by Stefon Mears
“Details, Mr. Grabowski!”
“Lacunas, Sir.” Disbelief twisted the poor man’s words almost beyond the point of comprehensibility. “Big ones, small ones. Gotta be fifty of them all homing in on the Ragnarök.”
“Mr. Burke, push us into the asteroid field. Once inside you can kill the speed all you like for safety, but not until there are at least two rocks between us and them.”
Jacobs noted to give his ship’s mage a bonus and started poring over what the charts could tell him about this asteroid field.
◊
“Yes!” cried Machado as the illusion took hold. A simple spell, it would enhance the wards to make them extra-slippery to incoming grapples. Now he needed to do something about the gargoyle’s firing mechanism if he could penetrate its wards.
Then he felt it, dozens of angry, simple minds with vast power. All outside the ship.
“Aaron, get ready to augment the wards. We’ve got—”
“Master,” said Saravá, “lacunae from the hunting ground have been conjured to attack the other ship. Based on the information from the scanners, I estimate fifty-three, including six great lacunae.”
Cromartie could never have conjured that many. Probably not Tai Shi either. Her magic tended toward the direct and personal. Conjuration was not her style...
But it was a specialty of Cuthbert’s.
“Aaron, forget the wards. Go get the doctor and find Cuthbert. Damn fool’s outdone himself this time.”
Machado allowed a moment to perceive for himself what Saravá had seen through the scanners. He smiled, despite his concern.
“That brilliant, damned fool.”
Machado could now ignore the Ragnarök. Once those lacunas started hitting the other ship, their wards would not last long.
But Machado had to ensure that these lacunas did not turn their attention to the Horizon Cusp.
◊
Donal reeled as he sat cross-legged on the carpet, swaying side to side despite how much he wanted to stop. Swaying made the nausea worse. Perhaps Magister Machado could stomach rich food before a major working, like the sausage and eggs he had sent to Donal, but Donal should have stuck to fruit and toast.
Then perhaps the room would not be spinning so fast.
Donal focused on his breathing, resorting to one of the basic school-taught patterns to try to control his body, to bring his physical form and mental form back into the alignment that the major conjuration, combined with an illusion no less, had knocked out of whack.
Fionn sat before Donal, then leaned forward and ever-so-gently nipped at Donal’s shoulders, then his wrists, then his knees, mumbling Gaelic all the while that Donal felt as though he should have been able to understand, yet could not.
Still, by the time Fionn finished the ritual, Donal began to feel his stomach settle. He almost felt coordinated in his body again, but not quite.
Then the knock came on the door.
Donal tried to untangle his crossed legs, but they refused to cooperate. A moment later, the door opened and Doctor Ramirez hustled into the room, followed by Initiate Cromartie.
“Donal,” said the doctor. “I apologize for using my access key, but the ship’s mage felt you might have been lying here unconscious.”
“He nearly was,” said Fionn before Donal could reply.
“I’m fine,” said Donal. “Really. A little nap and I’ll be right as the morning fog.”
“He nearly disconnected,” said Fionn to Cromartie, and Donal felt just a little betrayed. “He held together, but he—”
“Needs blended salts in suspension, which I have,” said the doctor, fishing a small sealed glass container full of greenish liquid from his medical bag. “And I suspect an alchemical mixture which I don’t have.”
“I know which one you mean,” said Cromartie. “Saw it on the battlefield all the time. I’ll go get some from Fredrickson.”
“I’m telling you,” began Donal, but the doctor shoved the drink in his face, leaving him no option but to open it and drink. It tasted all right at first, almost like lime, but by the end of the jar it didn’t quite sit right in his stomach and the salty taste irritated his taste buds.
“I take it by that sour expression that it no longer tastes good?”
The humor in the doctor’s voice made Donal suspect that the man had deep-seated sadism.
“Terrible.”
“Good. That means you’ve had enough. When Mr. Cromartie returns with the potion, see that you drink all of it.” Then the doctor turned to Fionn. “Please. See that he drinks all of it.”
“I shall,” said Fionn.
“I’m right here,” said Donal.
“That’s probably all you need,” said the doctor, owlish eyes regarding Donal without blinking. “But if you feel off later, come see me for more blended salts. You magicians really need to keep better track of what your magics do to your bodies.”
“Such as I have been saying no less for thousands of years,” said Fionn.
“Seriously.” Donal waved his hand back and forth. “Sitting right here.”
The doctor turned and left without another word.
Chapter Fourteen
Seated once more in his office with Tunold and Goldberg in his guest chairs, Jacobs listened while Machado, reclining on the couch, explained how more than fifty lacunas happened to come rushing out of the violet cloud and descend on the Ragnarök.
“Cuthbert again?” said Tunold.
“The boy does have a happy talent for conjuration,” said Machado. “Good thing, too. If he had managed a lesser familiar he’d have gotten himself into all sorts of trouble by now.”
“Maybe we should have hired him for assistant ship’s mage,” said Goldberg.
“You mean so he could have gotten into more trouble than he does now?” asked Jacobs, drawing the eyes of the three officers and three short but different laughs. Tunold snorted, but it was a snort that rocked his head back and forth, even pulling his shoulders with it the least bit. Goldberg snickered, mostly with his nose, a sound that moved so little of his face that it would have gone unnoticed during a larger meeting. Machado chuckled, a rich sound that pleased the never-ending stream of women he always seemed to draw in port.
In Machado’s case, the brief laugh ended with him saying, “I’m quite pleased with how Aaron has worked out. He’s adaptable, for an Initiate, and his focus and dedication are admirable.”
“What happened to the Ragnarök?” asked Tunold.
“They tore it apart,” said Jacobs. “Freed its lacunas.”
“Did the crew make it to lifeboats?” asked Goldberg.
“Some must have, but the total is unknown.” Jacobs heard at least one of his officers draw breath to speak, but Jacobs only spoke louder. “No, we will not be rendering humanitarian aid. We have already sent word to the nearest military base, and beyond that we will leave them to their fates.
“It’s bad enough I have Burke steering us through an asteroid field, but after that little display, there’s no way I’m going to risk this ship flying anywhere near that so-called feeding ground.”
“It is a feeding ground,” said Machado. “They just don’t eat the way we think of eating.”
“Not the point,” said Jacobs, thinking about how the other ship came apart. “They tore it apart at the seams, Mash. How does a spirit do that?”
“Well, it can happen with a ship that’s carterite heavy because carterite requires more alchemy to mold into shape and more enchantments to maintain. When the lacunas ripped through the bindings, they literally tore through the ship.”
Machado shrugged. “Honestly, though, by the time the hull came apart any crew still on the ship were probably already dead. The life support would have gone down well before the hull gave way.”
All four men descended into a moment of silence. For Jacobs that moment was filled with thoughts of those he had lost at sea, in the skies, and at space, which made him think of that most recent loss.
Jacobs dug into his desk drawer past the bottle of Brigid’s Own Irish Whiskey for a mostly full bottle of Butcher’s Block Kentucky Bourbon and four tumblers. He poured two fingers worth in each.
Each man stood and took up his glass, faces solemn for the dead. “The Beamrunner,” said Jacobs, “and all those we have lost.”
They drank down the whiskey, Jacobs savoring the bitter burn all the way down. It tasted like mourning. Each man set his glass on the desk and returned to his seat.
“How did our guests handle the temporary change of accommodations?” asked Jacobs.
“Does it have to be temporary?” said Goldberg. “Because I think we could cut down on—”
“Saul.”
“All right, all right. They’re all out on their own recognizance anyway. Odd, though. The top people seemed to treat the whole thing as a matter of course. It was their second-tier folk who got put out about it.”
“Probably expressing what the bigwigs thought for them,” said Tunold.
“More likely,” said Jacobs, “they just aren’t as used to death threats.” He shook his head. “Any signs of trouble among the passengers? Apart from Cuthbert, I mean. Tai Shi, for example.”
Goldberg sighed. “I want to bitch about Tai Shi. God knows she’s given me enough reason over the last week. But I have to hand it to her, she handled the crisis well.”
Jacobs felt his eyebrows rise, and Goldberg snickered that almost silent laugh of his again. “No joke. She even showed up in a safety skinsuit of her own—”
“Fashionably black of course,” said Tunold.
“—whatever color it was, she took orders and stood ready to fight. Didn’t even offer suggestions unless asked. Said her role was strategy, but would leave the tactics to me.”
“Did you tell her that, strategically speaking, we need more safety skinsuits and some upgraded Pacifiers?”
“Captain!” Goldberg affected a wounded look. “I know my job.” He winked. “I also suggested a few slingers would be—”
“A terrible idea,” said Machado. “I swear, all you physical combat types crave your lost firearms so much that you don’t think through the consequences.”
“Hands up all who grew up without firearms,” said Goldberg, raising his hand. Tunold also raised his, as did Machado.
“They were never my favorite example of technology,” said Jacobs.
“My point is,” said Machado, “military research keeps trying to bring back firearms and ranged weapons. Slingers! The pathetic things are fragile, and probably as great a risk to the shooter as to the target. And I have no intention of wasting my time cleaning up after misfired shots that mess with my spells.”
Machado stood, and Jacobs had to admit that he cut a formidable figure, despite his modest height.
“If we start using slingers, you can find a new ship’s mage.”
“Sit down, Mash,” said Jacobs. “No need for threats.”
“It was just a thought,” said Goldberg, hands raised in surrender.
Machado turned his attention to Tunold, and Jacobs realized that the ship’s mage wanted reassurance from the Horizon Cusp’s next captain as well as its current.
Fortunately, Tunold realized this as well.
“I’d be fine with barring slingers from the ship.” Tunold’s eyes turned to Jacobs. “Even among the weapons we store for our passengers.”
So Kris is still angry about a bunch of swords and trinkets in the safe?
“All right, gentlemen,” said Jacobs. “If we can waste time arguing about what we will and won’t carry for our passengers, then I’d say we’re done with our after-action meeting.”
Jacobs stood. “We have a ship to run. Let’s get to it.”
◊
By mid-afternoon, Donal felt like himself again. The elixir the doctor had given him had helped his body. The doses of potion Initiate Cromartie had brought back from the alchemist had gotten Donal’s mind and magic back in alignment.
But for Donal’s money — not that he had to pay for it — the massage helped most of all. He stood now outside The Relaxation Station on the Main Deck and stared at the cloudless bright blue “sky” above him.
Donal stretched his arms and said to Fionn, “Think I could get any research money to study the thaumaturgic benefits of deep tissue massage for magicians? I could argue that nothing anchors the mind and spirit in the body better than a deep, muscle-by-muscle rubdown.”
“I think that if you complete your doctorate, you will be able to persuade potential investors with words they do not understand. Monied people always like feeling that they invest in those smarter than they are themselves.”
“True,” said Donal, beginning to saunter down the path between faux-Greek designs of dance studios (classes daily!) and hydrotherapy offices (they claimed restorative powers, but Donal suspected that they counted on the soothing feel of hot, bubbling water).
“Wait, what do you mean ‘if’ I complete my—”
“There you are,” came Li Hua’s voice from behind Donal. He turned and saw her approaching from near The Relaxation Station, dressed casually in a low-cut but long-sleeved sweater, and slacks that hung tight to the waist and thighs, but flared out around her calves and soft leather boots.
“I checked the Observation Deck first, but I should have known you’d come for a massage.”
“I had a busy morning,” said Donal, trying to sound humble but unable to keep a pleased smile off of his face.
“I know. Here I was ready for a good fight and you stole all the fun.” She stepped close. “I had to go work out. Too much energy.”
Something about the way her lips formed those words made Donal want to kick himself for not being near at hand when she had needed ... exercise.
“Wish I could have helped, but I was kind of indisposed.”
“Overreached again and almost disconnected?”
Fionn made a small canine sound that would have been innocent from an actual deerhound, but from the familiar had to have been a statement akin to “I told you that was overreaching.”
When Fionn actually took Li Hua’s side about something, Donal felt ganged up on. Fortunately for Donal, it did not happen often.
“I had to do something. I couldn’t just—”
“Shhh,” said Li Hua, two fingers over Donal’s lips, her own lips coming closer, excitement brimming her soft brown eyes with their hint of caramel. She breathed her next words, a bare whisper.
“Admit it. Responsibility was not your sole motivation. You craved the risk, the razor’s edge at the limits of your talent and ability.”
Li Hua moved her fingers and her lips came closer.
“You love the adrenaline as much as I do.”
And then she kissed Donal with only her lips, not touching with her hands, nor pressing her body against him. A soft and almost secret kiss that ended all too soon for Donal, though it did keep her lips near his.
“I don’t know if anyone loves adrenaline as much as you do.” He brought his hand to her cheek and kissed her then, his other hand on the small of her back pulling her to him. Her arms entwined about his neck as the kiss deepened.
As the kiss ended, Donal stroked her cheek again. He could see in her eyes that she wanted him to say more, to confess to sharing her passion for danger. Donal could not say for certain that he did, but he could not deny that such risks had done more for his confidence and his magic than anything else he had done since graduating U. C. Santa Cruz.
And he could not let the silence stretch any tighter between them or he would ruin the moment.
So he stretched the truth, just a little, as those who specialize in the magic of deception did best.
“But I do love what the adrenaline does for me.”
“I knew it.” Li Hua’s words sounded definitive, and something changed in her smile, her eyes. Some certainty, perhaps about Donal or perhaps about the two of them as a couple. Donal wanted to ask, but she spoke again, ex
citement smoldering under her words.
“I have a few hours before my next meeting.” Her fingers traced the line of his jaw. “What say we go back to my room and celebrate our mutual love of excitement? And afterwards, we can talk about what it could mean for our future.”
Part of Donal recognized from her tone that she did not mean their future as a couple, but after the morning he had, his thoughts focused more on what awaited him in her room before they had this conversation.
After all, Donal told himself, my professors always said that if the present is handled correctly, the future will attend to itself.
◊
When Machado stepped out of the bubble onto the Engineering Deck, he smelled Jang’s work immediately. Verbena, he thought. She always uses too much verbena. So far as Machado was concerned, the scent of that herb should not be detectible thirty feet from the Deception Drive’s engine room. Yes, it sealed many of the key spells, but that did not mean that it needed to be slathered about like gouts of cheap aftershave used to cover a lack of personal hygiene.
He should certainly not be able to smell it here by the bubble.
She probably does it to annoy me.
Machado sauntered past the side rooms that held redundant systems, spirits kept dormant and constrained by spells one step shy of completion: an elaborate network of magic that formed a system of travel almost one hundred percent reliable. More out of habit than out of concern, he gestured for Saravá to check the rooms on the right while he examined the rooms on his left, in passing.
Everything looked in order. Machado mused that he might have occasion to question Jang’s precision, but never her accuracy.
Continuing on, Machado took a side passage past the supply closet to Jang's office, where he paused to check the paper wheel affixed to the door for her location. In big black letters was written, “The Chief is,” followed by eight options: in, asleep, pissed off, eating, Deception Drive, around, in a meeting, out. The small arrow in the center pointed to her current location: the Deception Drive.
