Appropriate Force: A Tale of the Spirit Callers Saga (Tales of the Spirit Callers Saga Book 1)

by OJ Lowe

  As a method of travel, it was a lot safer than it sounded. There were very few recorded crashes of aeroships in the last twenty years. Safety checks were run frequently. Any imperfection in the canvas on the wings was flagged up immediately, it wasn’t expensive to replace. He had no qualms about using this method of travel. Just didn’t mean that he had to like it. If it hadn’t realistically been too far to do so, he’d have brought Carcer out and flown back to Canterage. It was the best part of a thousand miles to Belderhampton. Certainly, it was too far to fly on the back of a winged shark lizard. One of them would end up collapsing and given an ocean separated the two kingdoms, he didn’t fancy a fall in the drink.

  Instead of sleeping, he took out his data pad, switched it on. Something to distract him. Anything. He’d fall asleep eventually, lifting the pad felt like an effort, his limbs heavy with fatigue. He’d run too fast for too long now. It was a good seven hours to Canterage, depending on conditions, maybe a fraction less, maybe a lot more. He’d get the chance to recover. He flicked through various articles on the data pad, trying to find something to relax his mind. Something dry. Spirit caller scores that tallied up towards Quin-C qualifying weren’t going to do it, that’d make him think far ahead into the future and he found it hard to care about anything beyond the end of this flight right now. Some article about a former shadowfighter turned botanist named Shane Bryce talking about his struggles with alcohol and withdrawals from the sport before he’d picked up a previous career that had been cut short by a talent he hadn’t know he had before. He didn’t consider shadowfighting much of a sport. It was to actual fighting was spirit dancing was to spirit calling.

  Shadowfighting was all about reading an opponent, predicting their moves and all about countering it with as much style as possible. Nick was trained in four forms of unarmed combat; shang-chiy, also known as Burykian kickboxing, tamerlund, unkindly called Vazaran street brawling for its lack of subtlety and focus on sensitive areas of the body, fincour, a style developed by Serranian special commandos that involved a lot of throws and using your opponent’s attacks to counter-attack them, and amberkan, developed by Unisco’s very own Tod Brumley and named for his first love, it involved using the pointed and blunt sides of the body to defend yourself and inflict painful damage on sensitive parts of your opponent’s anatomy. The last one he employed frequently, always hard for an enemy to hurt you if you’d broken his wrist and smashed a forearm into his nose. No Unisco agent had ever trained as a shadowfighter, at least none that were still alive.

  He felt relaxed, could hear that the pilot of the aeroship was starting to talk to them all over the intercom, giving them an estimated time of arrival, telling them to listen to their hostess’ and what to do in case of an emergency. He probably knew this better than they did. His training had covered many things, all manner of contingencies they had been able to think of and then some more added year by year. That thought brought a smile to his face as he lay his head back against the rest. Just rest his eyes for a minute. He’d open them again shortly.

  Chapter Three.

  “Before him? The longest silent hunt we had was months. He’s evaded us for two years. I would dearly like to know what you people are doing in regards of finding him. Because from up here, it looks like you’re doing nothing!”

  Unisco director, Terrence Arnholt, regarding Lucas Hobb and the lack of progress in hunting him.

  The man calling himself Hobb had arrived in Belderhampton five days ago on the back of an old speeder carrying gunderfruit from the Becksea port and he’d spent the time ever since trying to scrub the stink from his clothes. He’d already considered burning them. Tangy incense filling the cramped confines of his room probably wouldn’t be an improvement in his view. He’d spent a day asleep in the back of the speeder, the pilot unaware he was there for most of the trip. His presence had only been discovered on the final leg of the journey when Hobb had been taken by surprise, the sheet thrown back and the unfamiliar face demanding to know who he was. Hobb hadn’t hesitated, thrown out a booted foot and kicked him hard in the throat, he’d gotten good purchase behind the blow and he’d gone down in a heap. The gurgles that accompanied his writhing sound hollow and broken, it was the sort of sound an animal caught in a snare made as it struggled to get free.

  Hobb had snared many things over the course of his life, he was well familiar with the sounds that a man close to death made. Of course, it made a difference to how the scene was perceived. An accidental death, nobody took real note of those beyond rudimentary inquiries. A murder though, that asked all sorts of questions that people wanted answers to.

  The average gunderfruit was larger than the human head and twice as dense. He didn’t like the taste of it, he could just about stomach the odour before. Now, he didn’t even notice it. Hobb was a big man but the crates were heavy, a couple dozen or so fruits to each of them it felt like, as he pushed against one of them to test the weight. They’d been strapped down secure, but he’d deftly moved to handle the straps, toy about with them until they were loose. Considering his task a few moments more, he fiddled with a few more of the knots across the area. Make it look like incompetence. Accidental but no less deadly.

  The one he’d untied, he took a deep breath and pushed it hard, all his weight behind it. His muscles screamed with the effort as the flats of his hands banged into the wood. He felt it give but it didn’t fall. They normally used hoverlift trucks for this. He needed this scene to look like an accident before someone showed up to check out the cargo. Hobb pushed again, felt the crate slide ever further from the rest of them. This time he kept the pressure on, put one of his feet against the one behind it for extra leverage. He gritted his teeth together, a little moan slipping from him as he screwed his face up with the effort.

  He winced at the crash that followed, the bang and the sounds of life being crushed from a dying body both satisfying and exhausting. He stretched his complaining arms out and smiled coldly. An unfortunate turn of events but one that had been dealt with adequately. It was too bad for the pilot, but shit happened to everyone sooner or later and nobody could change that. Hobb removed his bag from the back of the speeder and hopped down the back of it. He could hear voices. He wouldn’t be alone much longer.

  Up above him, an illuminated sign pointed towards the exit. If he paused, he could hear the traffic and the city outside. Perfect. Exactly where he needed to be. He’d had it away before they could find him, he’d spotted them rushing into action as they saw their deceased colleague and he felt like he’d gotten away with it. Out of the warehouse, he’d slipped away into the night.

  That was then, and this was now. The time was coming. He had a job to do. Before it was over, someone else was going to die.

  The first indication he’d gotten that he’d fallen asleep was the sound of the aeroship hitting the ground with a dull thud that jerked him up from the slumber in a start. Nick dropped back in his seat, hand resting on his pounding heart, not quite able to believe he’d slept through the entire thing. His head ached, he’d possibly not had as much as he needed, but he did feel better than he had before slumber. He’d needed something and what he’d had was better than nothing. As the aeroship ground to a halt, someone towards the back cheered. It sounded like a kid. At least they were happy. Nick reached down, dug into his bag for the water. His mouth was dry, his lips felt cracked and sore. He took a draw, drained half the bottle in one swallow and sighed contentedly. That was better. A lot better.

  The doors hadn’t opened yet, people were still seated, they hadn’t been given permission to get up and go. The sense of impatience was palpable in the air. People didn’t mind flying in his experience, it was all the waiting around that did for them. Wait to board, wait to set off, wait to get off, wait for luggage, wait for transfers… He could see their point really, if he was honest. There were punishments from divine beings that felt less aggravating.

  The difference in temperature was noticeable as he stepped off
the aeroship and into the Canterage morning, cool air buffering his arms and his neck. Within moments, he was trying to avoid shivering, at least until he got used to it. He had a jacket somewhere in his bag, he should have put it on before now. Trapped amidst a listless throng of people unable to go anywhere fast, he couldn’t really get to it. Not without disturbing someone. Maybe banging them in the face with it. People really didn’t like that. He didn’t want to get into a fight here if he could avoid it. Always a challenge given how pissed off some people got after flying. Instead he let his mind wander as he went with the flow, as soon as he got to immigration, he’d be able to get through it and go home. He couldn’t bloody wait.

  Belderhampton’s aeroport was easily larger than the one he’d left at Salawia. No disputing that. Along with Haxfold, the capital of Canterage and maybe Xandervool, Belderhampton was one of the biggest cities in the kingdom. Easily. Salawia might have been a hub for Serran, Belderhampton was a hub for the entire five kingdoms. Flights to every corner left here frequently. It was a good place to come if you wanted to leave quickly. The queues at immigration were just as bad as he’d been expecting them to be, and he had to hide the grimace as he stepped into the queue for domestic travellers. As a native, it was his right to do so. In the past, he’d gone to the front, flipped the muffler that masked his face when on missions into the activated position, and showed security his Unisco ID to get straight through without so much as a word said about it.

  Given Mallinson had it in his back pocket now, it wasn’t something he could do. That had been an undeniable job perk, the ability to negotiate situations like this with ease. More waiting. He found himself thinking about Lysa again, checked at his summoner to see if Aldiss had left him any sort of message on her condition. He didn’t know whether to be worried or not that he hadn’t. Nick supposed that it meant there was nothing to report, on the other hand, it meant that there hadn’t been a noticeable improvement. It meant that she hadn’t come out of her coma yet. He wondered if he’d still be suspended by the time she did. He wasn’t sure what this would do to his situation. Mallinson wanted to talk to her about it, currently couldn’t. He was only suspended for two weeks, that was the legal maximum they could keep you off the job without proof of wrongdoing. Any longer than that, he could take steps towards legal action in the process of getting back the credits he was losing via the stipend he took from the agency.

  Unisco hadn’t been where he’d made his credits. He was adequately rewarded for the work he did but left to survive on it alone and things would have been tough. Spirit calling had paid for his flight, his lifestyle, the home he never used. Still the fees that came his way from his secret job were a nice bonus to set aside for the future, a nest egg he need not disturb.

  The immigration officer glanced at him as he approached the booth, looked at him, then at the identification on his data pad. She didn’t look interested; the day was probably dragging for her and there were places she’d rather be than here at a cold aeroport waving through people who’d come from somewhere warmer. If she’d recognised him, she gave no sign of it. At least she hadn’t asked for a photograph with him. That was something he was relieved about. He felt embarrassed doing it, he felt for the people caught behind him. He’d been in that situation himself, caught up with the wait while staff took selfies with someone moderately famous. Not an ideal situation. Indifferent anonymity suited him from people who might harass him. Canterage. The kingdom where nobody gave a shit how famous you were or weren’t.

  “Thumbprint scan,” she said, gesturing towards the reader in front of her station. That didn’t bother him too much. Unisco had his prints on file, they were marked and logged so as not to trigger any system. Anonymity again. It had its rewards. He pressed down hard into it, saw it go green under his touch. If it had gone red, he’d have been escorted into a back room and asked some questions he might not like giving answers to. Sometimes Unisco did this if they wanted to get in touch with you immediately. Flag up your prints and have local security grab you and detain you for a time until someone could make contact. It had happened to him once, he hadn’t been impressed in deferring to local security guards he could break into pieces if the mood took him. It was humiliating to say the least.

  “Thank you, sir.” No emotion, nothing in her voice. She’d given up on him, waved him through. He’d put his bag down on the scanner, wasn’t even remotely concerned that it’d flag up. Normally he had his X7 hidden in there, today that wasn’t an issue. The blaster pistol had gone the way of his ID. The only reason they couldn’t take the muffler was because the technology that controlled it was embedded deep enough in his face to warrant it unnecessary. If he switched it on, they’d know about it. They were handy pieces of kit, but they had their limits. On a mission, when activated, they’d distort the wearer’s facial features to obscurity. He’d been told it was like staring into a bowl of swirling pudding. They also acted as positioning chips. When they were switched on, Unisco knew where you were. His bag went through with no issues, he hefted it up onto his back and carried on. The doors were in sight, he could smell the familiar scents of home on the window. They buzzed back and forth, sliding open and shut automatically as people passed through them.

  He’d get a speeder back to his home, surprise Sharon and maybe get some more sleep. That sounded like the perfect plan right now. Then the carnival tomorrow night. Something special felt like it was beckoning to him.

  The man calling himself Hobb glanced left, glanced right and stepped out across the road. Not a speeder in sight. That was good. He didn’t want witnesses. Not right now. The more anonymous he was, the better. The human brain was a funny thing. It could recall the oddest details, sometimes at the most unhelpful moments. If someone saw him, it could cause problems later. The whole reason he’d reached the top of his field was his flair for being invisible. It was hard for someone to identify you if they had never seen you.

  He’d long since realised that you couldn’t plan for every contingency. Do that and you’d never leave the building. You’d fester like a bad cheese, the fear and the insecurity lulling you into inaction.

  Inaction sickened him. It was the very antithesis of his being. Inaction for the fear of failure was a criterion of the weak. You lived, or you died, it didn’t matter if you did it from a position of strength.

  The entrance to the alley lay crooked between the gap between the two buildings, both dark and empty. A solitary street lamp lit the area, bathing it in an anaemic glow, making the dirt look pallid. Hobb glanced down at his bag, more to reassure himself that a zip hadn’t slipped open to reveal what was inside, then stepped into the darkness of the alley. He could see the door up ahead, the entrance to the Shady Miles Courier Company, a building looming high above the others. It was the tallest one around, twice the height of most others within reach. More than that, it overlooked Graham’s Field, the city park, a solitary square mile of uninterrupted greenery.

  Belderhampton was a strange city, Hobb had always thought. It was the sort of place where the rich and the poor were always separated by a few inches. You had the haves and the have-nots mingling in the same areas. None more so than in this damn carnival that was coming. The travelling folk saw to that. Other cities had trouble with them, yet in Belderhampton, they were regarded as part of the scenery, something to be celebrated as part of the city heritage.

  He’d done come here before, once, a very long time ago. The memories of the lights and the sounds and the smells, they’d been intoxicating back then, and he doubted that it had grown more restrained with the passing of time. It was high order decadence, one night a year where the populace cast off their restraints and let themselves go. It disgusted the puritan in him. Hobb liked a simple life. Hence the lack of fripperies about his person. One battered leather bag with the essentials was all he needed.

  Approaching the door, he dug in his pocket for the familiar shape of metal that he’d been provided before the start of the mission. H
e didn’t know how the contact had gotten a key for the building, he didn’t want to either. It couldn’t have been easy to come by. It gave him options. He withdrew it from the confines of his pocket, slid it into the keyhole and felt it turn easily.

  No alarm. No security. Just as his contact had promised. Hobb didn’t like to smile, yet when he did it was often a cold smirk filled with calculation. Here, he felt it through every fibre of his being.

  Everything was proceeding as planned.

  Nick had found a speeder, he’d gotten in and given his address to the driver, a brown-skinned Burykian with a barely understandable accent. There was no mistaking the level of enthusiasm in his voice though. Nick only nodded as he settled in the back seat, rested his head against the rest and looked up at the moody sky. Belderhampton weather hadn’t changed over the years. It always looked like it was trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to start raining.

  At least the carnival wouldn’t be cancelled. It had gone through worse weather than a bit of rain and cold. One year, there’d been a whole lot of snow come down and people had been wearing their winter boots as they walked through the lights of the night. It hadn’t bothered the performers and the carnies, the women had worn their costumes and kept on smiling, the men had been singularly unimpressed by the change in the weather.

  He glanced at his summoner again. The screen remained devoid of any message. He debated getting in touch with Sharon, letting her know he was coming. Weighed it up against the positives of surprising her. The part of him that had been Unisco for so damn long was urging him not to tell her he was coming, just so he could see what she got involved with when he wasn’t there. He trusted her. He didn’t like that a part of him was cynical enough to think that. The thought shouldn’t even cross his mind.