by Stefon Mears
But no. Even Zoltan would not have sold to...
“Send her in,” Jacobs said, steadying his breathing and forcing his fists to unclench.
Tai Shi Li Hua entered the room with the feral grace of a predator, which was one of the reasons Jacobs respected her. She wore a spotless chestnut brown skirt suit with matching heels that even Jacobs had to admit complemented the red Martian overtones of her Chinese heritage. She stopped two paces inside the room, and her patient posture told Jacobs that she meant the distance as a gesture of respect, to give him the opportunity to invite her in or dismiss her.
Under the circumstances, that showed more presence of mind than he would have expected from someone under thirty. But most magicians developed their presence of mind faster than regular people.
“Captain Jacobs,” said Tai Shi. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“So Mancuso bought out Zoltan.”
“Technically, 4M bought Zoltan’s share of Starchaser Spacelines to reflect the growing concern of space travel to our business interests. But the effect is the same, yes.”
Jacobs gestured for her to sit. He definitely should have had that drink. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” said Tai Shi as she sat, her posture relaxed, but balanced. Ready. As though even here she expected an attack.
“I thought you handled 4M security for Mars. How did you end up playing messenger?”
“I’m not. The recent expansion of our business interests has prompted Mr. Mancuso to create the position of Director of Security for Inter-Business Relations. I’ve been promoted.”
“Sounds like a very specific position.”
“With broad reach. Anyone we do business with has to accept my oversight of their security.”
“To prevent the infiltration of your security teams, such as happened on the Mars run?”
That damned Mars run. Smugglers, murderers, conspiracy theorists and a threat to destroy the ship.
“Exactly.”
Firm confidence in her voice suggested that she had figured out exactly what had gone wrong on that voyage and that she knew how to prevent anything like it from happening again on her watch.
Her watch?
“Wait,” said Jacobs with a scowl. “Does this mean I’m expected to let you oversee security for my ships?”
“Our ships now, Captain Jacobs. 4M owns half-interest, and has equal say in—”
“I run my ships my way. My chief handles my security.”
“Nevertheless I need to run a personnel check.”
“I’ll sell.”
“No one will buy. Mr. Mancuso will see to that.”
“I’ll quit.”
“Captain Jacobs,” said Tai Shi with wearing patience in her voice. “If you try to quit, Mr. Mancuso will sink the business, write off the loss, and not lose a moment’s sleep over leaving you ruined.”
Jacobs stared at her impassive face and felt anger pump through his veins. Belay that, Old Man. She’s the messenger, not the target. He made her wait while he wrangled his temper under control, never letting any of it get past his eyes.
Tai Shi simply sat, without so much as a fidget.
“Fine man you work for.”
“I like my job. Doesn’t mean I always like my employer.”
“He’s going to ruin me anyway, isn’t he?”
“No. He wants you to stay through the Venus run. Then if you still want out, he will buy out your shares at two hundred percent value.”
“So that’s why Zoltan sold.”
“Normally,” said Tai Shi reaching into her inner jacket pocket, “I would send this to you from my zephyrpad, but I recall that you prefer actual paper.”
She pulled out a trifolded piece of paper and slid it across the desk to Jacobs.
Jacobs picked it up and read it twice. Sure enough, Mancuso seemed to be offering to purchase Jacobs’ share of Starchaser Spacelines for two hundred percent of peak market value over the two week period following the successful completion of the Venus run. That would give the public time to absorb the news and for everyone to think of Starchaser Spacelines first when they thought of traveling off-planet.
The offer even included a retirement bonus large enough to buy Jacobs a house anywhere he wanted, and guaranteed health and care insurance for life for himself, and included a provision for a spouse should he marry.
As though Jacobs would ever meet someone who could replace Rhonda. He never had. Not in the fifty-eight years and seven months since her death.
Jacobs looked up at Tai Shi, who smiled as though honestly pleased.
Jacobs needed a moment to remember why she was smiling.
“It’s a good offer,” said Tai Shi, “and all you have to do is what you were going to do anyway. Captain the first commercial voyage to Venus.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Well,” said Tai Shi, and Jacobs felt his jaw set. Just that one word told him he would not like what followed, but she had more to say. “The circumstances of that voyage will not be what you expect.”
She passed Jacobs another piece of paper. This one a passenger list and cargo manifest.
“Ridiculous,” said Jacobs, his eyes still on the paper. “There are twenty names on this list, double the maximum passenger load for a little ship like the Lark's Song. And three times as much cargo as we’re allowing.”
He slid the paper back to her across the desk. “Besides, a proper full load of passages has already been sold.”
“About that...” Tai Shi drew a deep breath. “Those passengers were false fronts, 4M employees buying the spaces to hold them while Mr. Mancuso prepared to purchase—”
“Did Zoltan know?”
“I was not involved in this aspect of the transaction.”
“So this is why Mancuso didn’t come himself.”
“You did punch a representative of Transterran Properties on the Mars run.”
“That idiot was stabbing someone he had no business stabbing.”
Tai Shi tried to say something, but snorted out a laugh.
“Excuse me. It’s just that I agree. Mr. Mancuso, however, is a man of a different sort of action.”
“Fine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The passenger count and cargo tonnage are both too much for the Lark's Song, and since the Last Night and the Star Wave are committed to other flights, we’ll have to use the Horizon Cusp. That means a more experienced crew, but greater risk and greater expense. 4M is picking up all costs above and beyond those budgeted for the voyage as I’ve planned it, agreed?”
“Agreed.” Tai Shi tried to continue, but Jacobs spoke over her.
“Furthermore,” he said and waited until he had her attention. “My ship, my security, my way. Goldberg handles all security for this flight. No ‘private guards’ this time, ‘personal bodyguards,’ or anything of the like. You get executives and support staff only.”
“Agreed, with the proviso that I will be among the executives and oversee—”
“Anything Goldberg allows you to. You’ll meet with him before takeoff, and I’ll tell him what’s coming. If he agrees to your oversight, you get it. Otherwise, the best you get to do is assist him. Yes.” Jacobs let command infuse his deep voice, and even the walls rang out with compliance. “Your boss has pulled his tricks to get a Venus flight with me in command. Well, heaven help him, he has it. And that means I run things my way. No oversight. No interference. This is a dangerous voyage, and I’ll be damned before I’ll risk my crew on the meddling of landlubbers.
“Is that clear?”
“Yes, I believe so,” said Tai Shi, eyebrows up and face impressed. She handed him a business card. “Have Security Chief Goldberg contact me at his convenience.”
After she left, Jacobs gathered the forms he would need for the docks, at least those he had finished, leaving behind the ones now rendered inaccurate by changes to the passenger list, cargo manifest, and most of all the helioship.
&nbs
p; The Horizon Cusp was too much ship for this voyage. Added risk. But, Jacobs admitted with a sigh, at least Benny Sugg would be happier. The old tomcat hated change as much as Jacobs did.
◊
Twelve hours after his confrontation in Docking Bay Forty-Nine, Donal disembarked the Archimedes with the other efficiency-rate passengers, probably a good half-hour after Mason would have departed from his luxury-class personal cabin.
That thought made Donal smile. Someday he too would fly in luxury-class personal cabins at someone else’s expense. In five months he would move into his graduate student accommodations on the CalThaum campus in San Luis Obispo, ready to begin his own doctoral studies. No more courier work with its promise of exotic travel and its reality of cramped quarters and occasional threats to life and limb.
At least it paid well, especially when threats to life and limb got involved. And in a few years, Donal would make Hierophant himself and get to choose his field of research. People might remember him as more than Bran Cuthbert’s little brother.
Donal stepped out of the hangar and into the Spaceport of San Francisco proper: huge, organized, and teeming with life. The third largest spaceport in the United North American States — after Toronto and Durango — tens of thousands came through every day. And with the chaos of noise and movement pressing on him, Donal felt as though every single one of those travelers surrounded him right now.
Too much.
After three days among the sparser population of Kennedy, Donal was not ready for the press of San Francisco’s spaceport. Luna’s population counted in the millions now, but they never seemed as crowded as the cities of home. There they moved in knots and groups. Here they moved in packs and throngs.
The smell was better here in San Francisco though. Solid enchanting work kept a fresh spring scent in the air.
Still, Donal retreated back into the hangar for relief, where the only other people were low-grade alchemists in their stained jumpsuits, here to see about the Archimedes fuel needs.
Donal calmed himself with a breathing technique. Regular practice had enabled him to shift his levels of awareness — key to his magical perceptions and work — but at moments like this he found their familiarity comforting.
He called forth Fionn, who emitted as a green beam of light from Donal’s pendant before coalescing into shape. The emerald spirit deerhound determined the lay of the land in a sniff of the air, a shifting of its eyes and a quick angling of its ears.
“Are we hunted?”
“No,” said Donal. “The Hierophant took care of that.”
Fionn sat and regarded the immense foot traffic, then looked back at its master with emerald ears still pointing to check for threats.
“Exactly. I need you to keep an eye on me while we head for the IIX office. I need to catch myself if I tighten up.”
“You still consider field work.” Fionn snorted with a twitch of its head. “Research is safer and more to your taste.”
“People keep trying to kill me. I need the skills of field work, even if I don’t use them to earn money.”
“Your continued association with Tai Shi Li Hua endangers you.”
“Because she loves field work?”
“That, and her employer.” Fionn thumped its tail. “You should sever your connection with her. Sooner is better.”
“Look,” said Donal with a sigh, “just keep an eye on me, all right?”
And with that, they moved into the crowd, working their way through clusters of humanity — some accompanied by familiar spirits or illusory guides — and down the broad halls.
Subtle magics worked into the carpeting and walls freshened the air and drew out the smells of travel: fast food, sweat, competing perfumes and colognes, and periodic improper hygiene.
Donal passed alcoves where hallucinatory scenes advertised travel destinations and local products, barely sparing them a second glance. Of course, it helped that local noise regulations kept their volumes low enough not to interfere with casual conversation. At least, not any more than the thousand competing casual conversations did.
He did pause at an interactive map, seeing that the port had improved their map system again. When Donal had left for Kennedy, the maps had been six feet wide and could tilt, zoom and search when travelers used the proper series of gestures and key phrases.
But now Donal saw people surrounding a nearby map and pulling down personal copies, each still fully interactive, that looked as though they would maintain their integrity for some time.
The siren song of new spellwork called to Donal, and he stepped out of the traffic zone to shift his consciousness and dig into the spells, intending to study the decay rate of the duplicated images. He hoped to find some new approach to direct enchantment duration, a weakness in his own work.
The feel of Fionn’s teeth lightly denting Donal’s wrist brought him back into his own head before he had gotten his answer. Donal gave Fionn an irritated look.
“Research magicians can pause to study new spells,” said the familiar. “Field magicians must keep their attention on their surroundings.”
Donal sighed. Fionn was right, as usual. Had someone been following Donal, they could have taken him down with even a commercial-grade Pacifier while he was busy focusing on the map. On the other hand...
“I have a familiar to track threats while I study.”
Fionn sat and regarded its master, head at a slight angle and ears perked in silent statement.
“...and if I thought the area might be hostile I would have sent you off to scout.” Donal checked his messenger bag, an empty reflex as he had no package to deliver. “You want me to say it? I’ll say it. You’re right.”
The cú sidhe sat. Waiting.
“You think I missed something else?” Donal scanned the crowd, saw no threats among the throngs. “If you aren’t going to tell me, we should get moving.”
Fionn looked once over its shoulder, and Donal would have sworn that his familiar managed to assess their entire surroundings in that single movement. Fionn then stood and fell into step alongside Donal as he began to walk.
Three steps later, realization made Donal slap himself in the forehead. Fionn must have been waiting for Donal to start walking.
Fionn snorted, possibly to cover a chuckle.
Some five minutes later, the two entered the main office of IIX, Intraplanetary and Interplanetary Express. The businesslike storefront had no counter, only generous floorspace surrounding private cubicles, and roving salespeople in suits eager to help anyone who needed enough security on a package to have it delivered by a magician.
Three elegant illusions demonstrated the service to passersby: one, silent, that scrolled through images and text showing every city, nation and planet IIX delivered to; the second, a three-dimensional montage of famous and important people receiving IIX deliveries by hand (simulated from real events, so the couriers would look more handsome or beautiful than any Donal knew of on staff); and the third and most impressive, a scene of IIX partner Hierophant Jane MacDougall thaumaturgically sealing a package against tampering.
Donal knew that the scene was also simulated, to avoid giving even a hint about the spells used to protect IIX packages, but he still enjoyed looking at it. Hierophant MacDougall was a handsome, statuesque woman who looked decades younger than her rumored sixty-three years.
And he found the “spell” itself entertaining: dramatic gestures and Gaelic chanting (actually a list of ingredients needed to make haggis), vivid jewel-tone colors moving in patterns that looked nothing like actual spell structures, and a subtle press against the skin of those watching, as though the spell created pressures that pushed out even through the dramatization.
Donal occasionally wondered which shadow play director had designed that display, but he never got around to asking. And he had no intention of losing himself in yet another spell while still in what amounted to a public place.
Donal nodded to the salespeople he knew as he
passed through on his way to the back door leading to the employee area. He slipped on his courier signet ring and knocked twice with the ring, letting the ward chime a verifying acknowledgment before he opened the door and stepped through.
Donal had studied that ward once, a complex enchantment also performed by Hierophant MacDougall. After a solid half-hour of deep contemplation, he had learned that it tracked who passed, verified the ring and the wearer, sealed out detection spells and probes, barred unauthorized personnel and familiars, and also contained an intricate self-defense system.
And Donal knew he had only scratched the surface.
He stepped through the employee lounge, with its Spartan couches and chairs, on which two other couriers attempted to nap while their familiars — a crow and a snake — exchanged ideas in that language that all familiars seemed to know. To Donal they sounded as though they spoke some variant of Arabic, but he knew they were not using any human language.
In one corner sat the sort of kitchenette one might see in an moderate hotel room: drawers, cabinets and counters of cheap-but-decent wood, plus one heating plate and one chilling plate. Two sodas sat on the chilling plate, frost coating their glass bottles and suggesting that the sleepers had forgotten them.
Donal continued through the room and down the hall, passing the rest rooms, to the manager’s and accountant’s offices at the back. He turned right and paused in the doorway of Aafiya, the accountant. Donal had always thought accountants were supposed to be middle-aged, overweight men with bald spots, but Aafiya kept trim and dressed sharp, his small beard and black hair as tidy as his gray pinstriped suit. And if Aafiya was any older than Donal, Donal could not have guessed it.
Donal waited in the doorway for acknowledgment while Aafiya finished manipulating numbers in the chimeric display floating above his desk. Finally the accountant looked up and smiled.
“Donal, back from the moon in one piece I see. No combat pay this time?”
“Actually...” said Donal as he entered and sat in the square guest chair, Fionn settling on the floor beside him.
“Oh, come on. Not again.”
“Check it.” Donal tossed his enchanted silver IIX seal onto the desk. “That’s both my off-planet flights and the Sydney mishap. I’m starting to think there’s a target on my back.”