by J. S. Morin
Gravity pulled the atmospheres of the two celestial bodies toward one another, forming a misshapen hourglass. But the spectacle was short-lived as Little Brother cannonballed into a pool of inflammable air and set it alight. The moon turned into a giant, fiery comet until it was swallowed up and vanished.
“Where’d that moon go?” one of the children asked.
“Lost in the fog,” Mort muttered in reply. “Still there, though not for long. It’s the biggest shooting star any of us is likely to see.”
Esper helped Samson onto one of the kitchen chairs and disentangled herself. “Did you have to destroy the whole moon?”
Mort straightened and cleared his throat. “I’d have put it back in its proper orbit, but I had to break a gravity stone the size of the Odysseus so Devraa would stop trying to use it to collocate my brain, heart, and toes.”
“Did you really kill someone?” the little boy asked, eyes wide with wonder.
Mort harrumphed. “You bet I did. Not just anyone, an alien who’d convinced a few dozen hardened marines that he was a god. Beat him to death with this very staff. You can even still see some of the blood.” He held out the butt end of the weapon for the lad to inspect.
His mother ushered the boy away. “That’s enough of that. Don’t go encouraging him.”
Carl strode down from the cockpit. A somber Amy followed a few steps back. “How’s that for a show, huh? Almost makes me wish I had scanner recording enabled on this old bird.”
Mort cleared his throat. “Indeed. Now, there was one other little matter I wanted to mention. Wasn’t urgent, so I figured it could wait until we were past mortal danger.”
“What’s up?”
“Well… remember that bottle of Mad Iguana tequila we got you a few weeks ago?”
Carl shrugged. “Yeah. For my birthday. You guys kinda cheaped out, all pitching in for one moderately priced bottle of hooch, but I wasn’t going to bring it up.”
“We weren’t exactly rolling in terras,” Esper said softly.
“Anyway, Don Rucker remembered your birthday, too.”
“What’d he get me?” Carl asked with a lopsided grin. “Or is it a surprise?”
“He got you a shuttle craft. Said it would come in handy with having your own little planet now.”
Carl stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and rocked forward on the balls of his feet. “Well, now isn’t that thoughtful. And here I thought I was going to regret Don dropping by unannounced. But with a shuttle…” Carl paused, and a dead blankness fell across his face. “That was the shuttle, wasn’t it? The one we just watched go up in a ball of fire as that moon was swallowed up.”
Mort put a consoling hand on Carl’s shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t that nice a shuttle.”
# # #
For such an important guy, Don Rucker left Ithaca without a lot of fanfare. He was already aboard his ship, the Basilisk, in orbit and waiting for the stragglers among his entourage, when the Mobius returned. A pair of shuttles was parked in Carl’s hangar as groups of unfamiliar faces loaded gear, personal effects, and themselves aboard. As Carl stretched, cracked his neck, and tried to relax after a stressful few weeks, he idly watched the disembarkation process.
Mort walked past and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work today, Carl. I was going to tell you that you owed me one for getting rid of your Devraa problem. But considering the subsequent course of events, I think we can call it a wash.”
Amy collapsed against his back and wrapped her arms loosely around him. “I’m heading to our suite. I know you’ve got stuff to take care of now that you’re back, but… don’t be too long, OK?”
“Sure, sweet thing.” He kissed Amy and sent her on her way.
Jaxon stopped on the way by, carrying his belongings and Rachel’s in duffels slung over either shoulder. “Got someplace for us to crash? I mean that in the habitational sense.”
“Sure.” Carl flagged down Kwon and motioned her over. “This is Jaxon and Rachel. The little ones are Jaxon Jr. and Lisa. Find them family-friendly quarters. Nicest we’ve got, even if we have to bump someone who’s squatting above his rank. Got it?”
Kwon introduced herself to the Schultzes and took custody of them.
Yomin headed off on her own business without a fuss, which was a nice change of pace. He could get used to having her on the crew. It almost made him feel bad that he hadn’t told her about the techie curse on the Mobius, but he didn’t know if the key to breaking it was telling her or not telling her. Plenty of their previous techs had gone sour in complete ignorance of the curse, and Chip had died knowing all about it and in complete denial that it applied to him.
Esper stopped only briefly, having left all her belongings aboard the Mobius. “Don’t let Amy wait too long. She was mad at you, but she’s got heavier worries right now, and she can use the support.”
Carl muttered something non-committal and nodded.
Roddy was the last off the ship. He pressed a beer into Carl’s hand and cracked open one of his own. “You, uh, gonna go have a look at what’s what over there?”
Following the line of Roddy’s pointed finger, Carl scrutinized the crowd waiting to get aboard one of the Rucker Syndicate shuttles. “What are Tanny and Mriy doing over there?”
“Since I’m about as psychic as you are, your guess is as good as mine. Wait. Strike that. You’re an idiot; my guess is probably a lot better than yours. But the only way to find out for sure is to get your ass over there and ask.”
There would be time to hash it out with Roddy later over that particular insult. Carl did indeed need to get over there. Lucky for him, he owned the Odysseus, and no ships were going to leave without his say-so—at least in theory. But the hangar personnel got out of his way as he made a beeline for the departing shuttle. Tanny was halfway up the boarding ramp. Mriy was carrying her gear and an extra packing trunk. This didn’t look like anyone was just helping the Ruckers get off Ithaca.
“Tanny! What’s going on? You just got back!”
Tanny paused, closed her eyes, and shook her head. “Mriy, I can’t deal with this right now.”
As Carl tried to push his way through the line and get to Tanny, he was met with a stiffened arm barring his way.
Mriy wouldn’t let him pass. She flattened her ears back. “She had hoped to avoid this discussion face-to-face.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Mriy’s lip twitched. It wasn’t quite bearing her fangs, but it got the message across. “We are going.” Tanny disappeared into the shuttle’s interior.
“Going? Where? What the hell? Devraa’s dead. We can patrol the jungle in powered vehicles. You’re free to come back to work on the Mobius. I even transferred Reebo over to the Hatchet Job.”
“I accepted a new job.”
“Working for Don Rucker?”
“Working for Tania Rucker.”
Carl blinked. Time might have passed as he stood there staring. He couldn’t be sure how long. “You’re… working for Tanny?”
“She is going home. To Mars. I will be her bodyguard. Few azrins get such an opportunity, but Don Rucker can arrange for my residency to be approved. I can pay you back the loot shares I still owe with real terras. My salary will be quite generous.”
“Yeah, Mars is expensive,” Carl muttered. “But what about Kubu? You and Tanny are the only ones he’s really friends with. I mean, I can’t picture Mort babysitting him.”
“Kubu is already aboard the Basilisk. The Rucker estate on Mars is vast. He’ll get an education, official recognition as a sentient, possibly a career like mine. Tanny will see to that.”
Carl felt his breath coming quicker. He swallowed. “So this is it? You’re just ditching me? Got a better offer and you jump ship?”
Mriy shrugged and adjusted her grip on the duffel over her shoulder. “Yes. I thank my ancestors and the Almighty that I survived so long working for you. But you are neither my liege nor
my mate. I owe no lifetime to you. Tanny and Kubu need me more than you do.”
“But what if—”
Mriy held up a hand and flashed her claws. “You see? This is why I wanted to inform you in a comm from halfway to Mars. You think you can change everything with words. No more words unless they are farewell.”
Carl raised his beer in a somber toast. “Take care of yourself, then. And Tanny.”
“I will. Kubu as well.”
# # #
The cargo hold of the Mobius seemed like the best place to be alone. Not that Carl wanted to shirk his duties; it was just that his various responsibilities were getting to be a muddled and confusing tangle of conflicting personalities, goals, and agendas. Plus, two hours of comforting Amy’s metaphysical crises was about his limit. Her physical needs were better suited to his particular talents, and he’d tried barking up that tree for all of five minutes before realizing the cat was staying put in those branches. His underlings had been busy in his absence, and for some goddamn reason felt that he needed to know about all their little projects—and every success and stumble along the way—the minute he’d put his feet up in the rec hall.
Carl didn’t want to hear about Kwon’s astral relay. Reports of Niang’s lack of progress turning his Squall into a Typhoon just wound him up when he wanted to relax. And he sure as hell didn’t need to hear from Shoni, who’d taken a sabbatical from the Rucker Syndicate to study the effects that the loss of Little Brother would have on Ithaca’s ecosystem. If they’d been perched on an oceanside bluff, he might have cared what a tidal shift would do, but there wasn’t so much as a lake within fifty kilometers of the Odysseus. He just wanted to get away from them all.
With the cargo ramp up, only a scant few people would dare disturb him, and the rest of the Mobius crew seemed well occupied.
In all the chaos, Carl felt like he was the only one with a focus on what really mattered. The case was battered and dented but had hung in there like a champ through all its ordeals. Someone at Harmony Bay—or even better, someone who wasn’t—was going to pay by the freighter-load for its contents.
Pulling down a pair of auto-darkening safety goggles, Carl flicked on the plasma torch and cut through the lock. Even unlocked, it took a pry bar to pop it open thanks to all the minor bruising the case had taken, deforming its pristine shape. But after a brief worry, Carl’s fears were allayed. Inside, the case was lined with molded polycellular foam, carved out to fit around six specimen jars. Each was labeled with a gobbledygook mishmash of Latin-looking names, chemical diagrams, and serial numbers. The jars themselves were clear, hard plastic, and the goo inside looked more like wastewater than the glowing green syrup he’d envisioned. But his preconceptions didn’t matter. With the right labeling and the assumption that this was the right stuff in the first place, someone was going to pay for the privilege of doing whatever got done to this stuff.
As Carl was nestling the specimen jar back into its spot in the case, the cargo ramp began to open.
“For the love of God,” Carl muttered. “Can’t a guy get some peace and quiet on his own fucking ship?”
“Brad! There you are! Been looking all over the base for you.” Dad strode up the ramp as soon as it touched the hangar floor. He had that stupid fake grin plastered across his face, same as he used greeting bigwigs behind the scenes at his shows. Could he seriously expect Carl not to see right through it?
“Do you mind, Dad?”
Dad held up a conciliatory hand. “Not at all. I’m just here to pass along a message. Seems comm control wasn’t up to speed on your return, and they routed the comm to me.”
Carl closed the lid on the case. “What comm?”
“From your friends on the Hatchet Job. That girl July said to thank you for the ship and to let you know that they’d be dropping someone called Samurai off on… damn me, I can’t remember the name. I input it into my datapad. It’s back in my quarters.”
Carl’s blood pressure rose until he could feel it throbbing in his temples. “What about Reebo? Did she mention Reebo?” he asked through gritted teeth. Reebo was there to watch Samurai’s back and keep the chain of command intact for the newly promoted Captain Yamamoto Toshiro.
Dad ran his fingers through his hair and frowned. “Yeah, I think she mentioned him in passing. He’s going to be working for her now. Really, we’re better off with loyalists. Anyone who doesn’t want to be a part of the Ramsey Syndicate can go ahead and get lost.”
“That was supposed to be my ship,” Carl snapped.
“It’s OK. Hold your horses,” Dad said, patting the air with his hands. “I negotiated a contract rate for future services if we need July’s help down the line. You just relax. You worry about finding a buyer for that cargo you worked so, so hard to recover. I’ll take care of the day-to-day grind around here. After all, you named this the Ramsey Syndicate. These things are meant to be family businesses.”
You, Robot
Mission 11 of the Black Ocean Series
J.S. Morin
You, Robot
Mission 11 of: Black Ocean
Copyright © 2016 Magical Scrivener Press
Carl slouched on the plush cushions beside Amy. She was sitting cross-legged in a sleeveless beige tunic and baggy black pants with sandals poking out beneath. He’d tried to put his arm around her but couldn’t get close enough without leaning too awkwardly to make the effort worthwhile.
Dr. Akerman looked up from her datapad, sitting in a chair pillaged from one of the briefing rooms. “I’m glad you two decided to seek my help. So many couples refuse to admit their problems before they’re too late to fix.”
Amy nodded along as if this were some profound revelation. Her mop of braids bounced with a rattle of the tiny beads woven in her thick strands. “Thank you for listening.”
“First off, let’s start by going over the issues that brought you here today.”
Amy sighed. “Where to begin. Well, today’s about honesty, right? So let’s start with that. How can I trust what he says half the time? I mean, he built his post-naval career on lying, swindling, and stealing. How can I be sure this isn’t just some elaborate con?”
“It’s not,” Carl said flatly. “And right now you know I’m not lying, thanks to Mort.” That two-timer had agreed to sit in the next room and do his damnedest to keep Carl’s brain in one piece. Without the dozens of little sub-Carls floating around in his mind, believing whatever they were told, he felt trapped in his own head. He had rarely given much thought to the fact that it was a form of magic until Amy had come up with the brilliant idea of using Mordecai The Sledgehammer to swat his little fly of a magical talent.
It also stuck in his craw that now Dr. Akerman knew about his little trick as well. There was doctor-patient confidentiality and the fact that she worked for Carl, but at some point it was just another hole poked into the ever-growing sieve of his secret. She could use it for her own benefit in dealing with him from now on, even if she never told a soul. And if she did, there was any number of people who’d love to find a way to exploit that little loophole.
“And you, Carl? What concerns do you have?” Dr. Akerman asked with a glance at her datapad. Was she cribbing these questions from a checklist or something? “No topics are off limits here. We can’t fix problems we bottle up.”
“I think she’s losing it.”
Amy whirled on him. “Hey!”
Carl scooted sideways on the couch, raising his hands in defense. “Whoa! Everything on the table she said.”
“I did,” Dr. Akerman clarified. “But let’s try not to accuse one another.”
“Fine. I think Amy is starting to see problems that aren’t there. I was her commanding officer for years. I’ve read her psych profile. I dealt with her professionally and socially. I’m not talking out of my ass here when I say she’s slipping into some bad old habits. When she spent years searching for the fate of the Odysseus, we all felt bad for her—all the old squadron, that is—but
we knew that was just… how Charlie was.”
“I thought we agreed that was a masculine nickname we were going to stop using,” Amy cut in.
“Context, sweetie. Anyway, I’ve seen her chasing shadows before, and now she’s reading ulterior motives into everything.”
Amy spread her hands. “Did you plan to murder Hatchet?”
Carl blinked. The sudden pivot caught him off guard. But this was her chance to unload on him while his shields were down. “No. I planned to get him pissed off enough to threaten me to prove he was too far gone to keep in command of the Hatchet Job. It was a power play, sure, but you’d been warning me about him all along. You should have been on board.”
“I didn’t want him dead.”
“Well, neither did I.”
“You didn’t seem all that broken up about it.”
“Yeah? Well, I was.”
“And you never said anything about it to me…”
There was a silent moment where the two of them just looked at one another.
Dr. Akerman cleared her throat. “This mutual emotional support is typical in healthy relationships. Carl, maybe it would help if you opened up to Amy about Hiroshi Samuelson’s death.”
Carl snorted. “You can beat around the bush, but just say it: I killed him. The real plan was to get him to pull his blaster on me. I told Samurai—um, Toshiro—that I was going to wind him up, and he suggested draining the charge on Hatchet’s blaster. Well, when the time came, reflexes and instincts took over. I knew Hatchet was going to pull that trigger, and I couldn’t trust Samurai enough in that split second I had to react not to fire back. If I hadn’t pulled that trigger, we’d have just locked him up and dumped him on some backwater outpost.”
Amy swallowed. “You… knew he couldn’t actually shoot you?”
“No. And that’s my point. You think you’ve got trust issues? I doubted Samurai. He didn’t get that nickname just because of his ancestors; that guy practically breathes Bushido.” Carl chuckled softly at himself. “But then, maybe that’s the problem. My plan wasn’t exactly honorable, I guess.”