Mission Pack 2: Missions 5-8 (Black Ocean Mission Pack)

by J. S. Morin

  Esper frowned at him, but Mort smirked in reply. “How far is it to this place of yours?” she asked, resuming her walk. Much as she had grown accustomed to her utilitarian shipboard garb, it was nice to feel the swish of a dress at her legs again. She looked every bit the medieval noblewoman—minus a fortune in jewelry.

  Mort fell into step beside her. “Far enough. But there’s a stable not far from here. We’ll ride from there.”

  “Ride?” Esper asked. “You didn’t tell me I’d be riding. I’m not dressed for it. You could have mentioned something at the shops.” The gift shop at the starport had authentic attire for any of the individual colonies on Peractorum. Mort had declared his Convocation getup to be more than sufficient, but he’d watched her pick out her own outfit without saying a word about needing to be fit for horseback.

  “You know how to ride a horse?” Mort asked skeptically.

  “Yes. Well, sort of. I took lessons, but I quit after just a couple. I didn’t like how sore I got after. Point is, I’ve sat on a moving horse before, and I was not wearing a dress for it.”

  “Well, the good news is that’s not the sort of riding I had in mind,” Mort said, waggling his eyebrows. Esper shrank back in disgust at his insinuation before realizing that his double-entendre was more likely a triple-entendre—and she had fallen for it.

  “That’s not nice, you know,” she scolded him.

  “You’re the nice one,” Mort replied. “I’m the dark sorcerer, remember? Speaking of which, around here I go by another name.”

  “Of course you do…”

  “Can’t very well own property when I’m supposedly a fugitive.”

  “Don’t see how you could.”

  “So if anyone asks, I’m Mordred Pendergast,” Mort replied. “You can still call me Mort.”

  “Mordred?” Esper echoed. “Like the Mordred from King Arthur? Isn’t that a bit heavy handed?”

  “A bit stuffy, perhaps, but our kind get away with a lot of that,” Mort said. “And around here? Even if it’s taken for an alias, it’s perfectly in-character for the locale.”

  Esper looked off into the trees and let a quiet sigh of exasperation escape her lips.

  “Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” Mort scolded. Esper shot him a glare. “Your eyes exude rolling. I don’t need to see them. Doesn’t take magic, either. Aha, there! Up ahead, there are the stables.”

  The forest gave way to a knot of buildings too few to be called a hamlet. They all wore thatched roofs as if in costume for the period. Their walls were daub and wattle, and their windows were simple cutouts devoid of glass. A pair of droop-jowled hounds bounded down the lone dirt road to greet them. They circled Mort and Esper, sniffing as their tails wagged frantically.

  A sharp whistle pierced the breezy air. “Peotan, Geslit, leave them be,” a stable-hand shouted. “Pardon the hounds, milord. They be harmless.” The dogs fell back behind their master.

  “Where’s Toller?” Mort asked.

  The stable-hand hung his head. “His back gave out summer last, milord. I be Harwood, and the stables be mine now.”

  “We’ll need a cart and some animal to pull it,” Mort said. “I’m not picky, but if it doesn’t smell too badly, all the better.”

  “How far will your lordship be traveling?” Harwood asked.

  “Bloody me, I don’t know,” Mort replied. “We’re heading to Thunderglade.”

  Harwood let out a low whistle. “A far journey, milord. Three days on the road at best. Four if thy lady takes poorly to long stretches on a hard seat.”

  Mort waved away Harwood’s concerns. “I’ll have the beast back by nightfall, cart and all.”

  Esper cast the wizard a worried look. Images of careening along dirt trails in an ox-cart flashed in her imagination. Mort would have some clever way around them both being killed or thrown clear of the cart and would be all smug about it. The poor animal would be frantic, confused by its sudden transformation from plodding yoke-beast into a blur of legs and hooves.

  “By what fell sorcery willest thou make such speed?” Harwood asked.

  “The usual sort,” Mort said. “And save the phony lingo for the tourists. You sound like a jackass. Just tell me how much it’ll cost me to rent a cart and something willing to pull it.”

  Harwood sighed. “Eight pounds sterling. If you didn’t exchange for coin-of-the-realm at the gift shop, we also accept hardcoin terras, jednu, arsicans, and xliknaar, as well as digital accounts from any certified ARGO bank. If you plan to use magic that affects any Harwood Stables property, I’m going to have to ask for an additional deposit of twenty pounds, and confirmation of membership in a recognized magical order.”

  “Toller didn’t charge so much for a deposit.”

  “Toller went bankrupt and moved back to Luna.”

  Mort dug into the leather pouch tied to his belt and counted gold coins into Harwood’s waiting hand. “I’ll send someone to retrieve my deposit. But in the interest of playing your little charade, I’m not showing any proof of my affiliation. If you want to lodge a complaint, tell them the dark wizard Lord Mordred Pendergast defied you. See how far you get with that.”

  “You’re… you’re the Mordred?” Harwood asked. He backed a step away, even as Esper was climbing onto the front seat of a wagon that one of Harwood’s boys had pulled around front.

  Mort pulled himself onto the seat beside her and took the reins of a crotchety old mule. The beast brayed its annoyance as Mort tugged its head to the side and twisted to fix Harwood with a puzzled look. “I don’t know how to take that question. Am I a semi-historical figure from two thousand years ago? No. Am I the bastard who bought Thunderglade Keep a few years back? Indeed I am.”

  With a snap of the reins, Mort urged the mule into forward motion. Esper surreptitiously gripped the seat with both hands, prepared for the mule to dart forward with supernatural speed at any moment. The wooden wheels rumbled along dirt ruts, keeping a sane and sensible pace until they were out of sight of the stables. A clopping of iron-shod hooves beat a counterpoint to the wheels. Esper was just relaxing her grip and settling in to enjoy a peaceful ride when both sounds faded away.

  The cart kept moving. The change in elevation came so subtly that Esper didn’t take note of it at first, still puzzling over what Mort had done to quiet and smooth their ride. But by the time they were a meter off the ground it had become obvious that they would not be taking any more roads to reach Thunderglade. Esper renewed her grip on the seat with a fury.

  “What are you doing?” Esper demanded. “There aren’t even safety harnesses on this thing!”

  Mort patted a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Relax. Science keeps its opinions quiet hereabouts. This little flight is no trouble at all. Safer than the Mobius for damn sure. Bakes my noodle every time I get to thinking about all the fell and tricksome sciences that all have to work just right for us not to suffocate or crash. It’s amazing the thing can fly at all—just a bunch of nozzles shooting imaginary particulate to push it through air and space. This? Just clean, old-fashioned magic, like mother used to make.”

  Esper peered over the edge, and regretted it instantly. “It’s got to be a hundred meters to the ground.”

  “Naw,” Mort replied. “There isn’t a meter within a hundred miles of here. They haven’t been invented yet. Don’t worry, though. You won’t fall. Even if you did, you’d be fine. I’m betting you’ve got enough wizard in you by now that being unable to fathom the effects of a fatal fall like this would keep you from hitting hard enough to get seriously hurt.”

  “I what now?”

  Mort put up his hands in defeat. Esper felt herself pressed firmly against the wagon seat. “Happy now?” The wagon performed a barrel roll. Esper screamed, but did not fall from her perch. “You can’t fall out. Now sit back and enjoy the ride. It’ll take a while to get there; my place isn’t exactly on the beaten path.”

  # # #

  Carl combed back his hair, flicking away the ac
cumulated grease with each pass. Angling his head from side to side, he checked for signs of lingering blue. The vibrant, unnatural color had grown on him during his time in the Silde Slims race contest, making him stand out in a crowd. But that was the last thing he wanted to do right now. Now that he was back in the wizard’s good graces, he could have asked Mort to undo the azrin swordmaster’s curse and restore its original color, but then he’d have to get the wizard to put it back someday. Simpler was to just dye it to match the local style.

  With a glance down at the datapad on his bed, Carl checked his reflection against the image of James Dean. The two of them looked nothing alike in the face, but he’d gotten the hair just about right. Combined with blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt, Carl looked like he belonged in the mid-twentieth century. He winked at the mirror and fired a finger blaster at his reflection.

  The door to Carl’s quarters opened as he was shrugging on his leather jacket. Black would have been a better fit, but his brown one would work fine on this world. “They here?” he asked.

  “Tanny’s letting them gawk at your new toy,” Roddy replied. He referred to the stolen Squall in the cargo hold. The single-seat racing ship had been the coup from their last heist, worth over two million terras once they figured out a way to sell it.

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” Carl said. “How do I look?” He turned toward the laaku mechanic and spread his arms.

  “Like an idiot who should be holed up on an asteroid-mining platform in the middle of nowhere,” Roddy said. “And not this playing dress up, time-traveling, rebel-without-a-cause bullshit. You’re supposed to be dead; you think some hair dye is going to fool anyone?”

  Carl pulled a pair of dark glasses from his pocket and put them on. He grinned.

  Roddy just groaned, then turned and left.

  Carl took off the glasses and doubled-checked the mirror one last time. He still looked like Carl Ramsey, winner of the Silde Slims Cadet Racer Challenge. But more importantly, he looked like someone who was trying to look like Carl Ramsey, but didn’t have the blue hair for it. If anyone fingered him as the semi-famous pilot he had become, he’d admit to being an impersonator, or a fan, or maybe just tell people he heard that line a lot.

  And if anyone really did recognize him… well, a guy couldn’t stay dead forever.

  # # #

  Tanny had the cockpit canopy of the Squall open. She, Rhiannon, and the guy his sister was living with all had their heads poked over the edge, gawking inside. The sound of Carl’s boots on the metal catwalk caught their attention.

  “Hey, Squirt,” Carl called down to them. Resisting the urge to hustle down the stairs, he kept up his cool demeanor and sauntered down to the cargo bay.

  “Hey, Goofball… oh Lord,” Rhiannon said. Her eyes followed him, wide and incredulous even as the rest of her face went slack. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

  “Incognito.”

  “This is New Cali, not a James Dean flick,” Rhiannon said. She approached Carl and drew up short. With her jaw set, she relented and hugged him anyway.

  “See?” Carl called to Tanny over his sister’s head. “I got the look.”

  “I know you said not to sweat it, but I was still worried,” Rhiannon said. She disentangled from her brother and punched him in the shoulder. “That’s for being an ass. You haven’t even told Mom and Dad?”

  “You didn’t explain?” Carl asked.

  Tanny shook her head.

  “Explain what?” Rhiannon asked.

  Carl ignored the question and strutted over to the boyfriend. He was older, which was a change of pace for Rhiannon, tucked into an ash-gray suit that he seemed completely comfortable in. He had dark hair in a mid-twentieth business cut. Thin build. Light tan. The flat reflection off his horn-rimmed glasses meant that they were just a prop—like everything else on Peractorum when it came right down to it. “I’m Carl. You must be…”

  “Lloyd Arnold,” the boyfriend replied, sticking out a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “I was on holovid recently,” Carl replied. “Everyone’s heard a lot about me. You… I didn’t know Rhi had broken up with Jesse until we landed here.” He turned to Rhiannon. “What did happen between you and Jesse, anyway?”

  It was Tanny’s turn to punch Carl in the shoulder. Hers hurt worse.

  “Where are Roddy and Mort?” Rhiannon asked, sidestepping Carl’s rude questioning with a lifetime of practiced ease.

  “Roddy’s up in the common room,” Tanny said. She hooked a thumb toward the stairs and addressed Lloyd. “I’ll show you the way.”

  Rhiannon waited as Tanny and Lloyd left the cargo hold, saying nothing until the door closed behind them. “What is it?”

  “You’ve got to talk to Mom and Dad,” Carl said.

  “Clue them in yourself, dead guy,” Rhiannon retorted. “You owe them that much, at least.”

  Carl shook his head. “Out here I can keep it quiet. If I put a comm into Luna, I’m bound to snag a scan. Low tech is my friend right about now.”

  Rhiannon let out a beleaguered sigh that blew a lock of hair out of her face—one that had escaped imprisonment in hairspray. Carl flinched back, suddenly seeing his mother so clearly in his grown-up little sister. “What?” she demanded, noting Carl’s reaction.

  “You’ve turned into Mom,” he replied. There had always been a resemblance, but twenty-odd years had made the distinction between them clear-cut. But most of his childhood memories were of his mother when she was about Rhiannon’s age. The practical hairdo, the frumpy twentieth century duds, the little lines at the corners of her eyes—she was Becky Ramsey reincarnated.

  “Better Mom than Dad,” Rhiannon said. “Now cough it up. What couldn’t you say in front of Lloyd?”

  “We can’t get the prize money from the race I won because Dad is suing Tanny over my estate,” Carl said in hushed tones.

  Rhiannon burst out laughing. “The two of you,” she said, shaking her head. “I bet Dad knows you’re alive, and he’s just screwing with you.”

  “Nope,” Carl said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Greedy old fucker already filed the suit. He wouldn’t take a joke far enough to pay a lawyer.”

  “Tanny said the Squall was worth seven figures,” Rhiannon said. “Maybe just let Mom and Dad keep the bread from the race and sell the racer?”

  Carl poked a finger at his sister’s nose, just like he’d done when she was little and talked back to him. “I don’t want to sell the Squall. The prize money was so everyone got a cut of the job—a good one, too. Convince Dad to drop it and maybe I can cut you in on the take though. I’m guessing you’re supporting Lloyd.”

  “Just until he passes the bar,” Rhiannon replied. “He’s coming at it from a history degree, not a law degree, which actually makes it easier around here.”

  “What does he play?”

  “Golf.”

  “I mean what instrument.”

  “He doesn’t,” Rhiannon said. “He’s an Ancient Americas whiz kid with a Yale sheepskin who got burnt out on the dork life. He came out here for a vacation, and I convinced him to stay.”

  “So you’ve had your first non-musician boyfriend,” Carl said with a grin. “Rhi, you’re finally growing up.”

  “Your turn next,” she replied and headed for the stairs.

  # # #

  Dinner was ship-processed food, made to order. The sandwiches weren’t bad, but they paled in comparison to the grilled burgers and hotdogs, the scents of which had pervaded Rhiannon’s neighborhood. And while it would have been nice to have everyone trek out to New Cali for a backyard barbecue, Rhiannon had wanted to see Carl, and Carl was going nowhere for the time being. Tanny planned to make sure of that.

  “So let me get this straight,” Rhiannon said, dipping one of her identical, machine-extruded fries into a dollop of honey mustard. “You dropped a dime on the Poet Fleet for a heist you pulled and beat feet? Frosting pirates is gonna bite
you in the ass one of these days.”

  “It was either that or dust a bunch of innocent miners,” Carl replied with his mouth full. “I mean, we could have let Tanny’s cousin Janice take the rap, but if we were willing to dangle her over the shark tank, we could have just cut and run. She wouldn’t be the first member of the Rucker Syndicate to be outed as an actual criminal instead of a congenital suspect, but I wasn’t going to be the one to do it. Tanny’s family still considers me one of them.”

  “I liked the one where you rescued the kid from the dark science colony,” Lloyd said. “No one gives those transgalactic corporations a second thought these days. I mean, human clones and no one spills it to the news outlets?”

  Roddy made a rude, flapping noise with his lips. “How were we supposed to know the clone was acting funny? Like any of us knows how kids act. Mort’s the only one with kids, and he hasn’t seen ‘em in forever.”

  “Mort’s kids are my age by now,” Rhiannon said. A thoughtful frown furrowed her brow. “Whoa, I guess they always have been about the same age as me.”

  “So where is this Mort?” Lloyd asked. “I’ve heard as much about him as I have Carl.”

  Tanny wondered about Lloyd. He was different from the vapid bad-boys Rhiannon generally took up with. He wore a business suit from the twentieth century like he had been wearing them all his life. His voice was calm. He spoke with a hint of an ivy-league accent. As far as Tanny had noticed he didn’t have any body mods or cybernetic implants. But there was something glassy in his eyes; he didn’t look right at anyone or make eye contact. Either he was on meds, or he had some sort of latent mental problem. Tanny couldn’t decide which.

  “We got a lead on the woman who kidnapped Kubu,” Carl said. “Turns out, she’s a laaku wizard.”

  “Bein’ laaku’s got nothing to do with it,” Roddy muttered, sticking up for his species.

  Carl let the laaku finish his grumbling and continued. “Anyway, the omni’s all but blank on her, so we needed someone with connections to the Convocation who’ll still deal with Mort. He took Esper with him out to Thunderglade to make contact.”