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

  Mort gave her a nudge with his elbow. “Go on. Show him yours.”

  “But, I—”

  “Oh, at least try,” Mort said. “Sorry, but my apprentice still struggles with the sign. She can manage levitation and fire, but try to get her to cast a glamour…”

  Esper held up her hand in imitation of the gesture Mort had used all afternoon and evening. The spacing, the curl of the fingers, the angle of the palm. There were no words to go with the gesture. Of course Mort didn’t need them. He was a wizard. Esper was just pretending for the day to keep free of security cameras and unwanted prying. Being a wizard had kept shopkeepers and ticket agents at bay, wizard or laaku, but that didn’t mean she had earned her privacy on her own merits. She tried to imagine the same Convocation symbol Mort had displayed, to envision it there in her hand.

  To her surprise, a flickering, faltering C-and-lightning-bolt appeared within her slackened grasp. A sharp intake of breath broke her concentration, and the image vanished.

  “Well done, sorceress,” the obsequious host congratulated her, offering a toothy smile.

  Mort pushed Esper’s hand down. “Don’t go making her cocky. That was barely acceptable. Come on, Apprentice. Let’s sample some local fare.”

  Dinner was a wonder and a marvel. Mort ate steak and bacon. Esper tried a dished called Every Chocolate that came close to being the literal truth. It was all completely artificial, utterly delectable, and healthier than anything she’d ever eaten. They made up for the latter point by accompanying their meal with an authentic, non-synthetic wine imported from Titan.

  They talked about the day. Mort answered a variety of questions, but brushed aside anything that might seem out of character. Esper filed these away for later discussion. The view of Phabian was ultra-modern. There wasn’t a bit of sea or land as far as the horizon, just an infinitely varied lattice of sentient-made structures, gleaming in the setting sun. They must have stayed three hours, occupying one of the restaurant’s best tables for longer than any reasonable patron ought to have been allowed. But they were wizards—at least one of them real—and no one hurried along a wizard’s meal or politely mentioned the bill. In fact, there was no mention of a bill at all.

  All too soon, they were headed back to the Mobius. The day’s adventure did not include lodgings in the city. Esper wasn’t sure how Mort would have handled the sleeping arrangements if they had. She wasn’t sure how she’d have wanted him to. There had been boyfriends and crushes in her days before the priesthood, but none of them had been a thing like Mort. He was confident, educated, wise, and witty. After his bluntness prior to their departure, he hadn’t behaved like anything less than a perfect gentleman.

  The cargo ramp was still down when they arrived. “Looks like we’re the first ones back,” Mort said. It was true, despite Phabian being virtually devoid of crime, no one else would have left a welcoming entrance to the ship with all their belongings aboard.

  Esper made sure to raise the ramp behind them after they came aboard, since Mort showed no sign of caring whether it stayed open or not. Then they each disappeared into their quarters to change. As underdressed as Esper had felt upon venturing into the upscale part of Kethlet, she felt just as overdressed for the Mobius.

  Back in her quarters, she swapped the evening gown for one of her simpler dresses—she still wasn’t ready to go back to coveralls just yet. She let her hair fall loose and took off her jewelry. After a day in heels, she decided to go barefoot. The ship’s floors hadn’t been nearly so sticky since Kubu had been aboard.

  Mort was already changed and parked back in front of the holovid when she returned to the common room. Jeans, sneakers, stained hooded sweatshirt. If it weren’t for the combed hair and fresh shave, she wouldn’t have known him for the same man.

  “Have fun today?” he asked, popping the top on a beer. He narrowed an eye at her. “You’ve got questions, don’t you?”

  Esper noticed a second beer on the couch by the wizard’s side. She cracked it open and took a sip, then nodded.

  “What would have happened if you’d been recognized?” That question had squirmed to the surface of her thoughts sporadically throughout the day.

  “I’d have had to kill a few people,” Mort replied. “Maybe more than a few. Then I’d have gone to ground, fouled the trail, and laid low until I found a way off world. Wouldn’t be the first time, but it would be the first time in a long while.”

  “Just like that?” Esper asked. Mort’s casual willingness to kill put a sour aftertaste to a sweet day.

  “Any precautions I take are for convenience and concern for others’ safety—and for today, for yours. I don’t worry much about my own wellbeing. How about you? Did you enjoy being a wizard for a day?”

  Esper pursed her lips and gave the idea some thought. “I enjoyed the day, but I didn’t feel much like a wizard. I didn’t do any magic except for that magic badge you showed everyone.”

  “And you didn’t even work that,” Mort said. “That restaurant lackey was being a prat. Technically I can’t put a non-member’s meal on the Convocation’s credit. Usually they don’t make everyone prove it once someone vouches for them. I had to step in and make a plausible fumbling attempt on your behalf.”

  “So I didn’t do any wizarding today…”

  “I didn’t show you magic, if that’s what you mean,” Mort replied. “But you got to see what being a wizard is like. Regular folks don’t like magic around. It does weird things and messes up their datapads and guns and what-have-you. Being a wizard out in a crowded city is about how people treat you and how you treat them. We didn’t spend a terra today, but we got to see the sights, cut the lines, and get dinner without a reservation. We didn’t cheat anyone; they’ll just bill the Convocation, and some accountant will handle it all.”

  “What about the Convocation? Didn’t we sort of rob them?”

  “Lousy fuckers,” Mort replied, punctuating his statement with a hearty swallow of Earth’s Preferred. “They’ll pay for food, lodging, transport, or entertainment—anything intangible that you don’t keep. If I could charge starships to their account, I’d purchase a battle fleet and fly it into a sun.”

  # # #

  Who the hell knew how thick the glass was, or exactly what it was made of? Whatever the stuff was, it was thick enough for skittish laaku zoologists to trust it as the lone barrier between them and creatures that could devour them in a single bite. At the moment, several of those creatures were playing with huge, durable ‘intellectual development’ toys, mostly by chewing on them or batting them around.

  “He going to be all right in there?” Tanny asked. Kubu might have been a brute as puppies go, but he was gentle at heart and didn’t have much experience with animals.

  “Yes, of course,” Meeram of Tonroo replied. She was chief zoologist at the Center for Extinct and XenoNative Species in the Phabian city of Jaarnu. “There are emergency stun applicators, fully automated and programmed to tell the difference between playful and malicious behavior. As soon as one of the residents attempts to harm another, they get stunned. But that’s rare. Species are intermixed based on behavioral compatibility, and in pack-dominant species we make sure the animal knows that the staff members are alphas.”

  “Kubu gets to play in there?” Kubu asked. He stood on his hind legs, with his front paws and face pressed against the glass.

  “Looks that way,” Tanny replied.

  “You can really understand him?” Meeram asked. She approached Kubu with no hint of fear despite the fact that on his hind legs he towered over her.

  Tanny flicked her charmed earring. “It’s a bit of magic I bought years ago. Translates anything sentient.”

  Meeram nodded. “I admit, we don’t get many sentients around here besides guests and staff.”

  “Well, just keep that in mind when dealing with him,” Tanny said. She unbuckled the collar that Kubu wore while traveling on the shuttle and through the tubes of Jaarnu, posing as a dog. �
�Ask him yes or no questions, and he can nod and shake his head. He understands you just fine.”

  “Kubu wants to meet those people in there,” Kubu said, tail wagging as he tried to get the attention of a tiger-like creature with fangs the size of tent stakes.

  “They’re not people,” Tanny replied. “They’re animals—creatures that can’t talk.”

  “Maybe Mommy needs different through-the-ear magic,” Kubu replied.

  Tanny chuckled.

  “He jokes?” Meeram asked.

  “Not intentionally,” Tanny said. “He doesn’t have much experience with non-sentients. Should be interesting for everyone.”

  “Well, we’re looking forward to the opportunity to study him,” Meeram replied.

  “No tests,” Tanny warned. She aimed a finger down at Meeram like the barrel of a blaster.

  Meeram held up two hands and one prehensile foot. “Of course not. This is a behavioral research center, not a xenobiology lab. Oh, before I forget. Since he’s sentient, has he developed taste preferences that deviate from the documented dietary listings for canis ultra poltidae? The literature on his species doesn’t narrow things down much.”

  Tanny furrowed her brow and considered the matter. “He liked the arctic hare he caught once. But if I had to pick a favorite for him, it would be ‘lots.’”

  “How much is ‘lots?’” Meeram asked.

  “However much you give him, plus more.”

  “Kubu likes lots,” Kubu added. “Kubu hungry now. Mommy talks about too much food.”

  “You be good for Meeram and the other caretakers here,” Tanny said. “I’ll be back for you in a few days. Listen to the nice lady. Have fun at Animal Camp.”

  # # #

  When Carl said he’d take July out for dinner, he had intended for it to be a two-person affair. Instead, they were two in a crowd of budding racers corralled for a welcome dinner by the Silde Slims race sponsors. Sixty-four. Of those, just sixteen would advance to the contest itself. Adding in the promoters, race officials, public relations people, and various lackeys, there were a hundred or so people crammed into Club Xanadu. Despite dozens of conversations vying to drown out one another and the four-piece jazz band playing on stage, Carl managed to secure a table for two and what scant privacy that offered.

  “I’m surprised you survived,” July said at a half shout. “Figured an old buzzard like you would have keeled over on the run.”

  “Fuck that,” Carl replied at similar volume. “Who the hell thinks running five kilos has anything to do with flying? If I’d had any breath left by the end, I’d have beaten that tech to death with his own datapad. The navy didn’t even care if I could run five kilos. It was thirty steps from the pilots’ quarters to the flight deck. The scramble was all the running I ever needed to do.”

  “I heard you’re the old man of the group,” July replied. “Oldest of the humans anyway. I didn’t hear about the laaku or that xeno who made it in.”

  “They must have gone easy on you in the psych tests if you got through and still think age has anything to do with flying,” Carl said. He flagged down a server and grabbed two beers from a tray filled with them. He offered one to July even as he tilted back the other.

  July took the tall glass mug and eyed it appraisingly.

  “We Earthmen call that ‘beer,’” Carl said as a proclamation. “It’s the traditional celebratory drink of my people. Best way is to chug it.”

  “Classy,” July replied. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t keep from smiling. “We’ve got simulator time trials in the morning. I need to stay sharp.” She set the mug down.

  Carl cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow. Seriously? He didn’t even need to say it aloud.

  “Fine,” July replied. “One won’t hurt, I guess.” She took a swallow—a nice compromise between a sip and a hearty chug.

  Carl finished his and summoned a server for another. “This...” He gestured to the club around them. “Is a party. Parties come in all sorts, but this one is for getting drunk.”

  “Getting drunk is for after you win, not for getting in the door,” July said. She took another genteel swallow of beer. “This isn’t a bad brew, whatever they’ve tapped.”

  “I won when I passed the fucking physical,” Carl said. “Guys can ask me all the psych questions they want; my mind’s rock solid. I can fall out of bed and lap the field in a simulator. The end of that fifth goddamn kilometer was my finish line.”

  Just then, one of the other competitors came by and stopped at their table. “You that Ramsey guy?”

  “Yo,” Carl replied, hoisting his beer.

  “I heard you flew with the Admiral Haverhill, back in the Zheen War.”

  In Mort terms, the man had not asked a question. Being a polite, well-mannered human, Carl decided to answer the implied question, even if he couldn’t offer a good answer. “If I confirmed or denied that, they’d round us up and kill the both of us.”

  “Gotcha,” the man said with a wink and cluck of his tongue. A brief side conversation ensued, during which they each took a shot of some peppermint-flavored liquor. Carl tried to nudge across the idea that he was more interested in the lady’s time than talking to a guy whose parents had kept him from joining Earth Navy so he could race.

  At length, the guy took the hint. “If I ever get that annoying, shoot me,” Carl muttered, though he had to raise his voice for July to hear it.

  “Sorry, they didn’t allow me to take a piece planetside,” she replied.

  Carl grinned over the lip of his beer. “You came to Phabian armed?”

  “Girl’s gotta look after herself out in border space,” July said. “Black Ocean’s no place for targets.”

  “You get sexier every time I hear something new about you.”

  “It’s the beer. And you’re going to crash and burn in the time trials tomorrow.”

  Carl shrugged and drank anyway. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Sim’s a sim.”

  “You ever flown a Squall, even in a simulator?” she asked.

  “No,” Carl replied. He leaned across the table, prompting July to lean in and meet him halfway. “But you want to know a secret? They reused the base programs from the Typhoon line to make the Squall sims.”

  “I’ve got a better secret,” July replied. She leaned so close that her breath tickled Carl’s ear. So close she could whisper and still be heard over the band and all the din of conversation. “Silde Slim programs their own.”

  Carl stopped. The party continued on around him, but that one thought stuck in his head like a wheel chock. There was no going forward or backward from it.

  July pulled away, just enough to be able to look Carl in the eye. The striking violet color blotted out any stray thought that was trying to break through the barrier she had just dumped in his brain. “Looks like you’ve got plenty to think about tonight, if you’re sober enough to think at all. Me? I’m off to get some rest so I’m fresh in the morning. I know all sorts of useful secrets, and I hear I talk in my sleep. But that’s not going to help you at all. Enjoy your last night in the contest. I hope the beer was worth the prize money to you.”

  As she slipped out of the booth and out of the club, Carl looked down into his mug. It was good beer. He drained the contents and decided to mingle with the contestants, picking up refills as he found them. As it turned out, most of the young, eager pilots liked a good war story. A few had heard rumors about the old pilot with the classified military record, and they plied him with drinks until he filled in a few choice details—all made up on the spot.

  How he got into a bed in a communal barracks later that night was a mystery. All he could guess was that the race officials had made arrangements for the transport of inebriated contestants. Many of his fellow aspiring racers were snorers. All Carl could think to do after waking in the middle of the night, was to take a piss, settle back in, and return fire with snoring of his own.

  # # #

  Inevitably, morning came,
and with it the hangover. The contestants’ barracks was empty, just a cluster of bunk beds with rumpled sheets strewn with unwashed laundry. Carl looked down at his own clothes and found, to no surprise, that he’d collapsed fully dressed, including boots and his battered leather jacket. A chrono on the wall said it was 11:35AM. He blinked, but the chrono refused to alter its opinion of the time.

  “Shit,” Carl muttered. Time trials had started hours ago. There was no chance they’d held up the works just for him. That meant getting down to the simulator room, pronto—once he figured out where that was. But first he had a more pressing concern—namely caffeine enough to be fit for flying.

  It was nearly twenty minutes later that Carl arrived at the Silde Slims Cadet Racer Challenge. At least, that’s what the signs were calling it, and there were plenty of signs, banners, and other promotional schlock scattered around the halls and worn by staffers. He pushed his way through the crowd with the aid of a contestant’s badge he’d discovered in one of the pockets of his jacket. Staffers made way for him.

  In one hand, he carried a cup of coffee, fresh from the cafeteria, wafting steam and the pleasant aroma that promised relief from splitting headaches. In the other, he carried a second cup, still sealed tight and warm even through the insulating plastic. He drained the first cup on his way through the door to the simulator room and foisted the empty cup onto a laaku staffer who didn’t seem to be doing anything at the moment.

  “Ramsey!” July shouted upon spotting him. She was standing at the back of a crowd pressed around the leader board and public display of the live time trials. Someone was wending his way through an asteroid-strewn course that looked familiar from the holovid feed of the last race he’d seen. “You’re late. They’ve been docking you—you’re down 2.25 seconds already.”

  Carl peeled the protective lid off his second coffee and took a tentative sip—still scalding. “Well, wouldn’t want to take it easy on you boys and girls. Guess I’ll take my turn when… Yalsim? …when Yalsim here is done.” He probably didn’t sound as confident as he would have liked. It was hard to project an air of invincibility when your eyes were trying to escape through the back of your skull. Doubly hard was doing it while half the contestants were trying to keep from laughing because they were the ones who got you drunk.