by Stefon Mears
“I don’t believe it.” Aafiya shook his head as he swept the seal through his chimerical display and it acknowledged the chase, the shot from the slinger, and Donal’s vitals throughout. “I’m starting to think you’ve found some way to rig this thing.”
Fionn emitted a low growl, and the cú sidhe’s fur began to rise.
“Come on, Aafiya,” said Donal, waving one hand to placate his familiar. “I’m just a Journeyman. How am I going to rig it?”
“You have two more years of magical training than most of our couriers, and you specialize in conjuration and deception. Maybe you figured something out. Hate to say it, but it looks like I’ll have to ground you until I can get your signet checked.”
“I had a feeling you were going to give me a hard time about this.” Donal reached into his messenger bag and pulled out his zephyrpad. He transferred a document to the accountant, and saw it show up in the chimerical display. “Hierophant Nicholas Mason witnessed, and was good enough to sign a testimonial.”
Donal smiled at Fionn while Aafiya looked the document over. “Like my mom always taught us: ‘get it in writing.’”
Aafiya broke into a broad smile. “That’s why I like you, Donal. You make my job easy. I’ll need a few minutes to verify this, but I should be able to approve your combat pay within the half-hour.”
A knock came from the door frame behind them. The two men looked up to see IIX Regional Manager Tracy Washington, who dressed as neatly as her accountant, with skin the color of wet, fertile soil and just enough height and weight to lend intimidation to her already impressive title.
“Cuthbert. My office. Now.”
Chapter Two
Donal knew that tone, like a hanging judge ready to pronounce sentence. He recalled Fionn back into its silver faun pendant as he stood to follow Ms. Washington.
“Good luck, Donal,” whispered Aafiya. Donal forced his lips into a small smile in response, and spent the short walk across the hall from the accountant’s office to the IIX San Francisco Manager’s office wondering what he had done wrong. He always got his packages where they needed to go as fast as he could manage it (within the budget guidelines set by IIX).
Two steps outside her office, Donal raised his head and set his shoulders in defiance. He could think of nothing he had done to merit that tone, and in a few short months he could ditch courier work forever. In fact, with the combat pay from this last delivery supplementing his expectations, he could squeeze his money and survive until the grants kicked in...
Except that his girlfriend was accustomed to a certain standard of living that did not allow for much penny-pinching. Plus, Mom and Dad would rip him a new one for unnecessarily draining his savings.
Crap. Donal did need this job for a while yet. He set his jaw and took his seat.
Ms. Washington’s office always impressed Donal with its simple elegance. Instead of paintings, each wall had a single lit sconce featuring a neoclassical statue sculpted by Edmonia Lewis. Her dark ash wood desk had a single drawer, and she had arranged her chimerical work display to take only half of the desk’s width, allowing her to comfortably meet a guest’s eye even while her display was active. Next to her small comm pad she had a single coffee cup (empty), resting on a coaster that showed the image of a museum, but Donal could never get a good enough look to know which one.
Most of the IIX offices smelled like coffee. Hers just smelled like wood.
Ms. Washington sat and gave Donal a sour look, lips pulled slightly to one side and eyebrows coming down toward her nose.
Donal knew better than to start this conversation. He settled into his chair, which looked like simple ash to match the desk, but soothed Donal’s muscles gently with earth magic: a creature comfort to relax guests. But Donal could not quite relax. He found himself shifting despite the comfort as her silence stretched.
Finally, she said, “More combat pay, I hear.”
“That wasn’t my fault. The Romanovs—”
“Three times in six months, Donal. That’s more than most couriers see in ten years.”
“Well, the Mars run—”
“Yes. The Mars run.” Ms. Washington glanced into her empty cup, then sat back. “Do you know why I like hiring Initiates instead of Journeymen?”
“You can pay them less?”
“An Initiate on the Mars run could have hidden in his cabin while the other passengers tried to kill each other. An Initiate would not have accidentally brought a zuglodon down on the ship. An Initiate—”
“Are you firing me for being a Journeyman?” Donal leaned forward, shifting his consciousness just a little to pull free of the earth magic on the chair. “We went over all this—”
“Don’t interrupt.” Ms. Washington tapped her comm pad hard with her middle finger. She spoke before her secretary’s face appeared in the air above the pad. “More coffee for me. Water with lemon for Cuthbert.”
Donal blinked. He had asked for that the only time he had ever had a drink in her office. A year ago. And Donal never saw her take notes.
Ms. Washington kept them silent until her secretary brought in the drinks, including another coaster for Donal, this one depicting the image of a waterfall, labeled ‘Saut-d’Eau, Haiti.’ Once the secretary left, Ms. Washington sipped her coffee, set down the cup, then turned her attention back to Donal.
“What do you know about Rowan MacPherson?”
The name sounded familiar, but Donal might not have placed it if he had not already shifted some of his consciousness. As it was, he slipped through details and connections in his head until he remembered the red-haired beauty ... and what he later heard about her.
“I met her once, on Mars. Doesn’t she have something to do with Red Sun?” The connection fired in Donal’s head — Red Sun had been behind the murder and attempted murder on that fateful Mars run. Not that their connection had been proven. Bin Zuka took the fall, and bin Zuka was dead.
“Have you ever worked with her?”
Ms. Washington scrutinized Donal with an intensity that would have done his old professors credit. She might have missed her calling by not studying magic.
“No. I didn’t even let her buy me coffee.” Donal started to pick up his glass of water, but hesitated, his hand still on his armrest. “The Red Sun people on the flight mentioned her too, when they tried to enlist me to help them kill Mr. Mancuso.”
“That’s what bothers me.” She pulled in a deep breath and blew it out with her bottom lip forward, jetting the air up as it went. “You turned them down flat, but they still want you. MacPherson herself came in yesterday. Wants a package delivered to Venus. Asked for you, specifically, to deliver it.”
“We don’t deliver to Venus.”
“Don’t keep up with the news when you’re on a delivery?” Ms. Washington smirked. “I like that. Shows focus. Anyway, first commercial flight takes place next week, and the company doing it is an IIX partner. We can get a package on that ship.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“This sounds like trouble, and you’re in the middle of it. Again.”
“So send someone else.”
“MacPherson made it clear: you or no one.”
“So—”
“We’d be a poor delivery company if we started turning down jobs because of politics. We can be the first courier service with a route to Venus. Besides, I’m charging her over the top for the delivery. But Donal,” — Ms. Washington leaned in, and for just a moment Donal felt convinced that this woman could break him in half — “no bullshit on this flight. Keep your head down and make your delivery. Don’t go looking for trouble.”
“I don’t have to look,” said Donal. “Trouble finds me anyway.”
◊
No one smoked in Smoky Jerry’s, at least, not in the main room. Common gossip claimed that the name came from the entryway, where a haze of shifting varicolored smoke gave privacy to the customers while freely admitting all who sought entrance, so long as they were
old enough. The first time Jacobs came in, the proprietor had explained that the spell was cheap to maintain and saved him the cost of a bouncer.
Jacobs had visited the bar six times over the course of a year and half before he had learned of the ‘smoking room’ in the back, where patrons could indulge in spell-treated tobaccos of varying purpose and legality.
That information might have persuaded Jacobs to take his custom elsewhere, but Smoky Jerry’s had a homey feel that Jacobs liked. Rich dark woods, comfortably warm temperatures, and some sort of air freshener that kept the suggestion of frying steak in the air.
Besides, Smoky Jerry’s sat conveniently near the spaceport, always kept Brigid’s Own Irish Whiskey in stock (always at least fifteen years old, though Jacobs preferred at least twenty), and didn’t clutter up the room with shadow plays, sports or music, apart from the occasional acoustic guitarist.
Jacobs liked acoustic guitar. It reminded him of the local blues bars of his native Georgia. How long had it been since he’d been back to Atlanta?
“Evening, John,” said newly promoted Captain Kristoff Tunold, clapping Jacobs on the shoulder as he gestured to Jerry for some of that bourbon swill he favored. Tunold, despite his halyard-thin physique, dropped onto his barstool heavily enough that Jacobs thought he saw it wince in pain.
Tunold leaned one elbow on the bar. “You wanted to see me?”
“About time. I’d already started reminiscing. Settled in yet?”
“I’ve got the office squared away, and I’m moving into your old cabin tomorrow. Speaking of, you better pick up Benny Sugg. I swear the big tom thinks I’ve mutinied and done away with you. He’s knocked three paperweights off shelves like he’s trying to bomb me.”
“Did you move his office cat bed? Last time I did that he started yanking bookmarks out of whatever I was reading.” Jacobs smiled, then sighed. “Well, I won’t be picking him up just yet.”
Tunold jutted out his prow of a chin, but held his tongue.
Not bad. Just six months ago Tunold would have already yelled a complaint. Jacobs decided he had been right that Tunold was ready for the big chair. Which made what he had to say that much harder.
“I’m going to have to take the Horizon Cusp to Venus.”
“Too much ship for that run, you said.” Tunold’s words came out an almost ursine growl.
“Stand down, Mister.”
Tunold slammed both fists on the bar, then startled to see his drink between those fists. Jerry gave Jacobs a wink and continued down the bar. Tunold looked at Jacobs, then picked up his drink and tossed it down his gullet.
Jacobs shook his head. Tunold knew his old captain’s view of drinking, so that had to have been spite. Perhaps Tunold wasn’t as ready for command as Jacobs had thought...
Then Jacobs gave a lopsided smile. He had no right to criticize any man for temper. But Tunold narrowed his eyes at Jacobs’ smile, so Jacobs had to cover.
“You’re probably better off not tasting that swill anyway.” He savored the air above his own whiskey before drawing a sip onto his tongue: smooth and rich, with just a hint of honey. “Now the good stuff—”
“Why?”
“That should have been your first—”
“No lectures today, John. You’ve been dangling a chair of my own for over a year now. I’ve more than proved myself. I deserve to know why you’re yanking it away.”
“First of all, I’m not, and this is not a punishment.” Jacobs gestured to Jerry for a second bourbon while he gave Tunold a chance to let that sink in. “You want a command now? Take the Lark’s Song and run the Luna-Mars-Earth charters until I bring the Horizon Cusp back. But I’d prefer you didn’t.”
Jacobs eased another sip of whiskey onto his tongue. “This Venus run is going to make that first Mars charter look like a stop in Toronto. And I’m not getting any younger. I need my best ex oh by my side, one more time.”
“I’ve been waiting a long time for the big chair.”
“You have.”
Tunold took a small sip of his bourbon that impressed Jacobs with its restraint, even if Tunold had to hide the sour taste of his swill behind a quick grimace.
“Wait.” Tunold turned to look Jacobs square in the eye. “What are you holding back from me?”
“Mancuso bought out Zoltan.”
Tunold tossed down the rest of his drink and gestured for another. Jacobs did the same.
“Jesus, John, you’re taking on water and you haven’t even left the dock.”
“I know. Double the passengers, triple the cargo, plus oversight.” Jacobs spat out that last word, and rinsed the taste of it from his tongue with a sip from his fresh glass.
“Quit. I’ve got a friend at SF State, could get you on the History lecture circuit. Not much, but it’ll keep a roof over your head.”
Jacobs might have considered quitting when confronted by threats, but in the face of facts, he knew he could not.
“Let that son of a bitch Mancuso chase me out of my life’s work? I’d kill him first.”
“Tai Shi’d cut you down before you got close enough.”
“True,” said Jacobs, though inwardly he wondered. Tai Shi had youthful vigor and magic on her side, but Jacobs kept his conditioning as well as any man might in his mid-eighties, and he had more experience than she could begin to guess.
But then, maybe these days ‘experience’ just meant that he was old. Too old for this line of thought.
Both men took a morose swig of their drinks.
“The Lark’s Song’s a nice ship,” said Tunold. “Small, but the charters—”
“Kris...”
“All right, here’s the deal.” Tunold spun on his stool, grabbed Jacobs’ shoulders with his huge hands, leaned in until Jacobs could smell the rank bourbon on his breath, and said, “No heroics. No looking good for the customers. If Mancuso is deciding who goes” — he paused long enough for a confirming nod from Jacobs — “and he’s your partner, then commercial passengers or not, this is an in-house gig. You play the old school captain. You make all the big calls and keep us on mission. I’ll handle the crew, passengers, and any on-ship problems.”
“I’m not too old to—”
“Never said you were, John,” said Tunold in a softer voice. “But even forty years ago you would have needed help with this one. I would, if it were me.”
Jacobs nodded. Once.
“All right, Kris.”
The two men shook, then drained their drinks in a toast to flying the first commercial voyage to the morning star itself.
“Since you’re handling on-ship matters,” said Jacobs, “I should warn you that Tai Shi and Goldberg may be fighting over seniority...”
Tunold grinned like a bear with a salmon.
“Bring ‘em on.”
◊
Donal recalled Fionn as he waited outside the spaceport for a public runner to bring him to within walking distance of his apartment. A light breeze carried to Donal the steady clacking and ticking of hooves and claws as well as the accompanying scents. Runner traffic had thinned over the last year in San Francisco as horses came back into fashion, but Donal could still see many of the furry or scaly vehicles moving up and down the streets on two to ten legs each, their passengers riding comfortably inside, as though they had been actual giant animals hollowed out for human use — albeit far more comfortable that that phrase implied.
Fionn emitted from the silver faun pendant as a beam of emerald light, and coalesced into its deerhound shape. “Field protocols?”
“Not now. Red Sun is back.”
“I see three strong escape routes from this spot. Mask our movement and follow—”
“Not here.” Donal waited until the fae hound sat and twitched its ears, ready to listen. “Rowan MacPherson wants to send me to Venus for a delivery. She asked for me specifically.”
Fionn snorted with a shake of its head, the fur of its shoulders ruffling slightly.
“Yeah, I know. I shou
ld quit. I don’t need the risk.” Donal snapped his fingers. “And hey, Magister Machado left me that standing offer to intern with him for a flight or two. Pay wouldn’t be as much, but it should be safer, plus—”
“You should take the delivery, Master.”
The familiar’s words stunned Donal into slack-jawed silence. Fionn waited for Donal to settle himself, then continued, “If Red Sun wants you on that ship, your benefactor will be there.”
“You still think Mr. Mancuso might be this ‘shadow dictator’ that bin Zuka warned about?”
Imenand bin Zuka: magician, businessman, murderer. He believed his murders would prevent a shadow government from forming, but he died suddenly after killing only one of his two targets. Could Mr. Mancuso have had him murdered?
“Can you afford to have doubt?”
“Taint the foundation and you taint the results,” muttered Donal, reciting an axiom of magic. The very axiom he had quoted to Mr. bin Zuka in an attempt to dissuade the man from murder.
Louder Donal said, “And the result will be my future doctorate, maybe doctorates.” Donal sighed. “Plus any findings from my research ... any contributions I make to the future of magic....” Donal let that sink in. “Mr. Mancuso said that 4M would always be there with funding for whatever I do. That means they’d expect to be the first to see my results, to find ways to benefit.”
Fionn merely sat, tail twitching as though conducting the orchestra of Donal’s thoughts, or perhaps keeping time with the beat.
“Mr. Mancuso will be on that flight. He has to be. Maybe this is my chance to find out once and for all what kind of man Donatello Mancuso really is.”
“And if he is as bad as the image Imenand bin Zuka described?”
“Then I have to find a way to stop him. Even if it costs me my funding.”
“Or your life?”
“Or my life.”
Donal half-expected his familiar to try to dissuade him at that point. Fionn had always shown a clear priority of keeping Donal alive and safe. That the cú sidhe said nothing now meant that it agreed with the risk.