Mission Inadvisable

by J. S. Morin

  The lieutenant’s command was cut short as the man ducked for cover himself. Hobson laid down effective cover fire, allowing Rai Kub and Keesha to head for the far exit.

  Carl peeked over the driver’s seat of the carriage and squeezed off a shot of his own. The plasma bolt corkscrewed before swerving into an expensive-looking vase and shattering it.

  “Shit,” Carl muttered. He knew what that meant even before the robed figures marched in.

  The wizards of the Convocation didn’t hide their affiliation. Black silk and the silver thunderstruck ‘C’ insignia on a chain—there could have been no doubt.

  “I am Herman Chopra, Order of Prometheus. Surrender the wizardess Keesha Bell, and you will be spared.”

  That was certainly a switch from the usual order of threats Carl received. Most of the lawmen he’d dealt with at least implied that killing him was a last resort, not the default option.

  “Let’s talk this out like gentlemen,” Carl called back. “I’m sure no one wants anyone getting hurt here.”

  Of course, Carl was sure of no such thing. In fact, he was pretty sure he heard a bit of glee in old Herman’s voice when the wizard posed his threat.

  Sneakers squeaked on the polished hardwood of Keesha Bell’s floors. The only wizard Carl had ever known to wear sneakers had been Mort. Risking a peek, he remembered one other: Esper.

  Clad in her pink sweatshirt, she strolled in from a side entrance with her hands tucked away in their pockets. He could see the muscles taut along her jawline, the tuck of her shoulders to make herself appear smaller. But nonetheless, she was stepping right into the line of fire.

  Carl heard the ship’s wizard’s voice in his head. Run. I’ll hold them off.

  The chivalrous thing would have been to object. The captainly act would have been to organize a careful withdrawal that included Esper. As a friend, he should have reminded Esper that she wasn’t Mort.

  Instead, Carl stayed low, waved for Hobson to follow him, and slunk out the back door.

  # # #

  Esper sized up the four wizards standing at the far end of the exhibit hall and didn’t appreciate what she saw. The one who called himself Herman had the air of someone spoiling for a bloody battle. The three who followed him didn’t look inclined to act as the voice of reason.

  Priceless antiquities adorned every square meter of the room, like the better cultural history museums back home on Mars. A responsible, civic-minded part of Esper mourned for the lost history already.

  “Who are you?” Herman demanded. “Are you the mysterious apprentice Keesha Bell took on?”

  Esper spoke, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I am.”

  “Clear the way,” Herman ordered. “Stay out of trouble, and you may avoid the fate of your master.”

  “Don’t let him get past,” Mort demanded, standing just to the side of Esper’s direct line of sight to Herman.

  Esper took a step back as Herman advanced, with his three lackeys in tow.

  “Grow a spine!” Mort shouted.

  “Stay back,” Esper warned, voice wavering.

  It had been one thing taking Bellamy Blackstone unawares. She’d been half mad with grief and didn’t register what she’d done until it was over. Esper could already feel the oppressive presence of the elder wizard bearing down on her version of reality.

  Herman Chopra scoffed. “Stand aside or be counted among the bodies.”

  “I can’t,” Esper whispered.

  “You can’t?” Herman echoed with a forced laugh. “Oh, this one’s full of herself, isn’t she?” His companions chuckled at their superior’s jest.

  But Esper’s words weren’t meant for Herman. It was Mort she addressed.

  “I can,” Mort said softly. “Let me.”

  “I shouldn’t,” Esper said, wiping the tears welling in her eyes.

  “Leave it all to me,” Mort said. “Just a quick ride. You won’t have to watch.”

  “I don’t have time for this sniveling,” Herman said with a sneer.

  The Convocation wizard raised his hand to strike Esper aside with a backhanded blow.

  But that blow never landed.

  Mordecai The Brown harrumphed as Herman Chopra sailed across the exhibit hall with a startled scream. “About bloody time,” he griped. The voice sounded strange in his ears, but that was the least of his concerns.

  As the crotchety old wizard stalked forward in Esper’s borrowed body, Esper’s consciousness tumbled away.

  She never saw Herman land or what became of the three wizards. Seconds after ceding control of her body, Esper found herself in Esperville at the little cafe she frequented nightly.

  With a nervous glance at the sky, seen through the cafe’s front window, Esper picked up her chamomile tea and took a sip.

  All she could do was wait.

  # # #

  “I’m not accustomed to this,” Keesha Bell wailed as Rai Kub cradled her in one arm like a newborn.

  Blaster shots sizzled down the mansion’s halls, striking artwork and taking chunks out of masterfully crafted architecture. The wheeled cart squeaked and protested but followed along as Rai Kub towed it in his free hand.

  “I would be surprised if anyone was,” Rai Kub observed placidly. It wasn’t as if most normal people ever got shot at, and the ones who did were most often trained to fire back, not get carried from the fray.

  “Set me down, and I’ll give them something to convince them of the error they are making here,” Keesha said. She tried to make it sound like an order, but Rai Kub had decided that she wasn’t his boss here; she was the one being protected.

  As blaster shots thumped against the armor plating Rai Kub wore beneath his clothes, he bemoaned the shopping trips it would take to replace his wardrobe.

  “Please don’t work magic,” Rai Kub pleaded. “We’re getting close to the ship. Amy said before we left that we couldn’t let anyone do magic near the ship. We need it to science-fly us away.”

  The building shook, and there was a horrendous crash from somewhere back the way they came.

  “Well, that’s sensible, I suppose,” Keesha replied more somberly. “But who in tarnation is Amy?”

  Rai Kub hadn’t expected the question. “Um. She and Carl are mates in training. Amy flies the Mobius.”

  “Carl got himself engaged?” Keesha asked.

  It amazed Rai Kub at times how humanity survived despite being so easily distracted. Despite repeated blaster fire, including a few shots that stung his unprotected legs, he answered her question.

  “Not that the crew is aware. They do, however, practice frequently.”

  “Ugh,” Keesha replied. “More information than I strictly required. That sort of debauchery is best kept behind closed doors for the sake of decorum.”

  “Then I wouldn’t sit on the couch, if I were you,” Rai Kub cautioned.

  That, it seemed, was enough to deter further questions and commentary from Keesha Bell for the duration of their escape.

  # # #

  Esper staggered onto the terrace of Keesha Bell’s estate.

  Not that she did so often, but the muddled and disoriented effect was like waking up after passing out drunk the night before. How she arrived on the terrace was a blank spot in her mind.

  Taking stock, she felt physically fine, aside from some dizziness that was likely psychosomatic. Her clothes were covered in dust.

  What had happened?

  Clearly, Mort had at least gotten her away from the battle. The Mobius was just a short distance ahead, waiting for her with the cargo ramp open.

  “Come on!” Carl shouted over the whine of the engines. He waved her on with sweeping hand gestures. “We’re not leaving you.”

  Maybe they should have.

  Esper didn’t know what Mort had done while in possession of her body. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t given over control without a fair guess as to what he’d planned. Part of her wanted to turn around and check
to see what the aftermath in the house looked like.

  But Carl wasn’t bluffing. They weren’t going to leave without their ship’s wizard—and their old ship’s wizard as well, unbeknownst to them. Satisfying her curiosity could get them all captured or killed. Convincing them that she was too dangerous to stay around wasn’t going to be quick, either.

  “What are you waiting for?” Mort cajoled, appearing at the bottom of the terrace’s wide steps. “Skedaddle. We won. Time to mosey off into the nearest sunset.”

  “What did you do?” Esper asked softly.

  Mort crossed his arms. “Exactly what needed to be done. No more. No less.”

  “Don’t ever do that again,” she warned. “Go back. Stay inside. Never… never try to convince me to let you take control again. This was a one-time mistake.”

  “No one died. Everyone gets away—assuming you hurry,” Mort said. “I’m available upon request to roll up my pretty pink sleeves and do what you don’t have the stomach for. Just remember that. Ta-ta.”

  With that, Mort poofed.

  Esper shook her head to clear it and headed for the Mobius at a jog.

  # # #

  Keesha Bell walked down the cargo ramp of the Mobius like it was a pirate ship’s gangplank, pausing before setting one genuine leather boot on the soil of New Garrelon.

  “We’re going to be the only humans on this planet?” Keesha asked warily. Her gaggle of servants waited for her to lead the way.

  “Yup,” Carl confirmed. “Worked it all out. You get sanctuary here on my personal voucher for your behavior. We’ll hang around a couple days to see you get settled, then you won’t have to see us again.”

  It had become clear over the past week of travel that Keesha Bell was going to hold at least a small grudge over costing her a home and a collection of valuable artifacts worth an estimated twenty billion terras.

  That was fair.

  But at the same time, Keesha’s criminal dealings were already on Earth Interstellar’s scanners. It was only a matter of time before they caught her on some charge or other. Carl getting there in time to whisk her to safety was a lucky break for her in the long run.

  “Forgiveness is a long and winding road,” Keesha said with an arched eyebrow. Then she turned and stomped off the ship, met by a delegation of stuunji diplomats who’d been warned about her temper.

  The cargo bay ramp closed once the last of Keesha Bell’s servants had disembarked, along with all the priceless junk she’d managed to drag along.

  As the crew filtered throughout the ship, goodbyes said, Roddy ambled over to Carl with a telltale case in hand. This wasn’t one of the ubiquitous silver metal carry-alls that could contain anything from primordial goo to millions in hardcoin.

  Roddy brought over a guitar case.

  “What’s this?” Carl asked. The obvious answer was so rarely the right one that when Roddy popped the latches, Carl was shocked to see an actual guitar.

  Not just any guitar. This was a classic. Ancient.

  “It’s one of Les Paul’s personal guitars,” Roddy explained. “This bitch is older than most of your music.”

  Carl was almost afraid to touch it. Almost. Taking the instrument from Roddy with appropriate reverence, he admired the weight and feel of it. It was impeccably preserved, all original except for the modern strings and the faint runes carved into the back of the body.

  “Probably how Keesha kept it in such good condition,” Carl remarked absently. He brushed a finger along the strings, holding down an A chord. Despite not being amplified, the notes rang clear and pure—just quiet. It was in perfect tune. He looked up at Roddy with a grin. “Lemme guess, you stole this from Keesha’s place just so you’d stop having to share your twelve-string?”

  Keesha had probably just wanted to act gruff and belligerent to feel better about getting displaced from her home. After all, Carl saved her life. Someone was going to get to her sooner or later, and with inside knowledge of the operation, Carl was in a unique position to facilitate her getaway. This was the thanks after a week of griping, nasty looks, and—oddly, even for a wizard—thinly veiled disparagement of the common room couch.

  “Yeah,” Roddy said. “I was coming through the destruction zone after Esper threw down with those Convocation thugs, and I just saw it sitting there. I mean, I doubt she plays. And I really prefer the extra options the twelve-string gives you. It’s win-win-win. Keesha doesn’t know we took it. I get my twelve back. You get to play a guitar worth ten times more than the Mobius.”

  “Just don’t tell anyone it’s that expensive,” Carl warned.

  Roddy winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Carl’s first real foray into do-goodery hadn’t gone according to plan. But at the end of the day, they’d pocketed a fair payday, locked up a couple lowlife scum, saved a religious relic, and relocated a notorious smuggling racketeer to a world with no extradition treaty.

  As Roddy went and retrieved his own instrument, Carl got to plug into an amplifier and play a little Led Zeppelin on a guitar as old as that long-dead band.

  Thanks for reading!

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  Books by J.S. Morin

  Black Ocean

  Black Ocean is a fast-paced fantasy space opera series about the small crew of the Mobius trying to squeeze out a living. If you love fantasy and sci-fi, and still lament over the cancellation of Firefly, Black Ocean is the series for you!

  Read about the Black Ocean series and discover where to buy at: blackoceanmissions.com

  Twinborn Chronicles: Awakening

  Experience the journey of mundane scribe Kyrus Hinterdale who discovers what it means to be Twinborn—and the dangers of getting caught using magic in a world that thinks it exists only in children’s stories.

  Twinborn Chronicles: War of 3 Worlds

  Then continue on into the world of Korr, where the Mad Tinker and his daughter try to save the humans from the oppressive race of Kuduks. When their war spills over into both Tellurak and Veydrus, what alliances will they need to forge to make sure the right side wins?

  Read about the Mad Tinker Chronicles and discover where to buy at: twinbornchronicles.com

  About the Author

  I am a creator of worlds and a destroyer of words. As a fantasy writer, my works range from traditional epics to futuristic fantasy with starships. I have worked as an unpaid Little League pitcher, a cashier, a student library aide, a factory grunt, a cubicle drone, and an engineer—there is some overlap in the last two.

  Through it all, though, I was always a storyteller. Eventually I started writing books based on the stray stories in my head, and people kept telling me to write more of them. Now, that’s all I do for a living.

  I enjoy strategy, worldbuilding, and the fantasy author’s privilege to make up words. I am a gamer, a joker, and a thinker of sideways thoughts. But I don’t dance, can’t sing, and my best artistic efforts fall short of your average notebook doodle. When you read my books, you are seeing me at my best.

  My ultimate goal is to be both clever and right at the same time. I have it on good authority that I have yet to achieve it.

  Connect with me online

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  in, Mission Inadvisable