by J. S. Morin
“Tell them you’re bringing a delegate from the Ruckers.”
Potter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They’ll figure out quick that you’re not.”
Mort caught himself just before calling Potter ‘kid’ or ‘son’ as if Enzio and Potter weren’t of similar age. “Buddy, you and me work in a world where lies are just convenient, temporary truths. All I need is a foot in the door. Then I’ll deal with Ramsey.”
Maybe he’d put too fine a point on the term “deal.” He hadn’t meant to make it sound like a threat, but it seemed that’s how Potter took it.
“You’re going to kill him?” Potter asked, voice rising in pitch. “Oh, God. I’m going with you to kill him. I’m not a wizard. There’s no way I’m walking out of this alive.”
“Calm your bile, techie,” Mort snapped. “No one’s killing anyone. By deal, I mean a deal to get off Ithaca. Maybe the scuttlebutt didn’t get to you before I did, but I’m no longer welcome back there. You’re taking out the proverbial garbage, which is why nobody’s calling to insist you turn around and bring me back.”
The dashboard comm squawked. “Hey, you’re entering Ramsey Syndicate territory. You got no invite. Beat it.” The voice was hard as granite—probably one of the former marines who now worked for Chuck.
It was, in Mort’s opinion, a fairly polite response to the violation of a tense truce between nominally friendly factions. Chuck didn’t like that Tanny had muscled in, and Tanny didn’t trust Chuck to honor the agreement Carl had brokered. The fact that Tanny had lost Carousel wasn’t lost on Chuck. He knew Carl had swindled her. That both sides knew it was just another layer to the cake of animosity. Carl had played both sides against one another, and now it was either coexist or fight for the whole of Ithaca.
So long as neither side was willing to pull the trigger on a backwater crime war, Mort was reasonably assured of his safety.
“Tell them to bugger off,” Mort said. “But be polite about it. We’re coming to meet with Chuck. Once you drop me off, you’re free to head back.”
Potter cast Enzio an uneasy look. Mort jabbed a finger at the comm. He couldn’t work the bloody thing worth a damn, but he sure as piss knew what it looked like when someone wasn’t using it.
Poking so few buttons Mort at first believed him to be faking, Potter called the Ramseys back. “Got a dealmaker on the way. Hoping to sort out some details your boss might appreciate. Let Mr. Ramsey know we’re hoping to meet with him.”
It was a shabby welcome, but the Ramsey Syndicate allowed the hover-cruiser into their territory. A pair of their own planetside vessels flanked Enzio and Potter as they sped toward the Odysseus. Upon arrival, Potter turned back.
The marine who escorted Enzio inside grunted. “Think we’re bunking you for the night, big shot? Jungle’s not a fun place to spend the night.” The brute had another of those chalked-on names that Mort had long since washed clear of his mental walls. It wasn’t even worth the trouble of asking.
Enzio made no real reply, just some bland platitudes. If Chuck was watching on some techno screen somewhere, he didn’t want to give anything away. Poker fresh on his mind, Mort guarded his cards carefully.
Chuck was waiting for him at the ship’s bar. The place had been redone since the elder Ramsey had taken over in earnest. The harsh, military feel had been redecorated with imitation wood polished to a gloss, plush barstools, and wall art with a distinctly southern Earth-Asian flair.
The man himself was lounging with one arm on the bar, holding a martini glass with a lonely olive sunk to the bottom. “So, Enzio was it? Favor to Don, I’m not running your ass out of here. You got something to offer? Let’s hear it.”
“Your son turned us in,” Mort said. “It’s not a deal; it’s a warning.”
“Could’ve just commed,” Chuck observed wryly over the rim of his martini glass.
“You wouldn’t have believed us,” Mort said. “Man like yourself needs to size up the source of his info. You’re no longer on a remote moon that Earth Navy doesn’t care about. You’re on the album cover on Earth Interstellar’s Greatest Hits.”
Chuck just smirked. “Is that so?”
The smug ignoramus wasn’t believing him even in person. Bollocks on this new body. If Enzio looked like Mordecai The Brown, Chuck wouldn’t have doubted his word for a mouse’s heartbeat. But unraveling the tale of death, disembodiment, and Enzio-hijacking would have been a long trip upstream against a whitewater current. Enzio was simply going to have to do.
“That wedding that you, your missus, and the she-bear with the science withdrawal skipped was a polite request to evacuate before the big ships moseyed in and started rounding up evidence—techno and people alike.”
“Quite a tale,” Chunk said, not taking his eye off Enzio as he refilled. The rotten lush always had an ear for the splash of liquor. Never overfilled. Never spilled. Never shortchanged himself.
“Word came straight from Carl Ramsey,” Mort insisted. “He admitted the whole thing.”
“And he told Tanny but not me or his mom?” Chuck asked. He shook his head. “Lemme lay it on you like it is. There’s a reason he bounced this off six different patsies: because I taught Brad this trick. You see, there’s no way to force a man out of an entrenched position if he’s really dug in. The principle is the same for starships—like that Bradbury heist of his—or getting a real estate developer to sell you a parcel of colony land with gold ore beneath the surface. You can’t get a guy out who doesn’t want to go. The trick? Make him decide to leave.”
Mort fumed inside his impotent, unconvincing Enzio disguise. This was the chicken coming home to roost. This was the wolf that cried boy who cried wolf. Chuck wasn’t seeing through Carl’s ruse, he was pointing the blaster at his own head, convinced it was a toy.
“You see?” Chuck continued. “Brad wants Ithaca. He wants it too badly to give it away to Earth Navy. He wouldn’t sell us out just out of spite.”
“He did it to get passage on and off Earth for his wedding,” Mort said, snagging at any loose thread in Chuck’s elaborately constructed plot.
Chuck snorted into his martini. “Please. Brad’s not an idiot. That’s as good as pissing it out the airlock in deep astral.”
Mort considered for a moment. Chuck was right. Carl had gotten diddly squat for this moon’s location. After the trouble of mind-tinkering with everyone who defected from the Odysseus crew to keep the secret, it should have taken so much more to pry the coordinates from Carl’s labyrinthine brain.
No.
Carl was an idiot. He was a lovesick, sappy, sentimental idiot. And Mort was an idiot for coming here to try to rescue his old friend from the clutches of his own hubris and the man he’d turned his son into. If Carl was a magpie’s nest of schemes and double-dealing, it all circled back to growing up in Chuck’s shadow. Now, Chuck was standing in the path of the tram, right on the steel line where science told everyone it would travel.
That left Mort two choices. One, he could overpower Chuck and Becky, throw them in some starship lying around, and wring some poor pilot’s neck to fly them off Ithaca. There would be the unfortunate side-effects of kidnapping the head of a crime syndicate from a moon that had planetary-grade shooting irons defending it, and they’d probably all get blasted to dust trying to abscond.
Two, Mort could bid his friend a fond adieu and get himself someplace with a comm to let Carl know where he was.
“Best of luck, then,” Mort said, sticking out a hand. Ever the showman, Chuck gave it a shake without a moment’s hesitation. “Hope you’re right.”
“Hey, no hard feelings,” Chuck said with an easy smile. “To be honest, I think you believe your story. Kudos for trying to warn me. But you’re not the first guy to get duped by my boy Brad, and I doubt you’ll be the last.”
# # #
Astral space dropped away, and the Mobius was in high orbit around Ithaca. Between Yomin’s astral navigation software and having a bona fide cartographer aboa
rd, they’d struck a bull’s-eye from halfway across the galaxy.
Carl breathed a sigh of relief that there were no Earth Navy ships in orbit. They’d made it in time.
“We’ve still got that special magic,” he said with a smile to his bride, seated beside him in the co-pilot’s chair. “Now all we’ve got to do is—”
“Left!” Amy shouted suddenly.
Carl knew not to question her. Instantly, he jerked the steering yoke into a bank to port. A bolt of plasma from the surface whizzed past.
“Back!” Amy barked. “Your father’s firing on us!”
Carl pulled back on the yoke and another salvo from the surface went wide of the mark. He would have liked to protest that it could have been either faction trying to kill them, but the calculations for their precision arrival had included knowing which way the moon would be turned when they dropped into realspace above it.
The Ramsey Syndicate was planning to cut down the number of Ramseys in the galaxy.
“Really would be a good time to—”
“Right!” Amy snapped.
“…switch places,” Carl finished.
The intraship from the engine room came in. “You see the readings on those guns?” Roddy asked in horror. “That’s the Odysseus firing on us.”
Amy shrugged. “Good thing those capital ship guns are so—LEFT—slow.”
One hand ready on the steering yoke, Carl keyed the comm to talk some sense into lunar-based fire control. “Hey, dickwads, this is the Mobius up here. You wanna knock off the blasting? Otherwise, this rescue is on hiatus.”
The simple fact that there were still people on the ground to fire at them meant that Mort’s warnings had gone unheeded. Carl continued to dodge ground fire with Amy’s prescient guidance. There wasn’t a break long enough for them to swap seats and let her handle the evasions and foresight at the same time.
Finally, there was a respite. “Hey, sport,” Chuck said over the comm. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“You’ve gotta get off that moon,” Carl said. “Earth Navy’s gonna show up. Maybe five minutes from now; maybe next week. But soon, and anyone not on a starship by then’s going to spend the rest of his life in top-secret custody.”
“Or maybe you were hoping to come back and find your secret base of operations free for the taking,” Chuck replied. “Nice try, kid. But you just used it to steal a corporate cruiser. Can’t expect me to fall for that gag. Plus, I invented that ploy.”
That last bit wasn’t the least shred of true. Chuck had taught Carl the con by watching an old flatvid movie with him, one about pre-space-flight submarines. And even then, it was just the old Trojan Horse ruse turned on its head.
But Chuck didn’t need a history lesson. He needed someone to slap some sense into him.
“You dumb fuck,” Carl shouted into the comm, forcing Amy to cover her ears in the enclosed space. “You and mom are going to live out your golden years in a sealed plasticized steel cell getting brain scanned and interviewed by naval intelligence until you’re drooling vegetables.”
Chuck snickered. “Naval intelligence… there’s an oxymoron for you.”
“You’re the moron!” Carl retorted. “Get on a ship, and get mom out of there. Take anything not bolted down. Fuck… take my Squall if you need seed money to start over.”
“Your Squall?” Chuck joked. “Could’ve sworn everything on this half-moon was mine. Besides, your old buddy Niang took it joyriding to bring your patsy back home.”
“My patsy?” Carl asked with a look to Amy.
“Don’t play coy with me, Brad. That wizard who won this place at the poker table stopped by to warn us. Nice bait. Try another hook.”
Carl swallowed. Niang had taken Enzio back to the Ruckers.
“Listen. You want half the moon back? I’ll take you as a neighbor over Tanny’s happy murder squad. Don’s got class, but he didn’t pass it on. It’s like a band of pirates over on that side. Push your ploy on those saps and you can have their half.”
“Yeah,” Carl replied halfheartedly. “I’ll do that.” He keyed the comm off.
“You warned that slimeball Enzio?” Amy asked, incredulous.
Carl shrugged. “I’ve always been a good judge of character. And any guy who’s put up with Tanny deserves a second chance at life.” Carl unbuckled from the pilot’s chair and left it for Amy to fly. Where, they hadn’t decided yet, but Carl didn’t want to be caught unawares when the call he was expecting came in.
# # #
Carl was waiting, datapad in hand, sitting on the edge of his and Amy’s bed. Every few seconds, he caught himself glancing out the window, expecting one of these times to see a battle fleet drop out of astral and demand their surrender—along with the surrender of every sentient being in the star system.
“C’mon… c’mon…” he muttered to the datapad.
When the alert finally popped up, it was IDed as Jean Niang. Carl accepted instantly.
“Got a Rucker wizard here says you sold us out,” Niang said cautiously. “Any truth in that, boss?”
Boss. Niang was on his side, here. It was subtle. Could have been passed off as old habit or a simple mark of respect if anyone listening in made him answer for it. But Carl chose to believe the guy was looking for a lifeline.
“Yeah,” Carl replied. “Everyone needs to pack up their shit and get off that wet ball of compost.”
“Relaying coordinates,” Niang said. “A Squall enough to buy me a ticket?”
Carl grinned. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”
“This Rucker wizard says that Mort missed one of the obelisks when he cleared out the moon. That’s where we’ll be. If Earth Navy comes looking, we’ll be hard to find.”
Missed one? Mort? That seemed as likely as Mort programming his own recipes in the food processor or taking a crack at flying the Mobius. One of those obelisks was for emergencies, a secret Mort was ill-inclined to share until he had to.
“Roger that,” Carl replied without commenting on Mort’s duplicity. Everyone had their secrets. Carl kept more than his share too. That longstanding policy was coming back with interest once again. “See you there.”
Carl ended the comm and headed back to the cockpit. “We’ve got a location. We’re picking up Jean Niang and that Rucker wizard. They’ve got my Squall.”
“Nice,” Amy said deadpan. “We come looking to rescue my new in-laws and wind up taking in a race ship and a refugee gigolo. I’m fine snagging Niang.”
“Hey, we warned them,” Carl said. “I warned both sides. The shit storm coming isn’t my fault anymore.”
“You mean aside from selling the info to Earth Navy for a two-day trip to Vegas Prime?”
“Wasn’t my idea to have the ceremony on Earth, but I wasn’t going to blame you.”
Amy snorted. “Until the option was to blame yourself.”
Carl held up a finger on either hand. “Right now, I’m considering Earth Navy to be sort of like an act of god. No one’s to blame.”
“Attention: This system is under quarantine. No vessels may enter or leave under the authority of Admiral Vijay Pusan of Earth Navy Intelligence. All broadcasts are being monitored and recorded and may be used in criminal proceedings.”
Amy and Carl exchanged a wide-eyed look. Carl glanced upward. “I didn’t mean it, God. You can send them back.”
But there they were on the tactical screen. Three destroyers, a corvette, two science ships, and the battleship ENV Dunkirk.
Amy raised an eyebrow with a glance back toward the common room. It was a question: do they cut and run now? Esper could get them deeper than hell itself in the astral, but they’d be leaving Meyang and anyone having second thoughts behind.
“Rendezvous,” Carl said. “Conscience is going to have a rough enough day as it is.”
He expected an argument. Their unborn son didn’t care about Carl’s conscience—or Amy’s for that matter. But he had a lot of being born to do and a lot of living thereafter, none
of which would happen if they got dusted poking the captain of the ENV Dunkirk in the eye.
But she didn’t protest.
Amy altered their heading per the coordinates in Carl’s datapad. They dove into the atmosphere, switching to aerodynamic shields to keep nimble in case someone decided an atmospheric target would be easier to hit.
It was only a matter of minutes before they touched down in the jungle. Earth Navy didn’t care to impede them. Anything anyone did on Ithaca was fine so long as they all stayed put to get arrested.
Niang waved to them from the open cockpit of the Squall, parked at the jungle’s edge where it met the stonework of Devraa’s last intact city. A taciturn Enzio stood against the arch of the city’s main entrance.
“Took you long enough,” Enzio barked when the cargo ramp opened. The dashing sonovabitch Mort was riding around inside stormed up the ramp with curt nods to the crew.
Carl resisted the urge to hug him.
Niang had the cockpit open as he maneuvered the Squall inside to berth it. “You know how to make an entrance, Ramsey.”
“You guys catch the PA announcement?” Carl asked, peering out into the jungle. His eyes strayed upward, searching the skies for signs of the battle group. The Dunkirk, at least, would be large enough to spot from the ground, even in daylight.
“Who could miss it?” Niang replied.
A crash of underbrush had everyone reaching for blasters or taking cover inside the cargo bay. There was little on the moon that was friendly, even the other humans who shared it with them. Whatever was coming was bound to be dangerous.
“Carl!” a voice like an avalanche boomed. Kubu bounded like a puppy out from the forest of ten-meter-tall grass, knocking blades over along his path. “It’s you! Flying house smells the same as I remember!”
“Kubu?” Esper asked, venturing out of the ship and approaching the behemoth. “Good gracious you’ve gotten big.”
“I eat a lot,” Kubu said by way of explanation.
“How’d you find us?” Carl asked. “Does Tanny know we’re here?”
Roddy slapped Carl in the arm. “Hey, if we wanna get off those Class-A military scanners before they locate us, we better get into the city.”