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

by J. S. Morin

  “Stand down,” Rachel shouted, not daring to poke her head around the corner. “Jax, Lisa, I want those blasters on stun with the safety locked.”

  “What’s the password?” Little Jax shouted back. The hum of a repulsor grew more distant by the second.

  “Half-Devils never give up,” Rachel answered.

  “Yay, it’s really Mom!”

  “Hurry up, Mom,” Lisa called out. “We’re almost there!”

  # # #

  Mort wasn’t going to miss this place. It was a dank, fetid, barely-habitable environment overrun with primitive creatures. The jungle outside was even worse. But with the addition of the erstwhile worshipers of Devraa to the roster, the distinctions between the two were blurring. He could think of a hundred worlds he’d rather be stuck on, and as he strolled the corridors toward the hangar, he gave them their due consideration.

  “Hadrian IV… air was a bit chewy, and it was wet enough to bathe in the air, but they had honest-to-god dinosaurs. Vi Tik Naa… wouldn’t mind going back there to see real dinos. Not the little pocket-sized ones, either, but real man-eaters. Hell, Meyang was even pretty nice. Sure, we visited the icebox side of her, but that was an Earth-like. Nothing stopping a fellow from popping over to the banks of the Charles River and taking a little Back Bay real estate for himself.”

  As Mort was muttering to himself, a squadron of syndicate soldiers in black helmets and dark blue uniforms marched into position to block the exit to the hangar. They were carrying blaster rifles at parade readiness. But they saw him coming.

  “Wizard Mort, please return to your quarters until departure time for the Mobius. Someone will be along at 0530 hours to escort you.”

  Mort looked across the assembly from one man to the next, fixing each with a scowl. “Which one of you daft buggers just said that? Because I’d like to make something clear as the air between your ears: I don’t take orders. I didn’t take orders when I was on the Convocation High Council. I didn’t take orders when I partnered up with Chuck Ramsey and his traveling comedy troupe. I don’t take orders from Carl Ramsey, and he’s OK with that. And I sure as thunderbolts don’t take orders from the likes of you puffed-up tin soldiers.”

  “Please, Wizard Mort. We don’t want any trouble.”

  Mort let the trunk with his belongings settle to the floor. He placed one foot atop it and rested an elbow on his knee. “Look here. Asking nicely was a clever touch but a bit belated. I’m going out that door, climbing aboard that ship of Carl’s, and getting off this orbiting sauna. The worst—the absolute worst—you’re going to do to stop me is to make me do something so horrible to you—fires of hell, and so forth—that I disrupt the science that makes the Mobius fly for a while.”

  Two of the guards inched back. The other pair held their ground. “Mr. Ramsey said—”

  Mort cut him off with a hearty laugh. “Chucky-boy’s got the gall of a hotdog vendor at a funeral. Back when me and him toured the galaxy for giggles and couch-cushion terras, we played it pretty light. Subterfuge, a sly misdirection here or there. Oh, sure, I had to kill a bounty hunter every once in a great while, but I mostly kept that out of the headlines. But since I took up with Carl, we’ve plied a more active brand of brigandry. I daresay I’ve—oh hell, why’m I wasting all these words on you lot? I don’t give a short, curly hair about a single one of you, and you’ve got a lifespan of exactly five seconds if you’re not out of my way. And I’m not counting it out loud.” Mort crossed his arms.

  One… The two who had been backing away turned and ran. Two… Three… The other two shared a glance. Four… One shook his head. The other gave a single, curt nod. They held their ground and leveled their rifles at Mort. He liked to imagine that they pulled their triggers or whatnot, but nothing happened.

  Five. “For Merlin’s sake, what’s it take to threaten you imbeciles?” With a sweep of a hand the two men fell through solid steel as if it were open air. They disappeared from view with a pair of startled cries. “Bloody fools.” With a beckoning finger, he summoned the trunk to follow along, and Mort headed into the hangar.

  # # #

  Two of Chuck’s puffed-up goons ran past without looking back. Carl, Amy, and Esper flattened themselves against the corridor wall to keep from being trampled. “You’re fired! Both of you,” Carl shouted after them. With a grin to Amy and Esper, he pushed away from the wall and continued. “Mort’s up ahead. I’d bet this syndicate on it. We haven’t got Mriy around anymore to provoke that kind of reaction, and Esper’s right here.”

  “I’m not that scary.”

  “I saw you write a book in pig’s blood,” Carl countered.

  “And there was that time you threatened to throw a platoon of marines off the Tower of Order,” Amy added.

  Esper frowned. The kid was probably never going to get comfortable with people being uncomfortable around her. Carl clapped her on the shoulder. “Come on. It’s fun to be the bad guys once in a while. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s getting hurt. We’re just running my dad’s underwear up the flagpole to see who salutes. Once I discredit him, we can take the place over again.”

  Amy and Esper shared a glance. Carl wasn’t supposed to notice. He knew that. But he’d been watching for it. Neither of them was a huge fan of this whole syndicate thing in the first place. Esper didn’t like the parallels to Don Rucker’s organization; Amy still wasn’t quite comfortable with the criminal lifestyle. He’d heard the arguments enough times from both of them.

  “You’ll see,” Carl promised. “We’ll get this under control. But for now, let’s get the hell off this moon.”

  # # #

  “This feels wrong,” Amy said as she piloted the Mobius out of the lightless hangar and into the bright sunshine.

  Carl watched over her shoulder, leaning on the back of the pilot’s chair. “Yeah, but we’ll pull off the kind of heist these greenhorns can’t possibly ignore. Don Rucker’s got his way of doing things. I’ve got mine. And Chuckster can go back to Luna and play bingo for all I care.”

  “I meant the silence. No traffic control. No navigational buoys. Hell, the holovid isn’t even on.”

  “Yeah, there’s that, too. But don’t worry. We’ll be back and better than ever.” He kissed her atop the head before heading off to find out how the rest of the crew was faring.

  He had a packed house. Behind closed doors leading in every direction off the common room, Carl heard the bustle of life settling into place. It wasn’t how he’d expected to leave Ithaca, but he had everyone aboard he needed. Except maybe Niang. According to Roddy, the mechanic had been an unfortunate wayside victim of the escape.

  Yomin’s door opened. “Hey, Carl. Come here a minute.”

  One step. That’s as far as Carl got before his brain took over and stopped him to reflect on that enticing offer. Normally, any invitation to a woman’s quarters was worth taking, even just for a roll of the dice that it was a prelude to something more. But now it was precisely that reason that stopped him in his tracks. He had a different reputation now, if not in actuality then in the process of forming. He couldn’t tear down the scaffolding around the up-and-coming responsible captain and lover. Amy would put a hole through his heart before he knew what hit him.

  But this was Yomin. She was young, energetic, overflowing with ideas, optimism, and naivety. By every measure, Carl wasn’t her type. Not to mention the way she’d been acting around Archie since the robot came into their lives. Satisfied at his due diligence, her feet resumed walking, and only a few seconds had gone by.

  “What’s up?” Carl asked, leaning his head through the doorway to Yomin’s room. Though it was Tanny’s old quarters, it looked like Chip’s old setup. Technical equipment hogged every available space, including the bed for the moment. Yomin sat within a tangle of cables and consoles, tapping away first at her datalens, then the pad in her lap, then the datalens again.

  “Hold on… There. Got it. OK, here’s the deal. Ithaca’s power is mostly out. I’ve
got battery backup on a receiver buried in a junction conduit. It’s ready to relay a message on every flatvid and every holo-projector in the syndicate as soon as main power gets everything juiced again.” Yomin spat the words rapid-fire, as if she was being charged by the second for Carl’s time and attention.

  “Smooth.” Carl wasn’t quite sure what else to say.

  Yomin picked up a small tube with a glowing red tip on one end and affixed it to the side of her datalens. He flinched as the beam caught his eye. “Ready when you are.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Record your message to the syndicate. I mean, you can’t just run off and leave the narrative in your father’s hands. He could set us up to look like kidnappers or make it look like you’re abandoning them all. He could make it look like you’re unfit to lead and taking silly risks. Come on, boss man, lay a story on them.”

  Carl ran his fingers through his hair hurriedly. He tugged his jacket into place. No one had said anything about being on camera today. He would have showered, at least! Feigning casual disinterest, he leaned against the door. Then, thinking better of that image, he stood at military attention, chin held high. With a shake of his head he relaxed, slouching in place and putting his hands in his jacket pockets. With a curt nod, he gave Yomin leave to begin recording.

  “Hi, I’m Carl Ramsey. You might remember me as the guy who saved your sorry asses from eternal damnation on a moon that most of the galaxy refers to by a number—if they’ve heard of it at all. Of late, it’s come to my attention that some of you may have been dissatisfied with my managerial style. What I’m disappointed by is the fact that none of you felt like you could come to me with your problems. I’m not one to get down on someone for fucking up. I’ve been flying with a crew of fuckups for years. This shit happens. The important thing is how we move forward, deal with our mistakes, and put someone’s ass in a sling for screwing with us.

  “To that end, I’d like to put a fifty-thousand-terra bounty in place for anyone who can get my folks into a nice, medium-security elder-care facility. Preferably somewhere in green-sec space where they can’t be trouble to anyone and won’t expect me to visit regularly. Since the upcoming chaos probably won’t be conducive to my well-being planetside, I’m going to do a little fieldwork and seeding the syndicate with a much-needed cash infusion. Anyone who’s got his head on straight by the time I get back is welcome to a cut.

  “If anyone, and I mean anyone from Ithaca comes after us, I’d like to remind you all of something. Chuck Ramsey had me under guard, knew I would plan an escape, set up every obstacle he could dream up to put in my way, and… well, here I am. Remember, kiddies, it’s the A team that I’ve got with me out here. You can all keep spinning gold back into straw down there with my dad, or you can get ready for my triumphant return. I trust you to have the place cleaned up by the time I get back.”

  Carl made a slashing motion with his hand at waist level.

  Yomin took the hint and unclipped the camera from her datalens. “Great. Excellent work. I’ve got plenty there I can work with.”

  Carl cast a sidelong glance. “Work with?”

  “Well, it was a bit longwinded, and I think somewhere in there you called them fuckups. But for off-the-cuff, that wasn’t half bad.” She looked down at the console in her lap and tapped away.

  “Wait. Hold on. Don’t edit that. I meant every word, especially calling them fuckups. They are. They need to know it, or they’ll think it’s OK to keep being fuckups.”

  Yomin continued typing. “No one wants to hear that.”

  “Worked for the Half-Devils. Every last one of them a fuckup, and I made sure they knew it from day one.”

  Yomin looked up. Her lips pursed in a tight, forced smile. “Fine. I’ll send it exactly as you said it.”

  That was the point at which it occurred to Carl that he couldn’t do a damn thing about that message. No one else on board would be able to access her custom hack job back at Odysseus Base. He wasn’t going to see or hear the finished product. Yomin was going to do this her way, and if Carl wanted it any other way, he’d already lost his chance.

  With a curt nod, a hastily constructed Carl Who Totally Believes the Bullshit He Just Got Fed turned to leave. “Great. Send it off as soon as it’s ready.”

  # # #

  Someone was patting his face. That was the first Jean Niang knew following his consumption of a beer spiked with polyolthylase. With a grunt, he rolled onto his side and worked an arm underneath his torso. A hand held him down.

  “Easy there, buddy. Stay down and let your head clear.”

  Niang opened his eyes, only to find a hand lamp blinding him. He brought up a hand to shield his face. “Whuh? Whuh happen?” The words felt like a damp cloth in his mouth.

  “Main power’s out. Ramsey sent me down to find you, since you’re the senior mechanic.”

  Niang tried to place the voice. Nothing connected voice to face or voice to name. If he’d known what a wreck the drug was going to leave his mind, Niang would have opted for another method of self-incapacitation. “No. Whuh happen t’ me?”

  “Dunno, sir. You were like this when I found you.”

  Doss. That was the man’s name. The way he said “sir” sparked a connection to bygone days in the hangar together. With a grunt, Niang forced himself into a seated position, and Doss helped him up. He took a long, cleansing breath to stave off a wave of dizziness. “Gotta get… going offworld today. Mission.”

  “I don’t think there’s going to be a mission today, sir. At least, not for you.”

  Niang nodded, and he hoped that he hid his smile from Doss.

  # # #

  By most standards, the Bel Santos Colony was civilized. Despite being in the Eyndar/ARGO Disputed Zone, they had a working government, a militia that kept piracy to a minimum, and a habitable biome not so different from an Earth-like. Dozens of cities lay scattered across the global landmasses near whatever resources or pleasant landscapes the colonists found to their liking. One of those cities was called Ganin.

  Samurai’s message had been short on details, and Carl’s follow-up had been met with silence. So all he was left with was a request—polite as ever—to find Samurai at a place called the Howling Moon, on August 21st, at 22:35 local time. Though he had been suspicious based on the name, the Howling Moon was pretty much a run-of-the-mill liquor dispensary. The one exception was the entertainment. For a place like Bel Santos, sanctioned human combat seemed a little rough around the edges.

  “You sure this is the place?” Amy asked, craning her neck to peer over the heads of the crowd. “This place doesn’t scream ‘Samurai’ to me.”

  Rachel shrugged. Her flight jacket made her fit right in with the offworld-savvy clientele. “Seems like it to me. Look at this crowd. Mixed.” She pointed over to a shadowed corner halfway around from the cage at the center of the barroom.

  Carl squinted into the dim and saw them: Eyndar. A whole crowd of the canid creatures sat together at a cluster of tables. Now that he was keyed in, he noticed a few others scattered throughout the crowd. With a hat or a helmet, they mixed too easily among the humans for his liking.

  “Since when does Yamamoto Toshiro drink with dogs?” Carl said under his breath.

  But Rachel must have heard him, because she leaned in shoulder to shoulder with Carl. “Since never.” She held her chrono up to Carl’s eye level. It read 22:38. They were late, per standard operating procedure. So what?

  Rachel pointed.

  There was a bout in progress in the cage. Carl had been in enough live combat bars to tune out the raucous entertainment and focus on getting drunk—or occasionally getting down to business. But Rachel dragged his attention back into the realm of the blatant.

  Amy must have followed that pointed finger as well, because she gasped. “He’s in the cage!”

  Samurai was, indeed. Carl elbowed his way to a front-row view, drawing curses and a few growls, but nothing he was too concerned about.
Bellamy was too genteel by half for him to worry about getting gunned down in public over a little jostling. Not only was Yamamoto Toshiro in the combat cage, his opponent was Eyndar. The betting board at ringside identified his opponent as Gowra.

  The two combatants squared off wearing padded gloves and boots. Samurai’s opponent snarled through a mouth guard that hid his fangs and neutered the intimidating effect. Well, at least Carl wasn’t intimidated from the far side of the safety cage. But the pair on the inside looked evenly matched physically. Samurai wasn’t imposing as humans went, but among the generally smaller Eyndar, his opponent was a brute.

  Gowra had his hands up, elbows tucked, protecting face and upper torso at the same time. Samurai stood with one hand forward, the other back, with a wide stance that kept him side-on to the Eyndar. They circled one another, jockeying for position. Gowra would feint, and Samurai would flinch. Samurai took a short hop forward, and Gowra backed off to keep the distance between them constant. Neither showed any sign of blood or bruising that would have indicated any more violent confrontation before Carl had gotten to cage side. For a bar that specialized in combat sports entertainment, there wasn’t a lot of hooting and jeering at the lack of carnage thus far.

  Just as Carl was ready to go find a place to sit down while Samurai played patty-cake with humanity’s greatest enemy, a fight broke out in the cage. Gowra rushed Samurai, and after a few dodged punches, backed Samurai against the cage. Carl had seen his former squadronmate fight before. He was a certified instructor even in his days as an active-duty pilot. But that was tame combat, with a mat and head protection and a military-grade med bay just around the corner. This was brutality.

  In close quarters, Samurai was out of room to dodge. He avoided solid contact, taking a series of glancing punches before an elbow connected with his jaw. Blood sprayed from his lip. Another punch slammed Samurai’s head against the mesh of the cage. Carl looked around for a referee, but there was no one who looked likely to stop the action. Then Gowra backed away as Samurai reeled, trying to collect himself. The Eyndar’s chest heaved from the flurry he’d just unleashed. But the apparent respite lasted less than a second. Hopping up, the Eyndar tucked both knees and unloaded a two-footed kick to Samurai’s midsection. Carl cringed.