Mission Pack 2: Missions 5-8 (Black Ocean Mission Pack)

by J. S. Morin

  “If I wanted to wait for them all to cross the border, I wouldn’t have asked you to look,” Mort snapped. “And if you don’t drop that tone with me, you can wait out the battle from Moss Glen.” If there was one thing sure to motivate a bored reptilian apex predator, it was the prospect of missing the action.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Kythrast warned, lowering his head until he had to cross his eyes to see Mort. The dragon’s breath stank of rotted cattle.

  “You breathe fire. So what?” Mort said. “I can throw more fire around than you. You’ve got claws and teeth and armored scales. I’ve got a hundred soldiers armed for war. If I let you fight in this war, it’s a reward for your good behavior. See that you’ve earned it by the time those rock men arrive or I’ll have you counting clovers with a pair of frumpy old squirrels set to guard you.”

  Kythrast pulled away, giving Mort room to breathe unfouled air. “Your vivid torments never fail to inspire, wizard,” the dragon grumbled, the words forced out between a picket row of teeth and clenched jaws. “There are more than ten thousands, fewer than a hundred.”

  Mort scratched his chin. “Fine. You can kill… let’s say a thousand of them. No need to keep count, but don’t get greedy.” Of course, telling a dragon not to get greedy was as pointless as telling a wet dog not to stink. But Kythrast wasn’t the only one within earshot. Far from it.

  The archers who lined the walls shifted uneasily. Each clutched an unstrung bow and stood before a forest of arrows stuck point-down into clods of peat that lined troughs running the whole length of the wall. They were nobodies, their faces gleaned from chance meetings Mort had accumulated over his lifetime. Security guards, bouncers, traffic enforcement officers, amateur prize-fighters, and low-life mercenaries, all found their way into Mort’s army of imaginary people. Their personalities were based on a snippet of conversation, a glare, or whatever limited interaction Mort had with them, and extrapolated into a full person. Odds were they bore little similarity to the person they were based upon. The whole army was constructed thusly, as was most of the village below.

  “Milord, we have a report from the scouts,” Brad said. This was a younger version of the Brad Ramsey who would grow up to prefer going by his middle name of Carl. This was the Brad from before he’d gone off to join Earth Navy. Fresh faced and smart mouthed, he’s lost the former and sharpened the latter in the years since. This one was a minor nobleman in Mortania, son of Baron Chuck Ramsey, Mort’s closest adviser.

  “Well? Out with it,” Mort ordered. “We haven’t got all… wait, you heard what I told the dragon, didn’t you?”

  “Day’s as long as you say it is. Of course, milord,” Brad replied. Despite the unfailing politeness and adherence to protocol, Brad still found ways to needle his liege. “Scouts say those enemy whatever-the-fucks should be to the border in an hour, but that was probably twenty minutes ago.”

  “Good,” Mort said, nodding. “Has anyone reported… oh, I don’t know… someone who looks a lot like you? Either in enemy territory or snuck in the back way?” Mort should have been able to tell if Carl was actually in his head, but with Carl, he could never be certain of anything.

  “I don’t think this world could handle more than one face this pretty,” Brad replied, displaying his features in profile and grinning like a cat.

  Mort sighed. It wasn’t quite an answer, but arguing with Brad would take more mental wherewithal than he currently had to spare. “Just keep an eye out,” Mort said. Then he muttered under his breath, “Because there’s not a lot I can do right here but hold out.”

  # # #

  It was taking longer than Tanny had expected. For a punishment to be effective at conditioning, it should have followed swiftly in the wake of her defiance. The corn and ham slurry wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever tasted, but its unwelcome and unexpected intrusion had triggered her. Fuck ARGO. Fuck all of them. Whoever stepped through that door was getting whatever she could squeeze from her Recitol-fueled muscles and Adrenophiline-enhanced reflexes. If she was going to suffer in this place, so would they.

  But not until someone came to check on her.

  Could they see her through hidden cameras? Probably. Did that mean that they were waiting for her to give up her readied ambush, relax, maybe even fall asleep before barging in to enact a reprisal for refusing to feed from a tube like a factory-bred animal?

  And so she slouched down on the cot. Eyes heavy-lidded, she kept her watch on the door from her peripheral vision. Tanny feigned a yawn and discovered a real one instead. She was exhausted. Letting her guard down had only fooled her body into believing that she was actually going to rest. Or were her captors pumping a mild sedative gas into the room in concentrations so low she couldn’t notice it? The thought sparked a panicked wakefulness and a shot of adrenaline at the prospect of being taken in her sleep.

  As time dragged on, Tanny ran a hand through her short hair. It was tactical, she told herself. Style was something civilians could worry about. They didn’t have to think about how long hair could provide a handhold in close combat, or how it would affect the fit of a helmet. But she made herself a promise that when she got out she would try growing it out again. Esper seemed to be able to get away with it, and Tanny hadn’t seen her reflection with long hair since joining the marines. It was a silly plan, and there was every chance she wouldn’t follow through on it, but the promise was what mattered. She needed to remain convinced that there was an “afterward” to plan for. She needed hope.

  With a hiss of released pressure, the door parted itself from its outline, receding back a few centimeters before sliding sideways into the surrounding wall. With speed that startled even her, Tanny shook herself from her lethargy, set her feet against the cot, and sprang for the doorway.

  Tanny landed atop the guard and drove him to the floor beneath her. Tucking her knees to either side of the downed man’s torso, she took him by one wrist and twisted his arm. She’d have gone for his throat first, but his helmet was in the way, tucked down in a defensive posture. Using her legs, she pinned the stun baton at his belt—inaccessible to both of them. Her only real problem was the guard calling for help before she could finish disarming him and use his own weapon to subdue him—before she snapped his neck.

  But the guard didn’t call out, or even fight back. With inhuman strength, he simply stood up, shaking Tanny loose from his arm. Combat instincts took over. Tanny rolled to her feet and lunged for the stun baton, grabbing it from the guard’s belt before he could react. Imagining that he had lightweight tactical armor underneath his uniform, she only feigned sticking him in the abdomen with the baton, then angled it for his exposed neck.

  The guard caught her by the wrist, not even flinching for her feint. He twisted out of the way of the knee she brought up to knock the breath from him, and used his grip on her wrist to fling her toward the bare steel wall of the prison block.

  “Jesus, Tanny,” the guard said, the helmet’s distortion unable to hide the familiar voice. When Carl pulled off the helmet, Tanny could only stare for a moment in disbelief. “Think you could knock off trying to kill me long enough to finish this rescue?”

  “Carl? When the hell did you learn to fight like that?” Tanny asked. She glanced down to his boots, wondering why he seemed taller than normal—brawnier too for that matter. It didn’t look like bulk from tactical armor, now that she looked more closely.

  Music started playing from unseen loudspeakers. Orchestral. Something inspiring, with a lot of brass and strings. “Years and years of hard watching, sitting on the couch in front of the holo,” Carl replied. “But look at you. We can’t break you out looking like that.”

  Carl pulled a glove off one hand and snapped his fingers in Tanny’s face. She blinked. “What the—?” But then she noticed that the cold steel was gone from beneath her feet. So was the loose, unbound feeling of the baggy prison garment. Looking down, she was dressed for an assault, full combat gear from boots to ablative armor—every
thing but a helmet.

  “What’s going on here?” Tanny asked. Was Carl a wizard? Was this Mort messing with her?

  Carl winked and raised a wrist to his mouth. “Hero to Ladies’ Man, the bear is out of the cave. Repeat—the bear is out of its cave.”

  “Copy that, Hero. Proceed to rendezvous,” a voice came from Carl’s wrist comm. “But I should really have been the one to do this. You’re wasted on this mission.”

  “Time and a place, buddy. Time and a place,” Carl said and shut his comm. “Now let’s get out of here. I’ll explain on the way.”

  # # #

  Roddy was dripping in sweat. The fur was matted to his body beneath his coveralls, sticking and wafting his own stench up into his nostrils. The endless maze of engine room corridors was an oven, thanks to no fewer than a dozen coolant-line failures, each patched inexpertly but good enough to keep the ship from melting. But there was no rest.

  “Auto-destruct sequence… activated.”

  Roddy looked all around for the source of the pleasant female voice that had just portended the doom of the Mobius. He had never known the Mobius to have a self-destruct feature, and he’d taken the ship apart practically down to the bolts. If it had ever possessed one, he’d have shot it out the first airlock he came across. It was hard enough to keep a ship in one piece without maintaining a device designed to dust the whole freaking thing.

  “Self-destructing in three minutes.”

  Roddy had grown numb to the immanent presence of death. The Mobius had been falling apart on him for so long now that this was just another flavor of doom. There wasn’t even a comm panel in sight, so he hadn’t even been able to call anyone to lend a hand with the repairs. He simply followed the sound of the voice, somehow certain that the controls to deactivate the self-destruct sequence would be near the source.

  It wasn’t even worth running. Like every other impending destruction level event, he’d get there just in time whether he hurried or not. Hurrying just tired him out.

  A door opened, tucked on the far side of a forest of conduits. Light poured in, fresher and brighter than the emergency overheads scattered throughout the engine room. How he’d failed to notice it… oh, who was he kidding? He hadn’t noticed a damn thing besides the next catastrophe to avert.

  “Yo, Beer-Battered, get over here,” Carl shouted over the din of mechanical protest from every quarter of the ship. He stood in the doorway, beckoning Roddy like he was shorthanded for a game of poker.

  “Carl, this isn’t a—either get in here and help or get the hell out of the way,” Roddy said. Given Carl’s notorious incompetence with all things mechanical, it seemed unlikely his help would be a net gain, but it was worth asking. Anything at this point was worth a try.

  “Naw, that’s shit work,” Carl replied. “And you’re a sap for putting up with it. Now drop the tools and get out here, before I have to come in there after you.” Leaning into the engine room, but hanging onto the doorframe, it appeared Carl didn’t relish the second option.

  “Self-destructing in two minutes.”

  “Carl, if I don’t find the shut-off, the ship’s going to explode,” Roddy shouted. Carl could be dense at times, but this was one occasion where things had gone beyond harmless annoyance and into tempting doomsday.

  “So let it,” Carl replied. “It’s not the Mobius. The Mobius doesn’t have a self-destruct.”

  “I didn’t think so either, but…” Roddy held up his hands as the announcement came overhead.

  “Self-destructing in one minute, thirty seconds.”

  “Sure,” Carl said, crossing his arms. “While you were passed out drunk one night, I hired a guy to come in and install a bomb in my own goddamn ship and didn’t think to mention it to my mechanic. And while he was here… oh yeah!… I had him quadruple the size of the engine room—because that’s completely possible. This place is bigger than the whole fucking ship.”

  “But—”

  “Just get the hell out here,” Carl snapped. “I’ve got a ship to take us someplace safe. I’ll explain on the way.” When Roddy hesitated, Carl added, “Or you can stay here and fight fires until you keel.”

  A ship. Carl wasn’t making sense, but an evacuation sounded like a better plan than trying to avert the constant string of disastrous system failures. “All right, let’s get off this wreck.”

  The hallway on Carl’s side of the door was pristine white, glossy, and featureless. When Carl closed the door, there was no hint that it had ever been there.

  “Which way to the ship?” Roddy asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  Carl snickered. “There’s no other ship. I just said that to get you out of there.” Carl pulled a handheld comm from his pocket. “Sarcastic Asshole to Ladies’ Man, four-and-fuzzy out of some dumbass personal hell and en route to rendezvous.”

  “What the hell was that?” Roddy demanded. Had Carl finally snapped once and for all?

  “Better you than me, pal,” Carl’s voice came from the comm. “Oh, and Roddy, he’ll explain on the way. That part wasn’t bullshit.”

  # # #

  Esper paused to brush the hair from her eyes and admire her work. The pew gleamed with a fresh coat of polish over the old oak. She massaged away a burning sensation in the muscles of her right arm, unaccustomed to long periods of repetitive labor. Switching the rag and her tin of waxen polish to give a fresh set of muscles a workout, she moved to the next pew and began again. There were thirty rows to each side, and she had only just begun. It was more than a single day’s effort ahead of her, but it would never get done if she stood around worrying over how much more was left.

  The work was cleansing. After unburdening her soul to Bishop Chavez, he’d suggested working with her hands as a way to ground herself in the mundane… in the real… in the non-magical. When muscular fatigue had first set in, Esper had to fight back the temptation to just ask the universe—pretty please—if there hadn’t been some mistake, and that she ought to have been stronger, with more physical stamina. The very first time, she may have even whispered words to that effect in the privacy of her own mind. But Bishop Chavez was a rock of belief. If he chose to believe that none but he could work magic within Saint Raphael’s walls, then so it would be.

  Scuffing footsteps caught Esper’s attention, echoing in a world where the only sounds she’d been hearing were the rubbing of cloth on polished wood and her own huffing breath. It was after evening Mass, and the few parishioners who’d attended had all departed, even the ones who hung around to chat with Bishop Chavez afterward. There were occasional visitors at other hours, but this was an unusual time to visit the church. It usually heralded a soul in need of extra solace, someone who wished to speak to the Lord in his own house, because he needed so badly to be heard.

  Esper didn’t lift her head, but glanced out of the corner of her eye at the newcomer. A different temptation rose within her, one not entirely inappropriate. Solace. Bishop Chavez had retired for a late dinner; Esper was the only one around just then. Had she been a priestess, or hadn’t she? So long as she made no claims to ordination, there was nothing wrong with lending an ear and what wisdom she could spare.

  Tucking one end of the rag under her belt, Esper straightened and brushed the dust from her dress. It was simple, of local make according to Bishop Chavez, but she still felt the need to tidy herself as best she could before making an impression.

  The visitor was dressed in black, with a wide-brimmed hat, shielding his face as he bowed his head. Esper slipped into a pew in front of him, so as not to encroach too boldly on his solitude—she only wanted to encroach a little. “Evenings here are so quiet, most nights,” she commented offhandedly, turning her head not quite far enough to look over her shoulder.

  The stranger kept his voice and his head low. “I’m just here to offer a prayer to Saint Whatshisname. You know… the patron saint of shutting up and listening to the plan without freaking out?” a too-familiar voice replied.

 
“Carl!” Esper shouted, the name echoing to the farthest reaches of the cathedral. Immediately she clapped both hands over her mouth. Seconds later, she tried again, this time in a whisper. “Carl, what are you doing here? I… I thought you were captured by ARGO. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I shouldn’t be lotsa places,” Carl replied. “But judge not, lest ye be judged. Am I right? Come on, let’s blow this musty old tomb.” He grabbed Esper by the arm and got to his feet.

  But Esper pulled free of his grip. Tanny had taught her how to break holds, and Carl was hardly trying, let alone using advanced martial arts techniques. “NO. This is my chance at redemption, or at least salvation. I’ve got to pay for what I’ve done, and Bishop Chavez has granted me sanctuary. ARGO isn’t going to touch me inside these walls.”

  “Is that how he convinced you to stay here?” Carl asked, pushing his hat brim up with his thumb. “Absolution? What a bastard.”

  “Carl!” Esper snapped. “That’s no way to talk about a man who’s risking his reputation—and possibly his own safety—to shelter me here.”

  Carl pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not talking about Pope Fakey the Pretender—”

  “He’s not pope—”

  “But, the hat…”

  “It’s a different sort of hat,” Esper said firmly. “Father Chavez is a bishop.”

  “Whatever,” Carl said, waving away the argument. “This place isn’t real. Lloyd sucked you—sucked all of us—into his head. He’s got some old grudge with Mort, and he’s using us as leverage. This is all a big mental holovid to keep you from trying to escape.”

  “Lloyd?” Esper asked. That seemed unlikely. “He’s… he’s just having… some troubles with Rhiannon.” The memories were fuzzy around the edges. Wasn’t that the last thing she’d talked to Lloyd about before… before what? “What happened to us? Did ARGO capture the Mobius? I can’t remember any of it.”

  “Because it never happened,” Carl said. “Lloyd got a good look into those cobalt blue eyes of yours, and you were done for. Everything after that’s been Lloyd’s puppet show.”