Mission Pack 3: Missions 9-12 (Black Ocean Mission Pack)

by J. S. Morin

Rachel bent down and offered a mischievous smile. “Oh, yes. Special Ops are always naughty. That’s why everyone wants to be Special Ops when they join the navy. So can I count on both of you?”

  The two Schultz children grinned and nodded frantically.

  Rachel checked her chrono. “Good. Now let’s move.”

  “I gotta pee…”

  There was a brief operational delay as Little Jax visited the washroom, then they made their way into the darkened halls. There should have been lights at all hours, with a dimmer applied during the indoor night. It was standard operating procedure on a starship synchronized to Earth Standard Time, and the practice carried over to the syndicate and their battleship headquarters.

  The kids’ sneakers squeaked occasionally on the steel floors, and there was an ever-present rustle of fabric and soft clatter of plastic clasps on the backpacks. The hum of the battleship’s engines, which they had all grown so accustomed to, was silent. The air was stagnant. Environmental controls, which caused the faintest of breezes and always added a whiff of chemical filtration, was off line as well.

  “Why’s it so quiet?” Little Jax whispered.

  Rachel took him by the hand. “Because the ship can mind its orders unlike some little boys. Now come on.”

  They navigated the corridors by emergency phosphorescents. Rachel knew the turns. Even if she had only been living there a short while, she’d studied the layout prior to leaving. Plus, six or so years ago, that hangar she was headed for had been like a second home.

  It was eerie, wandering the halls of a dead ship. This one wasn’t truly dead, of course. The front half, pinioned into the side of a mountain, perhaps. But the rest was just taking a nap. All of it was according to plan.

  “Should be back on by now,” a voice echoed from the corridors ahead. “At least auxiliary should be on.”

  “Tried calling facilities, but the internal comm’s down.”

  “Better head down to the engine room and see for myself.”

  Rachel took both kids by the hand and held them back. She crouched low, feeling the awkward balance of her own pack, stuffed with more gear than she wished she’d brought along. Bad enough to be sneaking off in the middle of the night. Worse would be the regrets of this or that memento left behind.

  “Lisa,” Rachel whispered. “Open Mommy’s pack and find the turtle brooch.”

  Lisa nodded, still not saying a word. She was determined not to lose first crack at firing the guns of the Mobius to her brother. Rachel waited through the tugging and shuffling behind her. Moments later, Lisa pressed the brooch into her hand.

  “You two stay put. Not a peep. Not a muscle till I get back.” Keeping low and careful that her boots make no sound, Rachel crept up the hallway to a four-way intersection. The voices of the syndicate crewmen were growing closer.

  “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Think maybe this is a drill?”

  Rachel threw the brooch down one of the side corridors. It bounced and clattered as it went. Jaxon had given it to her on their third anniversary. It still had the little sticker on it that said, “Made on Albus II,” but he’d claimed it was a family heirloom.

  “You hear that?”

  “Yeah, let’s check it out. Back me up.”

  Rachel waited from the shadows, covering her mouth with a sleeve to silence even the sound of her breathing. Backlit by phosphorescents, all she could make out were two human forms, presumably male by their voices. One had a blaster out, its red indicator light proclaiming it was still functional and set to lethal. She’d have liked it better had the indicator shown the blue of a stun setting.

  As the two syndicate men slunk down the wrong corridor, Rachel doubled back and retrieved the kids, who hadn’t budged a millimeter from where she’d left them. Taking them each by the hand, she pulled them along in her wake as they crossed the four-way intersection. But there was a limit to how quiet a pair of overburdened children could be.

  “Wait! It’s behind us now.”

  Footsteps stopped from the other corridor and then resumed at a quicker pace.

  “Run!” Rachel whispered. “Get to Uncle Carl’s ship.”

  “But Mom—!”

  “You know the way. I’ll be right behind you,” Rachel promised, cutting off Lisa’s objection.

  Sneakered feet pounded down the corridor. Rachel retreated for the cover of an intersection farther down and pulled her blaster.

  # # #

  The mountaintop patio of the Ramsey Syndicate was a relaxing place in the evening. Earth Standard Time said it was early nighttime, but Ithaca’s lunar status made its own orbit and rotation a complex mess of a bother, unfit for telling time. So while most of the syndicate was switched over to night shift or already in bed, Chuck Ramsey was enjoying hotdogs and beer while he and his wife watched the sun set behind the planet that Ithaca orbited.

  “We’re gonna have to give that gas ball up there a proper name one of these days,” Chuck mumbled through a mouthful of hotdog.

  Jokovich gave a grunt. Though he was Chuck’s personal bodyguard, the position came with perks such as drinking on duty. He held a half-empty pint glass of Jefferson Ale. “Surface temp is enough to boil copper, so it’s basically a huge cloud of hot air. Ever consider naming it after Blackjack?”

  Chuck nearly choked on his hotdog. “Ha! Wouldn’t that beat all? Couldn’t do it, though. Brad’s gonna come around.”

  “Not if you insist on calling him Brad,” Becky Ramsey observed. She spooned a dollop of relish onto a hotdog of her own.

  “Whatever he wants to call himself, once he’s on the ground, living the good life, with no convenient starship to leave the system, he’ll settle down a little.”

  “I’m not sure you know our son as well as you think…”

  Chuck wiped his hand on his pants and snapped his fingers. A pair of techs carried over a set of flatvid panels with snaking cords trailing back indoors and out of view. They were showing various parts of the Odysseus interior. “I know Brad as well as anyone. I bet a thousand terras he tries to make a break for it before his ship leaves orbit. I’ve posted guards, locked down the hangar security protocols, and given Mort a little distraction that’ll keep him busy until morning. Carl’s not getting anywhere in the Mobius without Mort. Even if he brings the girl for star-drive, he’s not going to ditch that old coot.”

  “Mort’s five years younger than us.”

  Chuck ignored Becky’s nitpicking. Mort was old because he acted old. He and Becky weren’t because they refused to give in to age. “Point is, Brad—Carl—is going to try to get out of here, but I’ve put up roadblocks the whole way. Come morning, when his ship is offworld and he’s face to face with the responsibility of being the head of an outfit the size of the one we’ve got, he’ll start to see he hasn’t got it so bad. But the boy’s 33; he needs to grow up.”

  “Eat your hotdog, dear. You’re dripping mustard everywhere, waving it around like that.”

  Chuck settled into one of the native-made chairs the refugees had brought from the godforsaken chasm that was their home for six years. It was comfy, almost like real wood. He kicked his feet up onto the drink cooler and watched the flatvids. The fun would be starting any minute now.

  The screens all went dark.

  “Hey, what the hell! Get those back on. I’m gonna miss the good part.”

  Becky peered over and gave the screens an appraising look. “If I had my guess, that’s just what you’re seeing.”

  # # #

  A ball of eldritch light floated above Esper’s upturned palm. It was the only source of light in the engine room of the Odysseus. Not so much as a blinking power indicator was left undisturbed by her warping of local science. On the floor, two engineers’ bodies lay slumped. Beside her, Amy stood with her blaster pistol still out, despite the fact that it was no longer capable of stunning anyone else.

  “How long’s that going to hold?” Amy asked. Her face was flecked with sweat fro
m the run down from Esper’s quarters.

  “How should I know? I just smashed together the heads of the universe’s two leading theorems on how to behave. Who knows how long they’ll be unconscious?”

  While the specifics and timing of the plan had been a mild surprise, the overall gist of it was anything but. If there was one thing the crew of the Mobius was reliable about, it was flouting rules. If there was a second to tack onto that list, flouting would involve some sort of daring heist. Carl’s only foray into long-term planning, near as Esper could tell, was the Silde Slims Racing heist. That had ended with Carl having to fake his own death, losing out on the prize money and stealing a racing ship they’d never managed to sell. This running around in the dark, breaking things and stunning guards, was more their style.

  Amy led the way with Esper keeping pace easily. Both women already kept their gear on board the Mobius, so there was nothing to go back for as they made the first of their two stops on their way to the ship.

  At the sound of pounding footsteps headed their way, Esper extinguished the light and ducked into an open doorway. Amy skidded to a halt and scrambled in behind her. She took up a defensive crouch with her blaster at the ready, even though Esper saw that the indicator light was still out. It didn’t take a scientist to know the little light was essential to shooting.

  A pair of mechanics jogged past. One of them held a hand lamp that had enough working atoms to light their way. The narrow beam kept watch ahead of them but didn’t peek into alcoves and side rooms. Neither of them men spoke, and one was gasping for breath as he brought up the rear.

  Once the two were safely past, Esper willed the orb of eldritch light into existence once more and started down a little-used side corridor. It was a shortcut, but not one that many in the syndicate cared about. The nice folks who dealt with engines, photons, and magnetics had their fanciest toys in one area. In the other direction were the planetside quarters of one Mordecai The Brown or, as one sly-tongued engineer had described him—never to his face—Mordecai The Brown-Out.

  “Should be safe to talk,” Esper said, slowing her pace. “No one comes through here.”

  “Great, but keep those feet moving. We’re on a schedule.”

  Esper barely heard Amy. In her mind, thought and mind drifted apart. She whisked ahead, following the corridors only to avoid getting lost. Incorporeal thought couldn’t be impeded by mere steel and plastic. When she arrived at the door to Mort’s quarters, however, she discovered that whatever Mort did to his walls made them impervious.

  “Sorry,” Esper said, blinking in disorientation as her mind snapped back into place like overstretched elastic. “Tried to send Mort a warning that we were coming. Thought it might save time if he started packing now.”

  “Well, enough dawdling,” Amy replied, waving with her blaster for Esper to follow. By now its indicator was glowing blue again. “And watch with the magic. It was just coming back on when whatever you did made it flicker.”

  They hurried through deserted hallways. So slow. Just a moment ago, Esper had shot down them like a bird in flight. Now, it was one plodding, gravity-bound step after another. No one had any business building ships this size. It was like someone wanted a city, and instead of building it on a planet, they stuck oversized ship parts everywhere and flew it into space—then crashed it on Ithaca. Karma in action, she decided.

  By the time they got to Mort’s quarters, they weren’t the only ones there. Amy caught Esper’s arm just as they came to the final turn that would have put them at his doorstep. A poof of blue energy shot past just as Amy jerked her out of its path. “Thanks,” she muttered. “There wasn’t anyone there when I mentally projected myself here.” Amy pulled her down to a crouch alongside her.

  “Well, now it looks like we’ve got four security guards with stun blasters. That part’s the good news.” Amy stuck her blaster around the corner and returned fire blindly. “The bad news is that it’s four against two, and I don’t think Mort can hear what’s going on out here.”

  Esper peered around the corner, ducking quickly as a shot buzzed just over her head. Mort’s door was only a few meters away, but she knew from many visits that he’d insulated it against unwelcome distractions—which basically included anything happening outside his door. “I think one of them is Doss.”

  “I don’t give a spent fuel rod who they are. We need to get rid of them. Think you can get a message to Mort from this close?”

  Esper climbed to her feet. “There are only four of them. Toss your blaster back the way we came if you don’t want it fuzzled again.”

  She rounded the corner, and the four guards opened fire. Little blue sizzles flew in all directions, spiraling out of control like a startled flock of sparrows. Esper advanced deliberately, keeping up her concentration. Her lips curled in amusement as she watched the guards adjusting their aim to try and compensate for what she could only imagine they thought was some sort of counter force she was applying.

  “Do not approach that door,” one of the guards ordered. “Lay down your weapons and surrender.” Someone wasn’t paying attention, because while Amy may have had a blaster, Esper was unarmed. Or she was incapable of being disarmed, depending on their prevailing view of wizards. In either event, the order was preposterous.

  “You’re all having a bad day,” she called out. “Go back to your quarters. Leave the blasters. You can come back for them in the morning. Tell Chuck Ramsey I fiddled with your brains or whatever story you like. Whatever you come up with will be better than what I might have to do if you stay.”

  There was a hesitation. The shots stopped, or at least grew intermittent. The guards muttered amongst themselves, and Esper was polite enough not to attempt to eavesdrop. A squeak of boot on steel caused her to look back. Amy was watching cautiously from cover, just one eye and half her face visible.

  A clatter of blasters on the floor signaled the guards’ surrender. Without a word—at least to her—they withdrew and left their weapons behind.

  “See? Wizards. No need to shoot everyone when you can worry them into going away.”

  Amy disappeared, and Esper heard a scrape of metal and plastic. She returned with her blaster in its holster. “You want to do the honors? He likes you better.”

  Mort wouldn’t do anything to Amy, Esper knew. Even if she wasn’t dating Carl, she was part of the crew now. Roddy got on Mort’s nerves regularly and had yet to suffer anything like arcane vengeance for it. But there really wasn’t time to be arguing over it. Esper knocked. It was a special knock, a series of seven raps in a particular cadence that signaled to Mort precisely who was on the other side.

  “It’s open,” came the gruff reply from within. Esper had felt the subtle shift of a titanic force lifting from the doorway. A herd of elephants couldn’t have battered it open a moment earlier, but now the door slid gently at Esper’s suggestion.

  Within the wizard’s chambers, candelabras provided the only light. Mort sat in a comfortable old chair with his feet up on an ottoman, a book across his lap. By the door, a large, solid-looking wooden trunk bobbed half a meter off the ground. In one corner of the room, there was a table set up for chess. On opposite sides of the table were two women, barely clad, so absorbed in the game that they didn’t look up when Esper and Amy entered.

  “About time you got here,” Mort grumbled. He snapped the book closed, raising a cloud of dust.

  Esper nodded in the direction of the chess game. “I assume there’s a reasonable explanation for this?” she asked as Mort strode over to the chest and tossed his night’s reading inside.

  “I’d settle for an unreasonable one,” Amy added. “This is out of one of those tweaker holos.”

  “Chuck’s idea of a distraction,” Mort said. “Nice of him to send two, so they could keep each other company. Daft old comedian must think I’ve sunk to Martian depths of depravity in my old age.”

  Esper fixed him with a stern glare.

  Mort cleared his throat.
“Don’t we have an escape to make?”

  Amy turned to Esper. “I thought he was out of the loop.”

  “Egads, girl. You think I’m that thick? Chuck’s sending Carl’s ship off without him come the rooster’s cackle in the morning—if we had roosters or proper dawns around here. Anyway, point is: there’s no way Carl was going to take that lying down. Now, let’s skedaddle. I’m all packed and ready to go. Never liked this moon. Weather’s shit, and the old residents soured me on the cultural experience.”

  Esper gave him a curt nod. “You head straight for the Mobius and make sure it’s secure. We’ve got one more stop to make.”

  # # #

  Carl lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. It had been boring even before the base had lost power. No datapad. No comm. The holo-projector had been limited to local storage only, which had left him an anemic selection of crap downloaded by whoever it was who usually lived in these borrowed quarters. Chuck had claimed this was a temporary situation. But Carl knew that Chuck would claim he was part owner of a starport if it got him free docking. As a kid, Carl used to wonder how his father had a stake in so many businesses but couldn’t afford to pay full price for fuel. Chuck always haggled.

  But now, there weren’t even low-brainpower mysteries to watch on the holo. It was dark. There were no emergency phosphorescents in these quarters. Carl had managed to find himself beer by fumbling around in the fridge. The can hung limp in one hand, half empty, dangling over the edge of the couch.

  The door wasn’t locked, at least not without power working. Only a few high-sec areas of the ship had doors that failed secure instead of safe. If he put his back into it, opening the door wouldn’t even have been that hard. But of course, right outside his door were a pair of marines. Messerschmidt had acquired a partner, one of the Odysseus security staff named Wentworth. Carl didn’t know him, which was probably half the point of choosing him. They were both loyal to Chuck.

  A series of squirting blats outside the door got Carl’s hopes up. Anything resembling conflict could only be good news for him. He listened, and let his imagination paint in the details. But the jumble of blaster fire and bodies slumping to the ground were a muddle and rendered the image in finger-paints. A moment later, the door slid open in a short series of jerking skids.