Mission Pack 3: Missions 9-12 (Black Ocean Mission Pack)

by J. S. Morin

  “All right,” Dr. Akerman said. “Let’s get back to the two of you. Amy, what are your specific concerns about Carl—without turning this into an interrogation?”

  “How can I be sure he loves me? I mean, he’s been with plenty of other girls—I remember our navy days, too, you know—and some of them pretty seriously. How can I know deep down it’s me he wants, and I’m not just an easy substitute for his ex, or that purple-haired trollop who stole the Hatchet Job? Does he love me, or can he just say it well enough that I’m willing to believe him?”

  Oh, the minefield. Cloaked, ship-seeking, anti-matter mines scattered around Carl in all directions. One path lay ahead, clearly marked as the safe way through. The signage said: The Truth. Carl could hardly be more certain that it was a trap. But weighing his options, he took a steadying breath and tried anyway. “July was just a cover. I didn’t hate her or anything, but it was mutual convenience. It was a holovid show, and I needed to be interesting.”

  “Gotta download that sometime…” Dr. Akerman muttered, not looking up from her datapad as she took notes.

  “As for Tanny? Sure, I’ve got a soft spot for her, but it’s like nostalgia. It’s like seeing light from a star, then hitting the deep astral to see up close that it’s not there anymore—you’re just seeing the light from when it used to still exist. But I’m not spreading myself thin or pining for some other woman. I’m gonna give you every inch of my love.”

  Amy stabbed an accusing finger at him, though her expression remained blank. “Rolling Stones. The archaic units were a dead giveaway, even if I didn’t know that one.”

  Dr. Akerman looked up from her notes. “Hm?”

  “It’s one of those old songs he’s obsessed with. Early digital history rock music. All that old music is full of overblown philosophical schmaltz. And he uses it when he can’t think of anything real to say and wants to sound deep and complicated.”

  “Hey. I am deep and complicated.”

  “Complicated, maybe, but you’re as deep as a beer advert.”

  That stung, but it was fair.

  “Well, that line was from Led Zeppelin, anyway. Not the Stones. But I’ve got a better one: would you cry if I told you that I lied, and would you say goodbye or would you let it ride?”

  Dr. Akerman tapped furiously at her datapad. “Just a minute, please.”

  Carl reached over and grabbed the datapad away from her. “Look it up later. Amy knows that one.” He cast a surreptitious glance at the built-in chrono. Time was passing far more slowly than he’d hoped.

  Amy was watching him, he realized, eyes boring into him like an exploratory mining platform on some asteroid. Her jaw was set, her eyes blinking a little too often. “I just want to know. Have you been with another woman since we’ve been together? Have you wanted to?”

  “I haven’t touched another woman since the first time I kissed you. As for wanting to… only in the caveman sense. You know, blind hormone stuff that doesn’t mean anything and doesn’t come to anything. I love you.”

  Just then, Carl’s datapad chimed with an incoming message, playing a few notes from “Message in a Bottle.”

  Just as Carl dug the datapad out of his pocket, Amy lunged across and snatched it from his grasp.

  “What the—?”

  “You put Roddy up to this, right? To bail you out. You planned it ahead and…” She handed the datapad back.

  The message was from Niang, not Roddy. Carl turned it so Dr. Akerman could see it. There was a particle leak in the Mobius’s antimatter reactor. “See? Ideally, she’d be the sympathetic shoulder to lean on when I’ve got burdens building up. Instead, I get suspicion.”

  “Sorry,” Amy said, looking down into her lap. “It’s just that usually… you know… you’ve got an angle. You have to admit, you love convoluted plans that avoid honest work.”

  Well, that much was true. He just wasn’t enough of an amateur to put Roddy up to sending him a text comm. Too obvious. Giving Niang something quick to check on and report back—something Carl knew would warrant an urgent comm—was less exact, but certainly more subtle. Amy demanding to know who was on the comm was just too obvious a response not to plan around. She was right about him loving subterfuge. It was as much a habit as gambling or drinking, and unlike those other two, it often came with a net profit.

  “Apology accepted. Now, if you two ladies will excuse me…”

  But Amy caught him by the arm as he tried to bow and gracefully depart. “Oh, no you don’t. Not that same old song and dance. That business with the particle leak can wait. Sit.”

  Well, shit.

  Carl sat. This wasn’t part of the plan. “But I’m in charge around here…”

  “You’re not that important.”

  Dr. Akerman clucked her tongue. “Amy… that’s not how we argue.”

  Amy let out a sigh and brushed a stray braid out of her eyes. “Fine. You know you have people who can do their jobs. Take thirty seconds and send him a note to take care of it how he sees fit. Or hell, delegate it to Roddy.”

  “If I don’t handle this stuff myself, people will start going to my dad.” It was bad enough Dad had taken over in his absence. The last thing he needed was for Chuck Ramsey to become the problem solver of Odysseus Base.

  “Oh yes, because it would be so horrible if an older, more experienced version of you was in charge.”

  “We’re nothing alike.” If ever there were a statement to test whether not being able to magically disguise his lies even from himself was essential to his falsehoods, it was this one. Carl knew damn well that he’d learned most of his cons from his father.

  “What’s the matter? Cat’s got your cradle? No, never that… Chuck was always around when you were a kid. You couldn’t get away from him fast enough, could you? Enlisted the day you turned eighteen. But it was too late; you’d already absorbed his personality. I mean, you talked about him a little but having just met him… holy moly! He’s you with a bigger head, wider shoulders, and old-man gut. Except he’s also got twenty years maturity on you, which puts him mentally at about thirty.”

  Quick math led to a consternated frown. “I don’t act like a ten-year-old.”

  “Fine. Make it fourteen, since you’re always horny.”

  Dr. Akerman smiled. “You two certainly argue like an old married couple.”

  They turned to her in unison. “Stay out of this.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, if I’m such a man-whore, how come I’m a one-woman guy? There’s thirty-seven women in the syndicate, counting you, and most of them aren’t with anyone. I’ve got game. I could land another woman if that’s what I wanted. But I’m not even looking. Hell, aside from that little expedition for the Sokol, we’ve hardly been apart. What’ve you seen in all that time? Ignore what I’ve said and go by what I’ve done.”

  Amy clenched her teeth a moment before answering. “Fine. You haven’t actually done anything, unless you hooked up with July while I was gone.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, she was sleeping with Hatchet. Putting a plasma burn through his chest ended with her stealing a starship from me, not jumping to the next bed over.”

  “It was a joke. I never thought you’d actually do it.”

  “I thought this wasn’t time for joking. I’ve got a syndicate to run if this is just comedy hour.”

  “And that’s another thing. Why is this even a good idea? I mean, Mars would be better off without the Ruckers. Why are we such a benevolent force out here?”

  “We’re not. Just like the Rucker Syndicate is good for the Ruckers, the Ramsey Syndicate will do right by us. We’re not a charity organization.” Carl’s chest was heaving. This might not have been what Amy had in mind, but it felt good clearing the air instead of sitting around each other nervously.

  “It’s not only the good who die young, you know.”

  “So, what? You’re telling me I’ve got to change my evil ways? Or you’ll stop loving me?”

  Amy seethed out a
sigh, clenching her fists. “I couldn’t stop loving you if I wanted to. But I need to know if you’re for real, or if this is just a matter of loving the one you’re with. And you can hide your lying eyes.”

  “Not right this minute,” Carl reminded her.

  Amy deflated. She collapsed back onto Dr. Akerman’s couch and shut her eyes. “I thought Mort suppressing your supernatural self-deception would let me see through you. But you don’t sound any different than normal, so I can’t trust that he’s actually preventing you from lying your sorry ass off.”

  “Hey, doc. I thought we weren’t supposed to…” But Carl looked over and Dr. Akerman’s chair was vacant. “Where the hell did she go?”

  “Who cares?” Amy snapped. “Probably left when you told her to mind her own business. You’re her boss, after all. Besides, this whole therapy idea was pointless.”

  “Ever consider that I sound like normal because I play it straight with you?”

  “Considered and dismissed. I can’t trust my judgment if you can fool the entire galaxy. That was Tanny’s mistake, according to her.”

  Carl stood and began pacing. “So lemme back this one up and put it in a higher orbit. So what if I am lying? What if I’ve been leading you on for months, just waiting for… I dunno, the next girl or whatever? You gonna leave me?”

  “Obviously.”

  “And if you can convince yourself 100 percent that I really love you, you’ll give up never doubting me and trust me ‘til death do us part?”

  Still lying with her eyes closed, Amy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Probably not. I mean, 100 percent is pretty unrealistic, isn’t it?”

  “So you’re in a no-win situation here. Even if you believe me now, you can’t believe me forever. But this is the real world. Zero and 100 percent don’t exist. So what if maybe I filter the truth now and then before I share it. When have I ever done wrong by you? Think actions, not words. That’s everyone’s problem, and it’s why Roddy and Mort know to trust me: they get it. Whatever I say, I do right by my friends. I’ll always do right by the woman I love. So your three options are to pull the eject lever right now, wobble along in doubt, or jam in the first heading that feels right and drop into the astral. And lemme tell you, neither one of us will be happy wobbling along.”

  Amy sat up. She wasn’t crying but there was a redness around her eyes from rubbing at them. “So which one do I pick? Do I let myself become the latest fool to believe you or cut off the only thing in my life that makes me feel like a normal person to avoid a time bomb that might just kill me?”

  “You want something that’s not a song lyric? To hell with this galaxy and everyone in it. If you want me to give up crime and go live in ssentuadi space delivering beer, I’d do it. Just so long as you’re with me. The other stuff’s all window dressing and ego. The leather jacket, the sword, hell even the ship… I love the adventure. I don’t want any of it though if it costs me you.”

  Amy’s teeth showed now, peeking out from behind a frown she couldn’t maintain any longer. She glanced pointedly at the empty chair, then at the space beside her on the couch. Hooking a finger inside Carl’s belt, she tugged him over toward her. “How about a little less conversation, a little more action please?”

  Carl grinned and toppled down onto the couch with her. Just before their lips met, he managed to slip in one final quip. “I do enjoy being a crime lord, though.”

  # # #

  When Carl sauntered into the staff room where Mort had squirreled himself away, he felt like a new man. Or at least, he felt like a younger one. He’d not only survived his girlfriend and a psychologist ganging up on him, he’d gotten laid. Who needed lies when six-hundred-year-old schmaltz could work the same magic?

  Mort looked up from the book splayed across his lap. “You’re looking mighty smug.”

  “And why wouldn’t I?”

  “Walked the burning coals and toasted marshmallows on the way. Nope. Can’t say I can fault you. Don’t make a habit of this, though.” He snapped the book shut.

  “This wasn’t my idea. Remember? This was Amy’s plan. Thank her for having to listen to all that.”

  “Oh, I stopped listening a while ago. Can’t watch that kind of soppy mess on a holovid. Damn me if I’m going to listen to the stage play. But I played my part. I stuck to the letter of the law—even Greek and Arabic letters for good measure. If that girl of yours was under the delusion that magic is the only way a man can speak false, that’s her business. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get back to seeing to business of my own.” He stood and tucked the book under one arm.

  Carl smirked as the wizard left but couldn’t resist one parting shot just before Mort reached the door. “It was true, you know—every word.”

  Mort glanced over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Sure it was.”

  When he was alone in the briefing room seconds later, Carl paused to reflect. Had it all been true, or was he just back to self-delusion?

  # # #

  Yomin felt safe enough behind three layers of encryption, a false comm ID, and a remote relay bouncing her signal through the Sol system to make it look legit. Still, the person on the other end of her live text-comm was beginning to unnerve her.

  “MERCHANDISE MUST PASS VERIFICATION. TRANSMITTED DATA INSUFFICIENT.”

  Yomin’s breath quickened as she entered her reply.

  “We can bring the goods for verification. No change of custody until we receive payment in full.” She’d gone over the plan with Carl, but negotiations were his thing, not hers. Yomin’s twin problems were that Carl hated extended periods combing the omni and had ordered her to do it instead. The off-hours holovid marathons were paying off, though. She’d watched enough gangster and heist holos to know the ins and outs of every trick in the playbook.

  There was a few minutes’ delay before the next message came through. It was long enough that her contact might have been practically anywhere in the galaxy if he had a deep enough astral relay.

  “SUGGEST RENDEZVOUS. ORION SYSTEM. HOW SOON CAN YOU ARRIVE?”

  Yomin let out a long breath and thought a moment. Orion was civilized space. Green-level security came with customs inspections, military presence, and layers of bureaucracy that smothered corruption. Things like that used to be a comfort to her, but present-day Yomin Dranoel was no friend of ARGO law enforcement. The longer it was before they knew that, the better.

  Before replying, Yomin ran a quick omni search to see what Orion was best known for, hoping to suss out clues about her contact. The blanket approach left her buried in a wash of relevant results. Orion, it seemed, was known for everything from Celtic cultural fairs to starship research and development and everything in between. With a population of seventy billion, it was easy to diversify. Undaunted, Yomin reran her search, focusing on the grade school societal science report version of the system. This time, she discovered that the Orion system was best known as the home of the Orion Blaze (some sort of sports team), Bath Spaceworks, and Yojimbo, the company that made a number of popular children’s games. It was also the birthplace of Economics Minister Carmine Singh, pop singer Ramona Jimenez, and Sandra Davies-Kim, the mathematician who had the Davies-Kim Theory named after her. The computer Yomin was using relied on Davies-Kim data packing, as did most of the civilized galaxy. Unfortunately, none of that yielded any helpful information about her contact.

  Drawn into the true-but-useless wasteland of Orion-related minutiae, Yomin lost track of time. When a jarring fact snapped her attention back to the task at hand, she checked her chrono to see that she’d lost more than an hour. But it had paid off. Orion IV was home to Harmony Bay’s regenerative sciences division. While their corporate headquarters was on Earth, Orion IV was a major hub for the company’s non-Solar enterprises.

  Her next message practically wrote itself. “Orion no good. Suggest we meet on Zeetoff.” The only part that took even a moment’s spare thought was selecting an appropriately inappropriate destination
for a rendezvous. She wanted to say “fuck you” without actually using either word, and picking the homeworld of a species ARGO routinely bombed from orbit seemed like a good way to do just that.

  The reply from her contact came back in thirty-one seconds. He wasn’t as far as she’d imagined.

  “ZEETOFF UNACCEPTABLE. SELECT NON-HOSTILE SITE.”

  Yomin grinned. Carl’s lessons had paid off. “Be as unreasonable as possible without breaking negotiations. You want the middle ground to be on your side of the fence.” For an idiot, he knew a few things.

  “Fine. Let’s make it Pintara, then. Payment expected. T2.5M.”

  Two and a half million terras was the price Carl had surgically implanted in his head. Some dingleberry local crime boss had that number picked out as the price for his stupid goo, and Carl expected to get every last terra of that. For a guy who worked the barter side of the free market system, Carl had no concept of how cash transactions worked.

  “WE AGREED ON 2,000,000.”

  “No, you said T2M. We never budged from T2.5M. That’s the asking price.”

  Seventeen seconds later… “EMPLOYER WILL NOT AUTHORIZE.”

  Bullshit. There was no way he was reading her message, talking to his boss, and sending a comm back over the omni. Even if transit time was cut to nil, that was just too quick a turnaround. Her contact was either on orders to hold a line or was acting on his own authority. It was time for Yomin to dip a toe in the waters of her theory.

  “If you don’t like it, I’ll find another buyer. Maybe Zammos or the Nebula Consortium will remember their bank access codes and pay us. I bet Harmony Bay might even pay us T3M if we got in touch with them.”

  “HARMONY BAY WILL NOT EXCEED T2.2M. FINAL OFFER.”

  Yomin pumped a fist. Her contact as good as confirmed he was an agent of the galaxy’s largest medical supplier. And she’d just squeezed two hundred thousand terras out of him. As part of the Ramsey Syndicate, a fraction of that was going straight into her pocket.

  “Deal.”