. But you, you have big plans. Are you willing to risk those plans for one business deal?”
Machado checked the urge to smack himself in the forehead. How Jacobs could not have known the answer to that question, Machado could not have guessed.
Mancuso smiled, a smile less violent, perhaps, than Jacobs’, but no less predatory.
“Captain,” he said, “you have no idea what I have risked for a business deal.”
“Then I guess we keep the package,” said Jacobs.
“I suppose we do. But that does not mean we must be foolish about it. Machado, consider Tai Shi available to help do whatever can be done with that package to minimize our risks. And I should think Cuthbert could help as well.”
“The courier works for IIX,” said Jacobs. “Better to leave him out of this.”
“As you like,” said Mancuso, with an air of dismissal. “Stevens, check the IIX contract for a ship endangerment loophole.”
“Yes, Sir,” said the blond woman, who produced a memopad out of a pocket in her suit jacket.
“Then we’re done here,” said Jacobs. “Machado,” he added, by way of an order to follow, and the captain marched out of the suite. Machado followed, Saravá on his heels.
Out in the corridor, Jacobs shook his head and said, “What do you think the chances are that someone will kill him on Venus?”
“I think it’s a tribute to Tai Shi that he’s alive at all.”
Jacobs chuckled and started off, probably for the bridge. Machado almost followed as far as his workshop, but remembered the deerhound intrusion, and turned his steps toward the Main Deck.
◊
Donal ducked behind a crenelated alabaster column on the steps leading to the Horizon Cusp’s space museum on the Main Deck. Between Donal and the Observation Wall, a twenty-meter-long section of bulkhead that had been rendered transparent, stood three passengers Donal had not met, all men not much older that Donal. Their clothes were expensive casual, each outfit probably costing more than Donal had spent on his single formal suit. Or even his formal robe.
But were these men executives Donal had not yet met, or assistants? They spoke in relaxed tones, laughing about a topic Donal could not overhear from his vantage point, and pointing out details in space to each other. Currently the ship passed near a tremendous golden cloud, and Donal wondered fleetingly what magical significance it might have.
One deep breath of cool air and back on topic. Donal had delivered enough packages and dealt with enough bureaucracy to know that executives and assistants required different approaches, and that neither would necessarily be more likely to offer up information to a curious stranger.
And Donal could not count on them knowing who he was. Or maybe I should hope they know nothing about me. For every good impression they might have gotten from Mr. Mancuso, they’re just as likely to have gotten a bad impression from the Romanov woman.
And a good opinion from Mr. Mancuso might make them distrust me anyway.
If my suspicions about him have any validity...
Donal leaned back against the column. This was foolish. He was not ready to approach strangers about Mr. Mancuso. He faced too many unknowns. Every one of his professors had warned Donal, “A good magician acts when he is ready.”
Of course, the unspoken corollary was that every magician occasionally falls short of the ideal.
But not Donal. Not this time.
Donal rubbed his forehead. So much to think about. Venus was still more than four days away, and the chances were good that everyone would gather at Ambrosia — the ritziest restaurant on the Horizon Cusp — for dinner tonight. Donal would have opportunities then to study how others reacted to Mr. Mancuso. Perhaps then he could at least figure out who would be worth talking to.
Maybe I’m not cut out for field work. Not thirty minutes into my first investigation and I already want to go back to my research.
Donal puffed out a breath and entered the museum, hoping his bearing and attempted eager expression would convince any observers that the museum had been his goal all along, even though he could tell after a single step inside that the contents had not changed since his last flight. Programmed illusions covered the history: early thaumaturgic fliers that restored man’s ability to take to the air after the old airplanes failed; the disastrous attempt to take a flier outside the limits of Earth’s sky; the pioneering effort to reconfigure an old submachine — no, submarine — to successfully carry a small crew to the moon, and the lunar ‘rail’ system that ran for three years before Hierophant Carnes broke the secret of space flight.
Donal was turning his attention to the interactive ship development display when Fionn drifted down through the ceiling.
“I found Donatello Mancuso in his quarters, meeting with Captain John Jacobs and Ronaldo Machado.”
“About the package?”
“I believe so, but I did not risk tarrying. Saravá advised me to leave with haste so that none could accuse you of spying.” The deerhound’s emerald ears flattened for a moment, then popped back up. “The course of action they would take regarding the package seemed to be under dispute.”
“Wait, they’re not going to try to open the package, are they?”
“I could not determine their decision without remaining. Would you prefer that I had done so?”
“No, better to avoid accusations of spying. The captain seems the sort to take that badly.” Donal turned from the display and started back out of the museum and toward the nearest bubble, Fionn by his side. “I don’t like the idea that they want to go behind my back about the package though. I can’t let them damage it.”
Donal reached for the bubble’s lever, but before he could pull it the cage arrived, carrying Magister Machado, who had a troubled crinkle around his eyes.
“Just the Journeyman I was looking for,” said the Magister.
“I didn’t do it,” Donal said, hands coming up, drawing curious expressions from both his familiar and the heavy magician.
“Didn’t do what?” asked Machado, slow emphasis on that last word.
“I haven’t cast any spells since I boarded. Well, apart from a couple of false trails for the package, but those were standard procedure, strictly by the book and within my rights as a professional courier. I haven’t cast anything that might threaten or work beyond the boundaries of your spells.”
Machado’s eyes narrowed. His lips flattened and curled in, almost disappearing as his chin pressed forward. He raised a single, pointing finger with the inevitable slowness of doom...
...then started laughing.
Deep, raucous amusement shook the mage’s whole body, infecting Donal until he too chuckled.
“Why are we laughing?”
“Because...” Machado leaned his hands on his knees and caught his breath. “You don’t have a year’s experience since getting your Journeyman’s license, but you’re already so used to trouble that you can rip off a formal denial without even having done anything wrong.” He reached out and clapped Donal on the shoulder, with more strength than Donal had expected.
“Come on.” Machado steered Donal toward the cage. “I’ll show you my workshop while you and I discuss a few matters. And on the way I’ll tell you about the time I got kicked out a hotel bar in Los Angeles for setting up a spell that stripped the clothes off of everyone who had a drink in the bar. That was quite a party.”
Donal held up a forestalling hand. “First, I need to know. Is the captain going to force the package open?”
“Are you kidding?” Machado smiled again. “They’d throw it into space first. Now come on.”<
br />
Donal followed, but he couldn’t decide if he trusted the Magister’s answer.
◊
Jacobs stormed onto the bridge. The moment the door closed behind him he noticed the silence of his bridge crew. Not just silence. Stillness.
Could be nothing. Could be sensitivity to the Old Man’s anger at his ‘partner’s’ bullshit. Then again...
“Mr. Tunold, how is my ship?”
“Steady as she goes, Sir,” said Tunold from his station, facing Jacobs who still stood just inside the bridge door. “All reports show five by five.”
“Current as of...”
“Five minutes ago. How’s His Highness?”
“Same as ever,” said Jacobs, and he shared a look with his executive officer, the same look shared by many captains and executive officers throughout naval history: V.I.P actually stood for Very Invasive Pain.
“Let me handle him. Free up your time for something more important.”
“I could handle a dozen Mancusos if I had to,” said Jacobs, ascending the stairs to the captain’s station. “In fact, a dozen would leave me a few extras in case of ... accidents.”
Jacobs settled into his chair, and tried not to think about how good it felt to get off of his feet, to let his back relax against the padding. Stay sharp, old man.
“Mr. Grabowski, any bogies in my sky?”
“Clear space, Sir. Nearly as far as I can see.”
“Nearly isn’t clear, Mister. Which is it?”
“Clear enough,” said Tunold.
Suddenly that padding held no comfort for Jacobs’ shoulders.
“Mr. Tunold, check on Chief Goldberg. Last time I saw him he looked harried, and I’m betting Tai Shi’s the cause.”
“Aye, Sir. Ms. Jefferson—”
“Face to face, Ex Oh.”
Tunold looked up, irritation all over his face. Jacobs gave him only steel in return, daring his executive officer to challenge the order. Tunold hunched and relaxed his shoulders twice, then finally said, “Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain.”
Jacobs gave his miniature gryphon display a quick check while he waited for Tunold to leave the bridge. No systems flashed red, always a good sign.
