Sleight of Mind (Rise of Magic Book 2)

by Stefon Mears

  The moment the door closed behind Tunold, Jacobs said, “Give me details, Mr. Grabowski. What is not clear about my sky?”

  “It’s probably nothing, Sir.”

  “Mr. Grabowski, I am going to assume that you chose those words out of respect for your executive officer and as an attempt to avoid saying anything that might countermand the expressed opinion of a superior officer.

  “However.

  “I did not ask Mr. Tunold to evaluate the data. I asked you for a report from our scanners. And if you ever again tell me something ‘is probably nothing,’ I will give you a safe suit and send you out into the black to investigate it personally. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “That goes for all of you,” said Jacobs taking in the whole of his bridge crew. “When I ask you for a report, I expect a complete report, as accurate as you can make it, and not omitting a detail that is ‘probably nothing.’ ‘Probably nothing’ sinks ships, ladies and gentlemen. ‘Probably nothing,’ gets us killed.”

  Jacobs let that sink in while he sat back in his chair.

  “Now, Mr. Grabowski. What is this ‘probably nothing’ of yours?”

  “For the last hour or so—”

  “Mr. Grabowski, this is not a casual jaunt to the moon. We are following a route that has only been flown by military vessels, explorers, and colonists. Approximations are insufficient on this flight. I thought I made that clear in our pre-flight briefing.”

  Giving his beleaguered scanners officer a moment to collect himself, Jacobs turned to his pilot.

  “Mr. Burke, did I make that point clear during our pre-flight briefing?”

  “Aye, Sir,” said Burke, face flaming red at having to throw a fellow officer under their wake. Good man. That should never feel comfortable.

  “Ms. Jefferson?”

  “Aye, Sir, but may I point out that this level of expectation is unusual for our voyages and may require time to adjust?”

  “You may,” said Jacobs, not hiding his smile. That’s it. Stand up for your fellows without challenging your superior. More politick than I would have been at your age. “And I have not issued any formal reprimands. However, consider this the end of the grace period. Continue, Mr. Grabowski, and remember: precision.”

  “One moment, Sir.” Grabowski called up his own log in his phantasmal display, but before he dug through he grabbed the handles of the scanner systems and got the distant look of a scannerman, his mind sweeping through the ship’s surroundings.

  As Grabowski released, Jacobs noted that he set a quick alert that would ping him if anything came within a set distance. Not as accurate as active work, but good enough to spare Grabowski attention for his log.

  “It was one hour seven minutes ago that I first logged an anomaly aft of us at one-seventy-eight by one-ninety-two, distance zero point zero three seven decans, approximately ten thousand three hundred klicks. The anomaly vanished before I could attempt a clearer scan at that distance. The anomaly appeared to me as a slight shimmer, like the sun above the sea near dusk.”

  “Color?”

  “None that I could discern. I’ve spotted it twice since then, with no predictable interlude between sightings. The distance is consistent, but the location varies. Full details about times and locations are in my log, Sir, and have been sent to your station.”

  “Professional opinion. Any guesses what that anomaly might be?”

  “Unknown, Sir. I’ve never seen space shimmer before. Any chance this is a good thing?”

  “I’ve never heard of a mistral wind in space.” Let me be wrong. Let this be innocent. “Mr. Burke, anything in the Navy reports about this section of correspondences and decans that might account for this ‘shimmer?’”

  “Negative, Sir. Clear space was predicted for the next twelve hours.”

  “Mr. Grabowski, when was the last sighting?”

  “Sixteen minutes ago.”

  “So we’re due.”

  “Aye, Sir, as due as we get. I have attempted to pre-program a deep scan response on detection, but I’m not sure the lacuna can respond that quickly.”

  “Good plan and good thinking, but I suspect you’re right. We’ll have to take another approach.” A fool’s approach, Old Man. You can’t be considering this. “Mr. Burke, raise speed one-eighth. Let’s see if that distance stays consistent.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  With that, Jacobs turned his attention to the ship’s reports, first of his bridge crew and then the remaining key systems. As he did, he tried to talk himself out of a risky plan.

  ◊

  Donal laughed alongside Magister Machado as they entered the Magister’s workshop. Donal could not decide if going drinking with the man would be fun or lead to his first prison sentence. He never seems to get arrested though. Another perk of an advanced degree?

  Fionn followed along, chatting with Saravá in that language all familiars seemed to speak, but no one else could understand.

  “What do familiars talk about among themselves?”

  “They’re still spirits, Donal.” The laughter had vanished from the Magister’s manner fast enough to draw Donal up to full height, unimpressive though that may have been. Machado continued, “They are part of us, but partly still of the Outside. They’ll never quite see things the way we do, and they keep secrets among themselves that they will never share with us. I have my suspicions, of course, but I keep those close to my chest, out of respect for Saravá.”

  Donal almost let that statement pass with a generic sound of acknowledgment, but... “So you don’t know either.”

  Machado laughed. “If anyone does, they’ve never spoken or written about it. I’d’ve heard. And the familiars, of course, aren’t talking. But try to cultivate an air of mystery, boy. You’re a magician, for Oxalá’s sake. We have a grand and glorious tradition of looking smarter than we really are, and you better uphold your end.”

  “Yes, Magister,” said Donal through a chuckle.

  “Right,” said Machado. He snapped his fingers and the door to the workshop closed, giving Donal a moment to stare with no forced awe at the complex structures of thaumaturgy woven into three separate magic circles, some of which were tied to the small alchemy lab at the back. And he also marveled with no small amount of envy at the personal library along one wall that fairly reeked of magic.

  “Speaking of familiars,” said the Magister. “Don’t let me catch yours poking around a passenger’s cabin again.” He held up a hand to forestall Donal’s protest. “I know. Your plan was only to find someone. But businessmen guard their secrets as tightly as we do, and your cú sidhe nearly overheard something it shouldn’t have.

  “Now.” The Magister turned to face Donal square. “I want you to swear by your power that you are only aboard this ship to deliver a package. And remember, I know that deception magic is one of your specialties.”

  “I...” Donal tried to find a loophole while Fionn watched. But the real problem was that, with the Dagda as his witness, Donal didn’t want to find a loophole. He liked Magister Machado. “I can’t.”

  “I thought so,” said the Magister with a sagely nod. “Come on.” He led Donal over to his desk and eased his bulk into the overlarge roller chair, leaving a seat for Donal that was a tiny squib in comparison. “Out with it. What scheme is cooking in that overreaching mind of yours?”

  “I want to find out, once and for all, whether Mr. Mancuso is just a business man making business deals, or really—”

  “Shadow tyrant, ruling all humanity?” Whatever Magister Machado had been expecting Donal to say, it must not have been that. His nostrils flared even wider than his eyes. “You got caught up in that?”

  “Well, you’ve got to admit that the man makes sharks look like prey animals. And I was there when Mr. bin Zuka dropped dead.”

  “You saw a spell kill him?”

  “No. There was a flare of power. Fionn identified it as death magic. Then everyone scrambled and th
e port security mages shut me out.”

  “And they were right to do so,” Magister Machado said with slow emphasis. “Here you’re suspecting murder, but security mages on the scene never officially reported murder. If they had, the whole crew would have buzzed about it.”

  “So you think suicide?”

  “A crazed mind shapes magic poorly.”

  “He seemed coherent enough during our duel.” Donal couldn’t help the wounded pride showing through in his voice. “Nearly killed me.”

  “And you said he relied entirely on the magic of disharmony, which works strongest for an unquiet mind. Death spells are a bit trickier.”

  Donal remembered the ease with which Li Hua slew a runner full of assailants on Mars. She needed less time than Donal had needed to summon a dust devil. But Donal saw no need to tell Magister Machado about Mars.

  “I’ve never studied death magic.”

  “Nor should you.” Magister Machado shook a heavy finger in Donal’s face. “The way you overstretch yourself, you’d end up your own target.”

  “I’m getting better about that.”

  “Don’t tempt me to make you prove it.” Magister Machado drew a breath so deep his whole body seemed to inflate. He puffed it out at the ceiling, and Donal would have sworn the mage was larger than before he had drawn that breath.

  “On second thought. Prove it. Don’t overreach while within my demesne. And don’t harass the passengers or I’ll cut off your magic until you’re back on Earth.”

  “But Venus is—”

  “So don’t harass anyone.”

  “I don’t intend to, but—”

  “Journeyman, you are out of your depth.” Magister Machado swore in Portuguese for a moment, then continued in English. “Damn it, you’re a clever kid, but there’s no margin for error on this flight. Think Mancuso’s doing more than he should? Report it to the Commission for Space Safety when you get back to San Francisco. I know they aren’t a governing body, but all the governments listen to them and they have resources you don’t even dream of.”

  “But what if that’s too late?”

  Machado snapped his hand into a fist and Donal felt a jolt through his aura, like he’d been slapped everywhere at once and now every body hair stood up.

  “Ever think the reason Red Sun didn’t go to the C.S.S. was that they were lying? Don’t be a fool, Donal. Enjoy the flight. Sleep with your beautiful girlfriend, who, by the way, would probably not like to hear you making accusations like that. So think long and hard before you speak them aloud again to anyone.”

  The Magister looked sideways at Donal, and some of the fire left his tone. “And keep your head down. Goldberg already told me he thinks the Romanov has it in for you.”

  “She might,” said Donal, although his thoughts were on Li Hua. If he brought a complaint to the C.S.S. they might start a formal investigation, and Donal doubted his name could be kept out of it. “The Romanovs didn’t like a package I delivered on the moon. They blamed the messenger.”

  “More reason for you to avoid mixing potions you don’t need to drink.”

  “He’s putting me through grad school. Is that something I can accept if he turns out to be more than a businessman?”

  “Foundation concerns?”

  Machado sounded honestly surprised, as though Donal had given the Magister an angle he hadn’t considered by reminding him of one of the axioms of magic: taint the foundation and you taint the results. The Brazilian magician ran the back of his hand across his chins, then shook his head.

  “Even if he is. The factors balance neutral because you saved his life. Accepting the repayment of a debt does not create debt.”

  Donal hoped that was true. He wanted it to be, but he couldn’t shake the idea that Mr. Mancuso would consider this more than simple repayment. He would expect a return on his investment.

  But how do I explain that to Magister Machado?

  “Now go on,” said the ship’s mage, “and do something that won’t make me come down on you. I don’t enjoy it, and I have real work to get back to.”

  Donal lingered a moment longer, but at seeing an impatient eyebrow raise on the Magister’s face, Donal gestured for Fionn, said his goodbyes, and headed toward the door. But before he could bring himself to open it he turned back to the Magister, who scribbled something in his zephyrpad with his finger.

  “Magister?”

  “What?” said Machado, with a note of warning clear in his voice.

  “What was that spell you cast?” Donal held up an empty hand and closed it.

  “You’ve never seen the Jenkins Flash? It’s the entire basis for thaumaboxing.” When Donal shook his head, Magister Machado continued. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Can’t have the undergrads getting caught up in fight games.” He shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not good for much more than what I did with it, not without the spells setting up the thaumaboxing ring.”

  He must have seen the curiosity burning in Donal’s eye, because the Magister pursed his lips in thought. “Tell you what. If we make it all the way to Venus without you causing any trouble, I’ll teach you how it works.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” said Donal, and with that he left the workshop, slow steps carrying him down the echoing, narrow corridor the bubble. After he pulled the lever to call the bubble, he turned to his cú sidhe.

  “What do you think, Fionn?”

  “I am acquainted with similar techniques. They rely on skills outside your chosen areas of focus.”

  “No, I mean about the rest of it.”

  “Ronaldo Machado raises good points. Perhaps this burden can pass from you.”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Mancuso always puts me in mind of the fae. No offense, but my grandmother always said that debts to the fae weren’t like debts to other people: they always dug deeper, reached further, and lasted longer than any mortal human being had a right to expect.”

  If the fae deerhound took offense it gave no sign. “So what is our next course of action?”

  “Let’s go back to the room.” Donal ran his hands over his face, then through his short, black hair. “I need time to think. Figure some things out.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Captain,” said Jefferson from the communications station, “Mr. Tunold reports that he is on his way back.”

  “Excellent. Have him meet me in my office.” Jacobs continued giving orders as he descended the stairs from his station. “Helm, hold current speed for another half-hour. Let’s see how our shimmer responds. Scanners, I expect as much attention on the rest of space as on likely locations for the shimmer’s next appearance. Never assume it isn’t a distraction. Comm, route any important links through my office. I’ll be back soon.”

  Nerves set Jacobs’ pace faster than usual down the sloping passageway to his office on Crew Deck One. He was not in the Navy anymore, had not been for decades. He had no right to order men into harm’s way.

  Jacobs knew the ethical choice. But Jacobs also knew the ethical choice and the best choice for survival did not always coincide.

  Jacobs let himself into his office, and poured two tumblers of Brigid’s Own Irish Whiskey. He set one on his desk in front of a visitor’s chair, and swirled the other gently in his hand as he took his seat.

  He would not sip. Not yet. But he took some comfort in having the drink ready.

  No more than a minute passed before a frame-rattling knock announced the arrival of his executive officer. From another man that pounding might have been a sign of anger, but Tunold only knew one way to knock.

  “Come in, Kris, before you knock it off its hinges.”

  Tunold entered and began speaking on his way to his chair. “You were right. Tai Shi’s been riding Goldberg about how security needs to be handled when we land. As though we don’t have days to hammer out the details. The chief was almost ready to try to throw her in the brig.”

  “I’d have liked to have seen that. She may be a caster, but I�
�ve seen him take down casters before. If only...”

  “If only it wouldn’t have been horrible for passenger morale.” Tunold noticed his glass, then looked at it more directly, then slid his eyes back to take in his captain.

  “You knew. That’s why you sent me down in person instead of talking on the link.”

  “Partially,” said Jacobs with an acknowledging incline of his head. He waited for Tunold to pick up his glass and take a drink — only downing half of it. Improvement, at least. Better than slugging the whole glass.

  “However. Your ‘probably nothing’ looks to me like a ship that’s somehow evading our scanners.”

  Jacobs sipped his honeyed whiskey, holding it on his tongue long enough for the sweet scent to add depth to the taste. In doing so, he gave Tunold time to digest Jacobs’ meaning, which led to the unfortunate side effect of Tunold slamming down the rest of his whiskey.

  Jacobs shook his head, a bare movement that was probably lost on the younger man.

  “That’s right,” Jacobs continued. “It might be a ship, but from here we can’t be certain. But we damn well need certainty, because if that is a ship, the chances that its intentions are honorable are about as good as the chances of Mancuso donating everything he has to charity and joining a monastery.”

  “We don’t have a proper scout ship. You want to let Mash do his projection thing?”

  “The last time a magician projected off of this ship he accidentally brought two zuglodons down on us. No, we need to send someone in the hippogriff shuttle to check it out and see if proximity gets us any more information.” Jacobs looked at his whiskey, swirling in his tumbler. “Ethically I should not ask anyone to take this risk if I’m not ready to take it myself—”

  “Not going to happen,” Tunold said in a tone of absolute certainty that rankled Jacobs’ contrary side. “Obviously a command level officer needs to lead this mission, so I’ll go. I’ll take—”

  “But,” said Jacobs, loudly enough to silence his angry bear of an executive officer. “Ethics also allow me to take volunteers for the job, and on this ship volunteers are rarely in short supply.”