by Stefon Mears
Donal felt embarrassed about Magister Machado having seen those remains, and Donal was sure he had. Letting the spells decay instead of properly removing them might not cause problems, but Donal could not deny that the practice looked sloppy. Careless. Like having an invited guest see old, gelled cereal in a bowl on the coffee table.
Apart from that detail, everything looked...
And then Donal saw it. A momentary flare of magic, distracting with its brightness.
“It’s never done that before. Not around me,” said Donal. “No way I would have missed it, much less my familiar.”
“He speaks unvarnished truth,” said Fionn, formal words in Gaelic, the official language of human magic as established during its rise.
“I didn’t think so,” said Magister Machado, in English, with a heavy sigh. “And, Captain, I can confirm that it’s not Cuthbert’s signature.”
“All right then,” said the captain. “Open up that package, Cuthbert. Let’s take a look at what we’re carrying.”
“No, Sir.”
Donal felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead and roll down his nose. He was struck by the sudden image of trading his wonderful luxury suite for a cell in the brig.
“I can’t do that.”
◊
Jacobs felt his intimidating stare spread across his face, starting with the lowered brow, then the slowly set jaw, and finishing with the eyes.
In his early days as a captain, Jacobs imagined that his eyes warned their prey that Jacobs would beat them to death and enjoy it.
Jacobs knew better now.
It didn’t matter what Jacobs thought as he fixed his intimidating stare. He had enough presence and experience that his victim would imagine far worse tortures than any he could concoct, though he knew he could come up with some horrors.
As if to prove his point, the courier squirmed in his seat as though in physical pain.
Jacobs let that last for seconds that must have felt eternal to the boy, before saying, “What. Did. You. Say?”
Jacobs expected a delayed response, but Cuthbert replied immediately. “I wish I could help you, Sir. I really do. But I can’t open that package.”
“He can,” said Cromartie. “All couriers carry a signet ring that allows them to open a package with authority the magical seal will acknowledge.”
“That’s only in case of emergency,” said Cuthbert, regaining his composure and sitting tall and proud, as though defying a death squad. “Once open, a package is considered undeliverable.”
“If it’s a threat to my ship,” said Jacobs, “I’d say that counts as an emergency.”
“It doesn’t,” Cuthbert insisted. “Emergency is defined by IIX as an immediate threat to life and limb.” Jacobs drew breath to make the obvious retort, but Cuthbert cut in to say, “Mine don’t count.”
Jacobs continued as though the boy had not spoken.
“My ship’s mage has detected unknown magic with an unknown purpose, originating from that package. As captain of the Horizon Cusp, I declare this an emergency, and will confirm to your company that I required you to open the package to prove that it does not contain explosives or other weaponry that might harm this ship and its crew.
“Open the package. Now.”
◊
Donal wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and found himself wishing fleetingly that he were back in his uncomfortable conversation with Mr. Mancuso.
“No, Sir.” Donal shook his head, slowly, as though the movement might ward off his sense of impending doom. “That’s not enough reason to open the package. IIX magicians test all packages before they are handed off to couriers. IIX guarantees that all packages they ship are safe to carry, safe to transport, and safe to deliver. IIX does not deliver weapons in any form, not active, nor inert, nor in alchemical or thaumatugic component form.”
“That guarantee is no good to us if we’re dead,” said Jacobs.
“I believe your IIX contract stipulates that Starchaser Spacelines will not impede or interfere with an IIX courier or delivery in any way. If I open that package of my own free will, I not only won’t get paid for this trip, I’ll have to reimburse IIX for my travel costs, which I cannot afford. If you force me to open that package, you’ll be in violation of your contract.”
Donal drew a deep breath, stood, and met the captain’s eye.
“As an IIX representative, I formally request that you return that package to the ship’s safe. And if there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.”
Donal didn’t know if he expected the captain to explode, or just promise death with his eyes, but Donal definitely did not expect what the captain actually did: he smiled. Not a broad, happy smile, but a small, slightly lopsided, chagrined smile.
“You’re dismissed, Mr. Cuthbert,” he said. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“You’re letting—” began the chief, but the captain cut him off with a glare.
“Thank you, Sir,” said Donal, who turned and got himself and Fionn out of that room as fast as he could manage without actually running or quite slamming the door behind him.
Once Donal reached the bubble, he yanked the call lever and half-collapsed forward against the water tube’s ward.
“Holy crap, Fionn. I thought we were going to the brig for sure.”
“The captain is a fair man,” said the cú sidhe. “He will not hold you accountable for the danger you have brought aboard his ship.”
“So you think the package is trouble?”
“I never thought otherwise.”
Donal rolled sideways to lean his shoulder against the tube and stare at his familiar.
“Then why did you agree I should take this delivery?”
“To get you close to Donatello Mancuso. You need to assess for yourself, once and for all, whether or not the man is a threat that you must deal with.”
The emerald deerhound tilted its head in a canine shrug.
“Why else?”
◊
Jacobs stared at his closed office door for a moment, and he could feel tension build in his officers. If he let the silence stretch too long, one of them would break it. Probably Goldberg.
“He’s grown up some since the Mars run,” said Jacobs, wondering how he would have handled Carl, had his son lived long enough to defy him the way Cuthbert just did. “I may have to stop treating him like a boy.”
“Why did you let him go?” asked Goldberg, frustration seeping through his tone. “We need to see what’s in that package.”
“Take a breath or take a walk, Chief,” said Jacobs. “And no, we don’t. We now know it’s not a weapon. Ergo, it’s a tracker, isn’t it, Mr. Machado?”
“That’s my best guess. Whoever commissioned the delivery wants to keep tabs on us.”
Jacobs slapped the comm pad on his desk, waited for Jefferson’s ghostly head to appear. “Link me through to Scanners, please.”
A moment later, Ms. Jefferson’s face melted into Mr. Grabowski’s, a process that Jacobs still found disturbing.
“What’s the latest, Mr. Grabowski?”
“We’re past the local traffic now, with no signs of anyone pointing our way. Looks like clear space, Sir.”
“If that changes, I want to know the moment you do. Captain out.” Jacobs whipped one hand through the illusion of Grabowski’s head to cut the channel. He turned back to Machado and pointed at the pouch. “Can that thing pull nav data from us?”
“No. The seal is Hierophant cast, so trying to scry through it would be difficult at best, and I mean difficult for me. From what I’ve been able to determine by the pulses, there’s no way the spells inside are good enough or complex enough to reach past that seal, break into our systems, pull the data, then store or transmit it.”
Machado twisted his thick lips to one side. “Well, maybe that last part. Transmitting is all this thing seems to do. But it won’t get anything from us to send along.”
“So the poin
t must be tracking. But our route’s in the official logs. Why would...”
Realization hit Jacobs like a jab to the jaw. “A rendezvous. Someone plans to intercept us.”
Jacobs took off his captain’s hat and ran his hand across the tight black curls shorn close to his scalp. “Chief, we’re going to be glad you brought on extra security. Mr. Machado, I need you to quarantine this thing. Lock it down so the signal can’t get out.”
“I should be able to trap the pulses,” said Machado, “but that may not be enough.”
Mash looked as though he had more to say, but his fingers moved the way they did when he ran silent formulae in his head.
Jacobs grew tired of waiting. “Why not?”
“If I were going to do this, I would keep some of the original materials used in making whatever’s in that pouch. Then a basic link could home in on it.”
“Why the pulses then?”
“The difference between speaking and shouting.” Mash still had that faraway look on his face, but it resolved all at once in an expression of disgust accompanied by some of Machado’s finest Portuguese swear words. “Pointless. We might as well throw it back in the safe.”
“I want that thing locked down.”
“Won’t help.” Machado shook his head hard enough to make his cheeks continue quivering when he started to talk. “I’ve seen the pulse enough times now that I can tell the pulse is an effect, not a purpose.”
Cromartie’s head snapped to attention, like the statement meant more to the Initiate than it did to Jacobs.
“Meaning...” Jacobs said, letting the word trail off.
“The pouch doesn’t contain a spell. It contains half of a spell. The other half will be on the ship intending to rendezvous with us. The pulse is just the natural response of the spell trying to connect with itself. It’s that attempt at connection that will let the other ship find us, no matter what we do to that pouch.”
Machado nodded to Cromartie. “They probably tried to suppress the pulse, but couldn’t find a workable method in time.”
“What if they—” began Cromartie, but Jacobs cut him off.
“Fine. To hell with IIX and to hell with loopholes. We may not be able to open that package, but we can toss it into space.”
“Captain,” said Goldberg grimacing like he had an ulcer inside an ulcer and he’d just eaten a jar of horseradish. “Much as I might like to be the one casting that thing into space, I have to remind you of something. And you won’t want to hear it.”
Goldberg’s grimace grew, squeezing his eyes shut and grinding his teeth. Jacobs wondered what could...
Then he knew, and that knowledge made Jacobs slam his fist down on his desk hard enough to send splinters of pain into his elbow and shoulder.
“Even that would violate our IIX contract,” grumbled Jacobs, loud enough for all to hear. “Our lucrative IIX contract.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goldberg, his voice still strained but his face less pained at not having to reveal this uncomfortable truth, even if he was the one giving it voice. “Something you shouldn’t do without consulting your partner.”
Jacobs felt an urge to throw that partner out into space along with the courier pouch. But then someone would inherit the man’s shares of the company, and Jacobs had the sneaking suspicion that if Mancuso died by foul play, those shares would go to one of Jacobs’ enemies.
And Jacobs had lived long enough to have made his share of enemies.
Chapter Eight
Donal yawned and stretched, still face down on the squishy massage table, even though the Swedish angel (this one was actually Filipina, Donal believed, though the massage style made them all Swedish angels in his mind) had left to give him privacy while he dressed. Soft guitar music seeped out of the carpeting, inviting Donal to nap. And seemingly from everywhere, the barely-there scent of sage.
They let me nap last time. Maybe... nah. This time other passengers might need the room.
Donal sat up in the tan-and-brown room with its cactus decorations and high desert paintings, his muscles and mind loose and easy despite his earlier stress. ‘A calm mind makes a good magician,’ Professor N’Kembe had said so often. If that were true, then Donal in that moment felt like the greatest magician ever born, possibly even greater than Lloyd Bird himself.
Donal chuckled, and called Fionn out of the pendant that was all Donal wore apart from the towel around his waist.
“I smell sage,” said Fionn.
“The Albuquerque Room,” said Donal, “not actual incense.”
“Good. I did not wish to correct what you had already lit, but the purity of this concoction would prove insufficient for spell work.”
“I know,” said Donal, hopping to his feet and fighting another yawn. “No character without a blend. Even a pinch of verbena would help.” He raised an eyebrow at his familiar. “I’m not that bad at alchemy.”
Fionn snorted, and assessed its master as he walked toward the pile of clothes on his chair.
“Your body and mind have calmed, but uncertainty obscures your aspect. If you plan a significant working, I suggest a full ritual bath.”
“A bath? Can I help?” said Li Hua from the interior doorway. Donal looked over to see the Chinese-Martian beauty clad only in a towel herself, though hers covered the whole of her torso. “Wait, if this is a ritual bath, I probably shouldn’t.”
She leaned against the door frame, posing in a way that had to be deliberate. “Wouldn’t want to distract you from your designated purpose.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” said Donal, one eyebrow raised. “But suddenly I find myself thinking of whole avenues of magic you and I haven’t ... experimented with.”
Fionn snorted with a shake of its head that snapped its ears to and fro, making both Donal and Li Hua laugh.
“I don’t actually need a ritual bath,” said Donal. “Fionn and I were talking about relaxation and alchemical incense.”
A voice called Li Hua’s name. She said, “Looks like I’m up. I’ll have some time after dinner. Meet me on the Observation Deck?”
“Of course,” said Donal with a grin that made Fionn roll its eyes.
Li Hua moved off toward her room, and the door swung shut behind her. After she was gone, Donal asked, “Did Pinyin-Lung check on us?”
“No.”
“Then how did she know I was here?”
“Your name is on the temporary placard in the interior hall,” said the cú sidhe, as though the answer were the most obvious in the world.
“You were in the faun until I called you, and you haven’t left the room.”
“During the first massage you had aboard this ship, I studied the layout and procedures.” The emerald deerhound tilted its head. “Shall I confirm this for you now, Master?”
“No, you’re probably right.” Donal dropped his towel and started dressing at high speed. “But if Li Hua is here, maybe I can arrange a private conversation with Mr. Mancuso.”
“If you determine that he poses a problem, you will not be able to avoid Tai Shi Li Hua’s intercession on his behalf.”
“True,” but that doesn’t mean she” — Donal struggled with a shoe while standing on one leg, finally leaned against the wall to manage — “needs advance warning.”
Donal could not have explained to a layman how he said what he said next. In his mind and in his mouth, he formed words in Gaelic, but in his intention he formed words that only Fionn could hear. He understood the magic of it. Familiar-specific speech was a technique that expressed thought through the essential bindings that first brought Fionn through to this world, the spells referred to as ‘creating’ a familiar. Strictly speaking, vocalized words should not have been necessary at all, and Donal knew that Magisters and Hierophants could hold lengthy conversations with their familiars, even over distances, without uttering a sound.
Donal had not reached that point yet.
But for his next words, he needed complete privacy, and merely dire
cting his intention along those lines twisted the sounds that emerged from his mouth, such that only his own familiar could interpret them. But what he said was, “I will head for the restaurant areas. Scout ahead and search out Mr. Mancuso for me.”
By the time Donal had offered his profuse thanks and left The Relaxation Station, Fionn had shifted through a wall and vanished.
But finding Mr. Mancuso would be the easy part. What could Donal say to him?
Donal stopped five steps into the row of entertainment businesses, between a bar (open, but empty) and a dance club (closed until dark). Mr. Mancuso was the last person Donal should talk to. Literally. Donal needed to start with others and work his way to the center. Donal needed to find some of those other businesspeople first.
◊
Machado followed in Captain Jacobs’ wake, down through the corridors of the crew sections of the ship, down the crew-only bubble to the security deck and across to the only passenger bubble that intersected both crew and passenger sections, in this one location.
Machado felt a wave of respect for the pace his captain set. On his own, Machado would have meandered, or perhaps strolled. Jacobs maintained a determined march that left Machado sweating by the time they reached the first bubble and panting slightly by the time they reached the second. Jacobs himself hardly seemed to have noticed any effort.
Impressive, for a man more than twice Machado’s age.
During that second bubble ride, Jacobs’ eyes slid over, obviously noting the puffing for breath, the forehead wiped on Machado’s sleeve. Little ever embarrassed Machado, but in this case he felt his cheeks grow warm.
“Perhaps I should ask Tunold for some workout tips,” said Machado, with an attempt at a smile.
Jacobs said nothing, which meant that whatever the captain thought, he considered it more politic to keep to himself than to insult one of his officers.
“Why do you need me for this anyway, Sir? Usually the last thing you want when talking to Mancuso is a witness.”