by J. S. Morin
She ended the live comm link before any detail could pop up to spoil her victory. Flipping the datapad into audio playback mode, Yomin started up an Antarctic techno-fusion dance mix and let the music envelop her. Soon, without even noticing, she was on her feet, swaying and shaking with the beat. When the lyrics to the track kicked in, she sang along in a well-practiced contralto.
When she’d wrung the tension from her mind and body, she left the music playing but raised Carl on his personal comm.
“Yo,” Carl replied within seconds. He had to have been awaiting her comm. If there was one thing Carl Ramsey had become known for among his underlings, it was being hard to get a hold of when he didn’t want to be bothered.
“Guess what?” Yomin replied, singing the question in melody with the music.
“You got me my 2.5 million?” Carl asked.
Yomin swallowed. The song drained from her heart like a toilet’s flush. “Not exactly.”
“Come on. Out with it. You’re not playing digital mind-narco to salve a guilty conscience.”
“It’s not mind-narco. It’s techno-fusion. And this is Rain Goddess Ayala. You should broaden past that museum music of yours.”
Carl cleared his throat. “Just out with it. What’s the number?”
“Two point two.”
“Less than three terras? That won’t buy us a decent lunch to split, let alone pay for fuel. Get back to our buyer and tell him—”
“Million,” Yomin amended. Fuck Carl. He knew what she’d meant.
“Well,” Carl replied, grin clear even in voice-only mode. “Looks like I win my bet with Roddy after all. He didn’t think we’d top two million for that glop. Nice work. Mind doing one of those ‘comm everyone’ messages and tell everyone to pack up? We leave in an hour.”
# # #
Esper had never been much for crafts or artifice, but the Tome of Bleeding Thoughts was a masterful replica of the original. Certainly there were differences—chiefly that the “original” in this case had been entirely imaginary—but it was a better effort than an amateur like her had any business producing. It disturbed some primal node buried deep in her psyche to think that the book had guided its own creation. Looking on it objectively, she couldn’t come to any other conclusion. Running a hand along the leather binding, she savored the scents of parchment and ink that wafted from it.
She pulled her hand away with a jerk. “No,” she scolded the volume. “Stop that. I’m not opening you. We’re done with that.” The insidious book had been tempting her ever since its completion. Read me again, it cooed. You’ve missed something. There are secrets within secrets if only you discover the clues. It was bull poop. Esper knew every word quite well enough already.
Dropping a cloth over the tome to hide it from view, Esper picked up a datapad. She used to love the sleek, smooth gateways to the omni. Nowadays, when she looked at a datapad she saw a knot of tangled technology between her and what she wanted. In this case, what she wanted was to send a comm.
Fortunately, Esper wasn’t as far gone as Mort. While the datapad was a cumbersome and vexatious little animal of science, with enough cajoling she could get it to perform its intended tasks. In less than five minutes, she found where the cute little gadget had squirreled away her incoming messages. There was one she had been waiting for.
The sender used a comm alias of Ivanhoe, and his message was simply: “I have arranged a sabbatical. Send meeting time and place.”
There was so little to it, but it said so much. First of all, not just any old nobody takes a sabbatical. Those were for doctors and professors—important people let off on the assumption of higher purpose in their leisure. Whoever had taken an interest in her proposition was someone of import in the Convocation. Keesha Bell had done Esper quite the favor in her efforts to find a sympathetic ear, it seemed.
But also, the message was terse, suggesting someone impatient and task-oriented. Possibly not the ideal recipe for a potential advocate.
With a sigh, Esper began her reply. The little icons for the letters were jumbled across the face of her datapad like a madman’s riddle. If there was rhyme or reason in the arrangement, it eluded her. Why couldn’t the alphabet be in alphabetical order? She knew that at one point in her life, her fingers would have twiddled across the icons like a pianist, tapping out full sentences in mere seconds. How she’d done it felt more like witchcraft than the levitations she now performed routinely as part of her everyday existence.
Despite the grueling letter search, she eventually completed her message to Ivanhoe.
“Meet August 9, Pintara colony.”
She hoped that she’d be there to make contact with Ivanhoe. It was the best she could do after having wrangled a loose itinerary from Carl for the Mobius’s next voyage. If things didn’t work out as planned, she could always arrange some time off and book passage at her own expense. Plenty of reputable starliner services offered steep discounts to Convocation members, and Esper had few qualms about leading a prospective captain to believe she was part of that organization. After all, this was Convocation business—in a manner of speaking.
With a relieved sigh, Esper dropped her datapad onto the bed and collapsed beside it. She was the only one who kept the Mobius as her primary residence. Even Mort had taken a few essentials and commandeered quarters on the Odysseus. Something about the place just didn’t feel right to her. Not that it was a criminal syndicate in the larval stages. That only bothered her sometimes. Rather, it was a place where people had been stranded. Some part of Esper worried that one day the Mobius would leave and she wouldn’t be on it. The thought of being trapped planetside—even among people who, by and large, were nice enough—terrified her.
That was her biggest worry about taking off on her own if the Mobius wasn’t on Pintara on August 9th. Would she be able to get back on? It wasn’t just them deciding they were better off without her. There were delays, dangers, and all manner of bizarre circumstances that seemed to chase the crew—specifically Carl, she added mentally—like hunting dogs. Even if they wanted her back, there was no guarantee of her return.
God dammit, she hoped Mort appreciated all this when he was reinstated to the Convocation.
# # #
Jaxon “Juggler” Schultz arrived at the cargo ramp to the Mobius with his family in tow. The military surplus duffel over his shoulder had seen longer and more dangerous deployments than this; it wasn’t worried. Neither was his family.
“Dad, can you bring me back a real Eyndar blaster pistol like Space Ranger Harku’s?” his son Jaxon Jr. asked, tugging at his sleeve.
“I want a crystal gecko—one of the pink ones if you can find one. Those are the prettiest,” his daughter Lisa said.
Rather than make any promises he was unlikely to keep, Jaxon dropped the duffel and scooped up both kids in a hug, one on either shoulder. “You two be good for Mom. Give her any trouble and I won’t bring you back anything good.”
The two Schultz children scurried out of the way as soon as their feet touched the ground. Rachel Schultz—also known as Vixen in her navy days—gave him a goodbye kiss. “I still think you rigged the coin flip. Next mission’s my turn, either way.”
“Sure thing,” Jaxon replied without a gram of sincerity.
“And don’t let Carl talk you into anything stupid—er than usual.”
“Blackjack’s under control. We’ve got plenty of hands keeping him steady.”
As the Schultz family waved their goodbyes and parted, Yomin Dranoel whizzed past on a hover-cruiser. She piloted it right up the cargo ramp and began unloading equipment.
“What’s all that junk?” Jaxon asked as he strode up the ramp.
She didn’t look up. “Mostly Odysseus salvage that the crypto team needs for this mission.”
“Crypto team?”
“Me.”
“Oh.” Jaxon just kept moving, heading for his quarters.
Roddy came aboard moments later, pulling a grav sled piled wi
th an assortment of alcoholic beverages. “You can’t park that thing in here. Even if we had room, Niang’s pitching a fit looking for it. I’d ditch it in a corner of the hangar when you’re done.”
“I’d hoped to get it back before he noticed. This shit’s heavy.”
Roddy snorted. “A-tech, right? Supposed to be lighter and easier to handle, but you know you’ve got the good stuff when it’s still heavy as p-tech. I’d offer you a hand, but I’ve got my own gear to stow.”
On her third trip back from her quarters, Yomin ran into Carl and Amy. “Just gotta return this cruiser and I’m good for orbit.”
Carl looked around at the clutter of half-stowed tech and let his gaze wander the cargo hold, settling on the common room door at the top of the stairs. “How we looking? Seen Mort around?”
“Lord Technophobe is watching an animated kids’ flatvid about his favorite wizard.”
“Damn. How far in is he? Think it’d be worth asking him to restart?”
Yomin rolled her eyes and climbed into the seat of the hover-cruiser. Amy smirked as the vehicle departed. “Not sure she was the one to ask.”
“Nah, just ridin’ her for the technophobe jab. Can’t be taking sides against Mort if she knows what’s good for her. Once he’s saved her life a few times, she’ll get used to him.”
“Techs and wizards never get along. It’s like that on every ship I ever served on. You’ve just gotta live with it. I know Mort’s your friend and all—”
“More like family.”
“—but you just have to accept that not everyone’s going to like him.”
Carl snickered. “I’m the captain. I don’t have to do anything. Come on. Soon as Yomin’s back we’re leaving this sorry gravity well and hitting the Black Ocean.”
# # #
Pintara was the fifth planet in the system of the same name. Thanks to being the only inhabited ball of rock around, it got to keep the name without getting a Roman numeral appended. Depending who you asked, the system either split the border of ARGO space or was an unsanctioned colony just outside it. According to the omni, this distinction wasn’t a popular topic among the locals, who were equally divided on the issue. The ARGO faction viewed the independents as traitors and radicals. The pro-independence faction viewed the ARGO loyalists as oppressors and tyrannical lapdogs who abdicated their fate to Earth bureaucrats.
Carl took the lead as the crew descended the loading ramp. By his estimation, the political debate was a loser’s wager on either side. The whole planet wasn’t worth the fuss of fighting over. It was one thing to settle a shithole in the middle of nowhere to keep off official scanners. He got that. Hell, he’d gone that route himself, considering what a picnic Ithaca was. But Pintara was all the backwater with none of the lawless freedom to go along with it. Atmo factories chugged away, pouring clean, breathable steam into the skies. Waste collectors sucked up carbon dioxide on the other end of the process. They didn’t grow much locally, which made them dependent on trade to keep from starving. Nothing the planet produced was so indispensable that they could charge a premium. It was just a place, and if any of them had a damn bit of sense, they’d have found someplace better.
“You sure about this no backup deal?” Mort asked. “I can tag along quietly—”
“No can do,” Carl replied.
“Now, wait just a pig-kissing minute,” Mort snapped. “I’m plenty inconspicuous.”
“You’re really not,” Esper murmured.
Carl wasn’t letting Esper fight this battle for him. Mort would sooner lose an argument to Roddy than his own apprentice. “This isn’t our typical backwater. There are public security scanners and probably few enough wizards out here that glitch readings get someone off their ass to investigate. There’s not enough Convocation influence out here to keep the local badges from harassing adepts.”
“Like to see them try…” Mort grumbled.
“If our contact is plugged into the local scene—legit or underworld—chances are he’ll know something’s up. I mean, I know violating ‘come alone and unarmed’ agreements is a time-honored tradition, but this time I’m playing straight. This guy knows I’ve got people. Not like I can disappear without consequences. I’m safer going by myself and armed with nothing more than a parliament’s worth of lies.”
“I’ll back you up,” Amy said, stepping in front of Carl.
Carl gave her a lopsided smile. “Thanks for the offer, but that whole spiel of mine loses some oomph if I can’t stick to it for a full minute.”
“You’d have taken Tanny.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. Carl used the time to weigh his options, which ranged from bad to horrible. Wasn’t Dr. Akerman’s therapy session supposed to have fixed all this bullshit?
“Listen, I do two things well: fly and lie. And these days it’s not even clear-cut that I’m the best pilot on the ship. So business like this is sort of my specialty. Guys like me don’t work so well behind the scenes. If I can’t pull my weight, I’m no good as a figurehead. Might as well let my dad take over at that point. I’m pretty much one talent away from being expendable.”
With a soft clearing of her throat, Esper spoke up. “Let’s consider for the moment that you’re not expendable. You’re still a great pilot, even if Amy is, too. Plus, we all care about you, and on your own and unarmed, you can’t really… well, maybe can’t isn’t the right word. Anyway, maybe we step back from this and just let me make the exchange. I can look after myself, and I don’t have Mort’s penchant for razing buildings—really, we might need to have an intervention for him on knocking buildings down.”
“Those obelisks needed demolishing!”
Esper scowled at Mort. “I’m counting all the buildings on that moon you crashed.”
“I don’t see any way that I can possibly crash Pintara into anything on a round trip to the seedy end of this colony to pick up a crate of hardcoin.”
Carl didn’t see the relevance, either, but neither did he know the arguments that went on between Mort and Esper when he wasn’t around. It was like stepping on a snake, only to realize it was an alligator’s tail. He didn’t want to see the rest of this beast up close.
Undaunted, Esper jabbed a finger in Mort’s direction. “See? You don’t say ‘I’d never do anything like that’ or ‘those were extenuating circumstances.’ You just wondered—right then—whether or not you could. Admit it.”
“I admit nothing!”
Carl raised the hand that wasn’t holding an insulated carry-case for the primordial goo they were selling. “Not that I’m not fascinated to find out how this little squabble ends, but I’ve got an exchange to make. Thanks to the traffic exclusion zone around the capital, I’ve got a long tram ride to the rendezvous. And if I don’t get going soon, I’m going to miss it. Be back a rich man in about three hours.” He stepped around Amy and onto the cracked asphalt of the landing pad.
Roddy, who’d stayed out of the fray, picked this time to snort and offer a parting shot. “For that kind of cash, you sure you’re coming back?”
# # #
Public trams had a lot of things going for them. They never got lost. They usually didn’t cost much. And, if you were worried about being followed, it cut down on the number of suspects. Unfortunately, this one was also grimy, in a troubling state of disrepair, and sparsely populated with local dregs that Carl didn’t want touching him for fear of lice. The tram car’s air recirculator chugged and sputtered; its bacterial filters couldn’t have been in any better shape. Carl raised a hand to cover his mouth.
One of those dregs wore his hair in two braids where it wasn’t shaved bald, and his grin showed silver teeth. “You got an offworld smell on you, slug. What’s in the lunch pail?”
Carl sighed and fixed a boredom-laden gaze on the punk. “This the part where you try to convince me that there’s some toll for taking this car on the tram? Pal, I gotta tell you, that one’s older than this planet. And besides, rule number one in my line o
f work is don’t look in the package.”
Another dreg approached from the opposite end of the car. This one was shirtless, with a lean yet grimy physique that Carl guessed was a product of pharmacology and not working out. He carried a gentleman’s cane, which might have seemed more out of place if he hadn’t handled it like stun baton. “He don’t look like no smooth agent. Don’t see no big outfit hirin’ him for a big job. Prolly gets his jollies acting all big carryin’ an empty case.”
A third member of the gang lounged against the door of the tram car. He was the cleanest of the trio, with a black leather trench coat and a red datalens covering one eye. “Have a care, Virgil, and stop waving that twig around. Might scare our friend here. Seems to me that case he’s got is scan-proof. Ain’t nobody delivering burger take-home in a case like that.”
Carl shrugged. “I tried once. They got soggy.” He was perfectly content to let this little gang have their fun at his expense. The car’s overhead readout marked their progress toward Nova Station, just three stops away. Until the doors opened at his destination, Carl could put up with whatever harassment they wanted to throw his way.
The one called Virgil took his cane by the point end and whacked the handle against Carl’s case. “Here now, Clarence. Might not be a bad idea to have a look-see. Fancy me some fried gargoyles and a smuck of cheese.”
It wasn’t often that Carl was left behind in a conversation. Mort’s translation charm worked like magic, making any language sound like English to him. The only exceptions were that ancient, bone-jarring tongue he used for his more impressive spells and English—really, really badly spoken English.
But whatever these punks thought might be in the case, they’d have been disappointed at the reality. The soup of proteins and amino acids didn’t look like much, and to all but a few scientifically minded buyers out there, it probably held little value. “Sorry, boys. They don’t even tell me the code to disarm the explosive charge. Best case, if you managed to get past the locks, is you blow this tram off the tracks. Not how I planned on ending the work day.”
Virgil retreated half a step, and Special Operative Courier Carl had no trouble suppressing his grin. City lights flashed outside as the tram sped past, slowing as it approached Graven North Station. Two stops to go.