Mission Pack 2: Missions 5-8 (Black Ocean Mission Pack) Page 16

  “Ah, I’m hip,” Rhiannon said. Her eyes widened, and she smiled impishly. “Mort’s got himself an Esper.”

  “It’s not like that,” Tanny said.

  “We think,” Carl added.

  “Who the hell knows,” Roddy said, throwing back a beer.

  “What I do know,” Carl said. “Is that we’re short on cash. Living might be cheap on this world, but fuel is fuel, and we’re not going to get far if we don’t alter our circumstances.”

  “As it stands, we’re going to have to hitch a ride to pay for any rescue we make,” Tanny said.

  “I’ll talk to the old man,” Rhiannon said. “But you know how he can get.”

  “The three-month rule was his idea,” Carl snapped. “How can he be pissed at me, just because he never ended up faking a death?”

  “What about your old man, Tanny?” Rhiannon asked. “I’m sure he could spot you some green.” It was an understatement. Don Rucker could have loaned them a mercenary escort.

  Tanny shook her head. “No. The first debt we owe my father is the last time we’re free to do our own thing.”

  Lloyd cleared his throat. Once he had everyone’s attention, he looked to Rhiannon, who gave a slight nod. “I might be able to help.”

  Rhiannon stood and wrapped an arm around Lloyd. “Lloyd’s been helping get my career moving. We talked about this on the way over. Since this is one of the least greedy things I’ve ever heard of you guy doing, we’ll lend a hand.”

  “Mostly terras,” Lloyd said. “I’m not keen on the idea of breaking into a wizard’s house and stealing a two-hundred kilo dog. We’ll leave that part to you people.”

  “Or, you could just convince Dad to quit being an ass about the prize money,” Carl said.

  Rhiannon fixed Carl with a long-suffering look. Anyone who knew Carl long enough developed a version of it. “Don’t bet on that happening.”

  # # #

  The terror had worn off somewhere during the second hour. Rushing winds above the treetops weren’t nearly as cold as they ought to have been. Far below, the countryside was green and alive. Villages dotted the landscape, interspersed with furrowed farmland and the occasional castle. Esper found herself staring over the side of the wagon, curiosity overcoming her fear of falling.

  Pictures from agrarian worlds always showed vast stretches of farmland, crisscrossed by irrigation systems and swarming with picker drones. The farms below showed little order or planning. Here or there a farmhouse would sit beside a pasture and fields, and the spaces between them stayed wild and unplanted. Feeling brave, she rose up to get a better look directly below, leaning slightly—just slightly—over the side of the wagon. If she squinted, she could make out people down below.

  “How’s that?” Mort asked.

  Esper twisted to look over her shoulder at the wizard, but in doing so she made a key discovery. They were no longer flying level. There was nothing past Mort but the sun and sky, and when she looked back over the side, she realized that she was staring straight down with nothing between here and a kilometer drop. A scream escaped her and pierced the thin air.

  “Put us back!”

  “Why? We’re almost there?” Mort asked calmly.

  “Level,” Esper shouted. “Put us back level!”

  “Fine,” Mort replied, resignation heavy in his voice. “You’re no fun sometimes. You know that? Most magic I’ve used in months, and you want me to take the kettle off the fire.”

  Despite his annoyance, Mort righted the cart. The mule seemed oblivious to all the commotion. Esper found herself short of breath, her heart racing.

  “Don’t do that!”

  “Do what?” Mort asked.

  Esper spluttered, unable to put into words what ought to have been obvious.

  “Don’t help you out when you’re trying to get a better view?” Mort asked. “Don’t make sudden maneuvers while you’re not paying attention?” He let his voice grow gravelly. “Don’t use magic without asking you first?”

  Suddenly the comforting force that had held Esper against her seat vanished. A chill ran through her as the realization struck her that only her own balance and grip were keeping her aboard the wagon. Panicked fingers latched onto the seat for the first time since shortly after they had taken to the air.

  “Stop frightening me on purpose,” Esper snapped. “You’re not funny.”

  “One of these days you’re going to figure out that you can stop me,” Mort said. “I do it now because it’s too easy. You ever see Roddy walk by an open bar and not grab a beer? Same thing.”

  “If this is what it’s like being a wizard, I don’t think I want to learn anymore,” Esper said.

  Mort harrumphed. “No, this is what it’s like not being a wizard, at least when other people around you are. How pissed off was Carl before he decided he liked his hair blue? How doomed would you all be if I had an aneurysm while we were traveling the deep astral? Frankly, I marvel at how you people can stand being so helpless.”

  “We get used to it,” Esper said dryly, still clutching the seat in a death grip.

  “Well, we’re just about there,” Mort said. True to his word, Mort brought the wagon lower in the sky as they approached a village surrounding a small stone keep with a single spire sprouting from one corner. The village houses were simple like the ones by the stable. Smoke from cooking fires wafted from chimneys here and there. Mort guided them just above the rooftops, letting villagers spread word of their arrival via startled shouts and pointing.

  They landed before a wrought iron gate twined so thick with ivy that no latch or hinge was visible. Once she and Mort were on solid ground, the mule took to the skies once more, pulling the wagon away without them. Esper watched it go, then turned her attention to the gate.

  “Let me guess,” Esper said. “The vines need magic to let us through.”

  “No,” Mort said, scratching at his chin. “They ought to have fallen before the wrath of a diligent gardener. But clearly that has not been the case.” With a wave of Mort’s hand, the vegetation burst into flames.

  Esper fell back and covered her nose and mouth with her hand. The smoke still stung her eyes. “Watch it,” she admonished.

  “By gum, if you’re still this helpless when we leave here, I’m signing on with a different ship,” Mort said. He flicked his wrist, and a gale blew, dispersing the smoke. The gate swung open as well, though it seemed reluctant to give way before the magical wind. Rusted iron groaned in protest.

  Beyond the gate, the courtyard was overgrown. Grasses grew as tall as Esper’s waist, and there were shrubs and bushes sprouted up haphazardly across the landscaping. “You’ve really taken good care of the place,” Esper said.

  “I had this path cobbled when I bought the place,” Mort muttered.

  “Well, once again, I’m not dressed for this,” Esper said. “I wouldn’t make it three meters before I ruined this outfit.”

  Mort glanced her up and down, squinting one eye. She could envision the abacus within Mort’s head, tallying and converting, figuring out how far three meters was. “No, I don’t suppose you would.” He took his staff in one hand and slammed the butt against the beginning of the path. Every bit of grass and shrub was flattened into a rough green carpet from the gate to the keep.

  A trickle of villagers made their way to the gates of the keep. Many of them brandished tools, including one authentic-looking pitchfork. No one looked pleased to see them, but Mort didn’t seem to notice. Esper caught him by the sleeve as he started down the garden path he’d just cleared.

  “Mort, um, not to alarm you, but I think the peasants are revolting,” Esper said quietly.

  Mort snorted. “They’re really not. Most of them are college educated. My former gardener had a PhD in botany. The local blacksmith taught Chaucer at Brown. They like the lifestyle, and not everyone aspires to be a—”

  Esper swung the wizard around by his robe sleeve and pointed to the gathering crowd. “No, I mean rising up�
��and you darned well knew it. Do something.”

  “I was doing something,” Mort replied. “We were going to head inside and see how bad things have suffered from their neglect. But since we’ve got them all right here…”

  Mort turned to the villagers and spread his arms. They stopped, forming a wall of curious, grumbling onlookers. “People of Thunderglade, it is I, Mordred Pendergast, returned from my long absence. Since your abatement of taxes was contingent on upkeep of the grounds behind me here, I am declaring you all in default. We can figure out a payment plan, but I shall expect your first remittance by Wednesday the 7th. That gives you four days from today. If, by some chance, the grounds and keep are brought up to a livable and presentable standard in the interim, I may take that into consideration as a mitigating factor. Good day.”

  There were shouts and angry questions aimed in their direction, but Mort was already departing. Esper hurried along behind him and heard the iron gate slam shut as soon as she was clear of it.

  # # #

  The forest brush tugged and snagged at Kubu’s shirt as he crashed headlong after the bunny, but nothing ripped. Not-Mommy said that Kubu didn’t have to worry about his clothes ripping because they were made of good stuff. Clothes were still taking some getting used to; Kubu wasn’t sure he liked them. In the mirror, he looked all grown up, and Not-Mommy was very firm that if people were going to treat him like a person and not a dog, he needed to wear them. But they made running feel funny, pulling on his knees and hips and stretching across his chest as he breathed hard. And the little flap… that was just plain inconvenient.

  “He’s right there!” Chimjo shouted, pointing behind a tree. Kubu’s new friend was always trying to be helpful, but this time Kubu didn’t need help. Of course the bunny had gone around the tree. Anyone with a working nose could smell right where it was. Kubu guessed the Chimjo had a bad nose like the other Roddy-people he’d met. They were little, with four feet that all worked like hands, and every one of them seemed very smart. Kubu supposed that having bad noses was a small price to pay for having four hands. Kubu would have settled for two that were good at gripping the ends of the string that pulled the little flap on his pants.

  “You’ve got him now,” Chimjo called out. The bunny darted for a hole beneath the roots of a tree, but Kubu was quicker. His teeth sank into the bunny’s hindquarters. Its squeal of pain was brief; with a quick jerk of his head, Kubu brought it into his mouth, crunched once, and swallowed.

  Kubu trotted over to Chimjo, licking the taste from his muzzle. Bunnies were yummy, and he had told Not-Mommy so. Ever since, he’d been eating two or three of them a day. When Kubu reached Chimjo, he got a disapproving look. “What’s wrong?” Kubu asked.

  Chimjo didn’t have through-the-ear magic like Kubu did. Mort had put the magic through Kubu’s ear so he could understand the silly noises people made. Chimjo never understood anything Kubu said, but he seemed to have a general idea this time.

  “You got blood on your shirt,” Chimjo said. “Mrs. Inviu isn’t going to like that.”

  Kubu knew that was Not-Mommy’s name, but the sounds were mushy and it was easier to think of her as Not-Mommy. It reminded him that she was not Mommy.

  “Kubu!” Not-Mommy called from the house. It was a long ways off, and she had a little voice. But Kubu had good ears—better than Chimjo’s, since the little Roddy-person didn’t react to hearing the call.

  “Kubu is coming,” Kubu shouted back. He bounded off toward Not-Mommy’s big house. It was much bigger than the flying house where Mommy lived; it was probably too big to fly. Chimjo followed, falling behind at every stride. He ran like Kubu, with four feet. Kubu had seen Roddy run that way a few times, but Roddy didn’t run often. Chimjo ran to keep up with Kubu (or at least mostly keep up).

  The grass was soft on Kubu’s paws as he left the woods and made his way across the lawn. For all the dressing up Not-Mommy had subjected him to, Kubu hadn’t been forced to wear shoes. There were more Roddy-people doing things like giving the bushes haircuts and driving little ships filled with things for the house. Not-Mommy was in charge of them, too.

  “Kubu, look at the mess you’ve made,” Not-Mommy said when he arrived at the front door. She always told him he was doing things wrong, even when he tried to do them the way she wanted. “Chimjo, take Kubu to change before dinner.”

  Despite the prospect of a change of clothes, Kubu perked up. Eating bunnies always made him hungry.

  # # #

  Dinner had ended and the night’s entertainment turned its focus to beer. Lloyd and Rhiannon had brought some local brew that was supposed to be period-authentic, and the five of them shared stories as the sunlight glinting down from the overhead dome faded to moonlight.

  “…and then he starts screaming at me in the middle of the hangar bay, with half the pilots and mechanics in the contest watching,” Carl said with a grin.

  “You’re screwing with us,” Rhiannon said. She stifled a belch and took another sip of her canned Olde America Lager.

  “Nope, I was giving him every human slur I could think of,” Roddy said. “No two ways; it happened just like that, except Carl was ready to bust a gut. Could have blown the whole scam. My backup plan if he did was to punch him below the belt.”

  They all laughed. It was almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the ship signaling an incoming comm.

  “Shit,” Tanny muttered. “I gotta go check on that. Could be from Silde Slims. You.” She pointed a stern finger at Carl. “Zero decibels out of you. I don’t want anyone picking up signs of you on a background recording.”

  Carl pinched his lips shut, spluttering laughter.

  “I mean it!”

  Carl nodded and sombered somewhat. Tanny started for the cockpit, then whirled on him and jabbed her finger his way once more. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d caught him making light of her precautions the instant her back was turned, but this time he showed every sign of contrition. Either he was wising up and waiting until she was out of sight, or he meant it this time.

  Tanny settled herself into the pilot’s seat and checked the comm panel. Fortunately, it was a publicly verified comm ID. Unfortunately it was Phabian Investigative Services, and they wanted voice.

  Tanny grimaced as she keyed the comm. “This is Tania Ramsey, captain of the Mobius.”

  “Captain Ramsey,” a laaku voice replied. It was still odd hearing that appellation applied to her. “I’m Agheli of Nen Lian, Class 3 Fact Sifter for Phabian Investigative Services. Would you mind answering questions in cooperation with the investigation into the death of your late ex-husband, Bradley Carlin Ramsey?”

  It was inevitable that they’d get to this point. Carl’s faked death was suspicious from every angle. A race watched by a billion viewers, but no one saw a thing. A change of mechanics less than forty-eight hours prior to race time. Pilot error blamed for a crash by a pilot who’d spent three weeks showing those billion viewers that he could make a Squall dance like a puppet on strings. And that was all without considering the money involved. The quarter-million terra prize was more than anyone was willing to write off without an investigation.

  “Of course,” Tanny replied, hoping she hadn’t hesitated noticeably. “Go ahead.”

  “Oh, we’re not planning to conduct the investigation over public channels,” Agheli said. “Your comm routing indicates you’re on Peractorum. I can be out there with a team in seven hours. Please maintain your present location and await contact. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  The comm went dead. Agheli had closed the link.

  Tanny sat staring at the comm panel for a long moment. They were coming. She’d been dreading the interview and police statement she knew would follow in the wake of Carl’s apparent death. But a surprise inspection by Phabian’s snoops? She leapt to her feet and ran.

  “Went that well, did it?” Carl asked with a smirk as Tanny careened into the common room. He was sprawled across the couch with a bee
r can dangling from one hand. If it’d had anything left in it, it would have been pouring onto the floor.

  “You’ve got to get out of here,” she said. “They’re coming.”

  Carl blew out a breath, puffing his cheeks. He blinked. “Well that’s just unfortunate timing.”

  Tanny gaped at him. “How drunk are you?”

  “Not so fly I can’t drunk,” he replied. She couldn’t be sure if the slip was Carl just messing around or not.

  “How long we got?” Roddy asked.

  “Phabian Investigative Services said seven hours,” Tanny replied. “But I’m not betting against them being early. If I worked intel, I’d stake someone out, then tell them I was coming.”

  Rhiannon pushed her chair back from the table. “And this is where we split. It’s been fun catching up. I’d almost forgotten what it was like having Johnny Law kill a meal. I’m sure they’ll be dropping in on us, too.”

  “Sorry,” Tanny said.

  Rhiannon patted Lloyd on the cheek. “It’s copacetic. And Lloyd’s practically a lawyer, so I think he can figure out how to keep us out of the pokey. Goodnight.”

  “See ya, Squirt,” Carl said, saluting with his empty beer can.

  “Just don’t ditch the scene before I get to see Mort,” Rhiannon said. She gathered Lloyd and left.

  “Well, we’re a little fucked,” Roddy said. “Mr. Plan-From-Hell here’s been getting DNA all over things for days.”

  “At least he’s supposed to have DNA all over the ship,” Tanny replied. “We just need to get rid of any recent traces. Shower. Bedsheets. Laundry.” She grabbed the can from Carl’s hand. “Empties.”

  “I’ll take the Squall,” Carl said. “Hide out at the edge of the colony for a few days.”

  “Brilliant plan, Peachfuzz,” Roddy said. “Except me and Tanny were pretty much already assuming that part. What we gotta worry about is the trail you leave behind.”