Mercy for Hire Mission Pack 1 Read online

  Mercy for Hire Mission Pack 1

  Missions 1-4

  J. S. Morin

  Magical Scrivener Press

  Contents

  Wayward Saint

  Behind Blue Skies

  House of the Orion Sun

  Break The Chain

  Preview: Sunshine of your Cult

  Email Insiders

  Books by J. S. Morin

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 J.S. Morin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Magical Scrivener Press 22 Hawkstead Hollow Nashua, NH 03063

  www.magicalscrivener.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Ordering Information: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

  J.S. Morin — First Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-64355-018-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  Wayward Saint

  Black Ocean: Mercy for Hire, Mission 1

  Wayward Saint

  Mission 1

  Esper tiptoed through a clutter of unconscious bodies across the floor of the Drowning Camel Tavern. One fluorescent bar lamp over a pool table coughed and sputtered light into the room. The rest of the tavern was dark, thankfully hiding the tacky neon and chrome decor but not the reek of spilled beer. Quiet, muffled sobs originated at the back of the establishment. That was Esper’s destination.

  Her foot clipped someone’s forehead, eliciting a groan. “Sorry,” she whispered. It was one thing to crack a few heads in the heat of a brawl, but that didn’t mean Esper meant her adversaries any harm.

  She made it to the washroom by the flickering pool table light without any further mishaps. The door was an old-fashioned swinging sort with a knob handle and a hinge on the opposite side, set to open inward. Though the knob twisted in Esper’s hand, the door didn’t budge. From inside, the sobs turned into a terrified squeal.

  “Go away!” a girl shouted through the door. Esper’s target was sixteen, and the voice supported her guess at the occupant.

  “Tiffany St. Cloud, my name is Esper Richfield,” she replied calmly through the door, carefully raising her voice just enough to be heard over the girl’s continued weeping. “Your mother hired me to rescue you.”

  “Just leave me alone!”

  Had she been a brute, bashing down the door might have been warranted at this point. The brawl had been loud but brief, and the Shetland Colony Sheriff’s Department ought to be here any minute. Haste was essential. Since she wasn’t the sort of brute to kick down doors, Esper fell back on the skill that served her best.

  Magic.

  Laying a palm on the door, Esper spoke within her own head. All those little molecules whizzing around, not actually touching. Makes you wonder why any of this door stays together.

  As an inanimate object, the door didn’t offer any argument to the contrary. In such cases, as it so often did, the universe sided with the wizard. The door blocking Esper’s path to her quarry fell away as a pile of dust.

  On the tile floor of the washroom beyond, a waste bin had been toppled over and wedged between the wall and the path the door swung. Just to the side of it, between the single toilet and the sink, a young woman sat hugging her knees to her chest.

  “It’s all right,” Esper assured her, extending an open hand but not coming any closer. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  The girl looked up, and Esper’s heart froze in her chest. The mother had supplied a flatvid image along with all she knew about the girl’s whereabouts. While the tangle of dark brunette hair that had obscured her face was the right hue, when she looked up, the illusion shattered. “You’re not Tiffany St. Cloud.”

  Raising hands to shield her face, the non-Tiffany squeaked, “Don’t hurt me.”

  Esper paused to consider what this girl saw. By the flickering light behind her, she glanced at the mirror above the sink. Good lord! Flecks of blood stood out against pale skin. By reflex, she wiped them away immediately, scrubbing with the back of her fingerless gloves. Her outfit had been purchased over multiple shopping sprees spread across military surplus outlets and boutiques of questionable moral intent. The result was Esper looking like someone had dressed up a Susie Sunshine doll as a member of Omicron Squad.

  If she were hiding from a bar brawl in the ladies’ washroom of a seedy pub, Esper would have been afraid of herself too. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just looking for a girl about your size, same hair, green eyes, sixteen. Answers to the name Tiffany.”

  The washroom girl cowered on the floor, trembling and staring up at Esper like the Grim Reaper himself had come to collect eighty years early.

  “Seriously. Not going to hurt you.”

  “I heard you. You killed them all.”

  “Nobody’s dead. Lot of concussions. A bunch of broken arms and knees. Nothing the local med station can’t fix in a jiffy.”

  Despite her obvious terror, the girl cracked a smile. “Jiffy? Who even says that?”

  “Please,” Esper said, clasping her hands. “Tiffany’s father had her kidnapped. I’ve been tracking her down for weeks. Her mother’s worried sick. Have you seen her?”

  Taking a shuddering breath, the girl nodded. “She slipped me fifty terras to stand in for her. Tiffany—or whoever she is—slipped out the back.”

  “Hardcoin?” Esper demanded, perhaps harsher in her eagerness for a clue than she’d needed to be.

  Digging frantically in her pocket, the young woman shoved a handful of hard plastic coinage in Esper’s direction. “Take it. I didn’t shake her down. I swear! Just don’t hurt me.”

  Esper pulled out a ten-terra coin from her own pocket and exchanged it for one of the girl’s. “Five gets you ten. I don’t need the money. I just need a scent. My partner can work with this.”

  With that, Esper quickly picked her way through the mass of would-be brawlers for the back exit of the Drowning Camel. Her instincts screamed for her to stay behind and make sure the girl—whose name she never asked—didn’t get into any trouble with the colonial sheriff’s office. That she got home OK. That she wasn’t accosted by anyone waking up on the barroom floor and demanding answers. But Esper knew that she could only deal with one problem at a time, and while the mystery decoy in the washroom might need her, Tiffany St. Cloud most certainly did. Desperately so.

  Esper burst onto the streets beneath the darkened skies of Alpha Centauri. The chase was on.

  As soon as Esper exited the bar, a black mass of fur and muscle bounded toward her. Though he appeared to be something of a mix between a pit bull and a rottweiler, standing waist high at the shoulder and black as the void between stars, Kubu was a sentient creature native to a far-distant planet. Today, his exuberance was limited to the length of the tether anchored to his collar.

  “Did you find her?” Kubu asked, his deep voice rumbling from his belly. “Can you untie me now?”

/>   “Sorry about that,” Esper said quickly. Kubu was a good sport, playing along with local ordinances that applied to his canine cousins from Earth. Had he wanted to, the powerful canid could have snapped the leash like a piece of licorice. She undid the simple knot holding the leash to an external water pipe running into the bar. “I’ve got a coin that Tiffany handled. Think you can get a scent from it?”

  Esper held out the coin, and Kubu’s nostrils went into overdrive. “Lots of people scents.”

  “Do you smell any that might have sprinted out of the Drowning Camel a few minutes ago?”

  Kubu’s jaws parted, tongue lolling. “That’s a funny name for a bar. It’s funny because camels come from deserts. They wouldn’t know how to—”

  “The scent, Kubu. Focus.”

  The ground was wet thanks to an intermittent rainfall throughout the day. The Alpha Centauri colonies strictly regulated tinkering with the fragile, terraformed biospheres and let rainstorms come and go as they pleased. Esper didn’t know a lot about tracking, but she knew enough that the soaked streets gave her pause for concern.

  “Oh. Yeah. No problem,” Kubu said. “This way.” With that, he took off down the alley. “Faster with no leash.”

  Esper kept hold of the end of the leash. “You want to spend a night in a pet control lockup?”

  “I’m not a dog,” Kubu reminded her for the millionth time, turning his head to look back at her as he jogged.

  “And it might take hours to convince some local of that,” Esper replied. When had she started considering “local” to be a derogatory term? She hadn’t grown up that way. But years among spacers had dimmed her view of the myopic, parochial creatures who lived their entire lives where they were born, believing the same as all their friends and neighbors.

  “Why’d you use magic?” Kubu asked, catching Esper off guard. He was a kid by the standards of his species. They’d ballparked his age at six or seven, never knowing his date of birth. That put him in early adolescence. It also meant that he was beginning to develop an understanding of how the galaxy worked. “I saw the street lights go blinky. That was you. Right?”

  Esper was breathing hard. Kubu had placed her at a conversational disadvantage with the pace he was setting. “Things got rough. In a hurry. Almost had her.”

  “But the Convocation might notice.”

  This was what they’d come to. She was getting lectures now. Unfortunately, she deserved this one. “Sorry. Just reacted.”

  “They’re gonna find you,” Kubu warned.

  “Can we have this discussion later? Find Tiffany,” Esper said.

  They wedged their way through crowds of late-night shoppers and soggy-brained revelers as they exited shops and drinking holes, respectively. They paused briefly at an intersection as a tram shot past. Esper could have used magic to dull her burning muscles and refill her aching lungs, but with vehicles all around and personal tech devices on every pedestrian’s person, altering the laws of physics would have been an act of anarchy. Falling hovercars, comms cut off mid-sentence, potentially any number of medical cybernetics deactivated.

  Esper didn’t want to think about it.

  Kubu veered suddenly, taking them down an alley between a coffee shop and a boutique specializing in exotic hats.

  “What’s up? You find her?” Esper asked.

  “Shh,” Kubu hissed, then switched to a low voice. “She’s right here.”

  The alley was narrow to begin with, turning claustrophobic with a clutter of plastic shipping crates stacked along one plastisteel wall. The labels and brand logos ranged from Kwik-Chug Instant to Ganymede Gardens, suggesting that they belonged to the coffee shop. If anyone suspected that a bloodhound was following them, they could do worse than hiding among the overpowering aromas of a variety of coffees and teas.

  Kubu lifted a paw and pointed out a crate of Old Columbia brand coffee flavor additive. Esper dropped her end of the leash and used both hands to pop the lid.

  Inside, the crate had been emptied of its original contents and was now filled entirely with a teenage brunette in a private school sweater and pleated skirt. Despite a quaver in her voice, the girl put up a blustering front. “Keep moving, blondie. Go find your own box to sleep in.”

  “Tiffany St. Cloud?” Esper asked. She didn’t pause for confirmation. The girl’s flinch at the name was evidence enough. “Your mother hired me to escort you home safely.”

  Curled in the crate, Tiffany went limp, staring into the wispy clouds and partly obscured stars above. “Fuck’s sake, ma! You had to sic a fucking merc squad on me?”

  “I’m not a squad,” Esper replied calmly, offering a hand to help the girl out of her hiding spot. “It’s just me and Kubu.”

  As the girl reluctantly accepted Esper’s aid climbing out of the Old Columbia crate, she looked up and down the alley. “You and who?”

  “Me,” Kubu said.

  “Holy fuckballs!” Tiffany exclaimed. “Your dog talks!”

  “Kubu’s not a dog,” Esper explained before Kubu could offer his own offended version. “He’s incognito.”

  “Who the fuck goes around disguised as a dog?”

  Esper sighed and pursed her lips. There were varying degrees of truth to offer, but in the interest of expediency, she chose the hammer of bluntness. “An eight-ton eating machine who wouldn’t fit in my starship or be welcome in most cities full-sized. Now c’mon. Let’s get a meal in you, then figure out the best way to get you home.”

  Odin Masterson forced open the jammed autodoor to the Drowning Camel Tavern. Inside, it looked like a military-grade stun grenade had detonated. The dive bar was littered with lowlifes, but unlike most establishments of its sort, the Camel’s barflies were scattered across the floor in a scene out of a cheap action holo, between takes, where the director yells cut, and all the dead no-names get up and reposition to try again. This time, the extras were having a little trouble getting up because some sharp operator had done them like a rack of bowling pins.

  The comm had been simple. Hey Odin, we’ve got her. Drowning Camel. Make it snappy. She’s a handful.

  Twenty minutes it had been since that comm. Twenty. Fucking. Minutes. If he didn’t know better, Odin would have suspected that Tiffany had magical charms to convince a bar full of drunks and spacers to fight over her. Unfortunately, he knew Tiffany St. Cloud well enough to know better. The girl had the charm of a construction foreman and a body that had years left before it’d be worth fighting over.

  As he maneuvered through the treacherous terrain of limp bodies, spilled beverages, and broken glass, Odin formed a picture of his competition. Someone had been here. That much was obvious. Been and gone. There was no sign of the girl, and fights like this one didn’t end with everyone incapacitated. Too neat and tidy. Just didn’t happen that way. Tiffany might have been enough of a little shit to put a blaster hole in someone with their back turned, but she wasn’t built to rough up grown men.

  Odin began a profile.

  There had to have been two dozen guys scattered across the floor of the Drowning Camel. Assuming most were intoxicated, possibly even the boss’s own crew of four, a determined squad of four or five might have been responsible for putting them there. But a crew of even four would have had a hard time maneuvering the floor with the number of bodies. They’d have kept an area clear around them. This didn’t look like the handiwork of a bunch of guys fighting as a unit.

  Odin considered the possibility of a single, elite bounty hunter. Two meters tall. Marine training. Still on the chem regimen. Maybe a cybernetic mod or two. Definitely not a standard-issue human.

  One of the patrons had made it to his hands and knees. Odin put a booted foot to the man’s ribcage and toppled him onto his back. “Who did this?” he demanded. “I want a name. Description.”

  The groggy barfly with two black eyes and a dislocated nose didn’t try to look up. “Didn’t see nothing.”

  Odin leaned in close. “I’m not the cops, you stu
pid prick. I want answers, and if you like to piss standing up, you’re gonna give ’em. Who did this? Where’s the girl?” He drew his blaster and jammed it in the unfortunate fellow’s crotch.

  “Weren’t nobody. It was a demon. I swear. Din’t move like any human. Punched like an ion thruster.”

  Odin revised his profile. Some alien, then. Xenos walked freely in the Alpha Centauri system. Put one in an environmental suit, and many could pass for human until they started tossing poor slobs around like rag dolls. Zheen would never leave so many alive. Azrin… maybe? Convince one to keep its claws sheathed, and one of those oversized housecats could wreak havoc on this scale. But could Candace St. Cloud afford to hire one? Xeno mercs notoriously cost extra.

  A groan a few tables over drew Odin’s attention. He silenced the slobbering idiot at his feet with the butt of his blaster and picked his way over to find one of his boss’s minions coming around.

  Grabbing the man by the collar, Odin lifted him until his head lolled back. “Vinnie, it’s me. Where the hell did Tiffany end up? Who’s got her?”

  Groggy though he was, Vinnie had the sense to start covering his own ass. “We had her. I swear. She was right there, third seat from the end of the bar. We were filling her up with virgin daiquiris while we waited when this pushy bitch busts in and demands we hand her over.”

  Finally. Someone who could ID the interloper. “How many’d she have with her? What’d they look like?”

  “Just one. Blonde. 1.7 meters, maybe. Pink shirt. Black leather jacket and tac pants. Combat boots. Fingerless gloves. She had a pair of data goggles pushed up on her head. Blaster she never drew.”