Know when to run, p.1
Know When to Run, page 1
Know When to Run
Black Ocean: Mirth & Mayhem, Mission 1
J. S. Morin
Magical Scrivener Press
Copyright © 2020 J.S. Morin
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J.S. Morin — First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-64355-122-7
Printed in the United States of America
Know When to Run
A shuttle landed with a coughing flare of ion engines and a cloud of dust. The vessel’s hull bore a gilded crest out of keeping with its grim, battered exterior: an ornate letter C struck through with a bolt of stylized lightning. No sooner had the ship touched down in the midst of a grassy meadow than its boarding ramp descended.
The creak of protesting hydraulics cut short with the ramp less than halfway down.
“Confound it!” a crotchety voice echoed from inside, followed by a muttering of syllables not kept in common parlance since the age of pharaohs. Giving an even more tortured metallic wail, the ramp overpowered its pistons and slammed to the soil.
Grumbling beneath his breath as he marched down, Mordecai paused to shout back into the vessel’s interior. “Percival, you’d better have this horseless skyship operating properly by the time I get back! I don’t intend to spend one minute longer than necessity dictates on this untended golf course of a colony.”
He didn’t care whether the ramp sealed up or leaked air when he got back. Mordecai was a wizard, and that came with certain allowances making do with what technologists couldn’t live without. Lost air could be conjured. Heat could as easily come from the ship’s fireplace as the mysterious vents that belched warm, breathable air from somewhere in the vessel’s belly. All that mattered was that the engines pushed and the dratted computer could aim them home.
Mordecai The Brown had all his hair despite the first locks of gray creeping in among the black. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were more a product of a perpetual scowl than a consequence of age. He’d dressed for the wilderness, with shin-high boots and denim slacks. His blazer was cut from the current Earth fashions with the exception of sleeves wide enough to tuck opposite hands inside—which he did out of habit. Around his neck hung a medallion bearing an identical sigil to the one on the side of the ship.
The mark of the Convocation of Wizards.
“Now what’s going on in there that you lot wouldn’t say on scientific channels?” Mort demanded.
His hosts, two squirrelly men in flowing black robes with wide sleeves, didn’t look up to meet his glare. “Grendel has locked every door to the manor. We lost six good men trying to get him out.”
Mordecai took a step closer, and both his hosts tensed. “First things first, his name’s not Grendel. It’s Ricky. Ricky ‘Trumpet Nose’ Bronson. I went to school with him. I don’t care if you lot buy his scary-monster sobriquet, but I’ve played dodgeball with him, and he was no good at it. Second, you didn’t lose six good men. You lost six reckless idiots. Never go into a fight you can lose. Now… for that third matter…”
“Yes?” one of the other wizards asked meekly.
“You never answered my question. What’s so special about this one that the colonial yahoos didn’t just bomb it from orbit? Isn’t that their solution to everything?”
“Civilians.”
Mordecai rolled his eyes. It wasn’t a word commonly used by wizards to describe noncombatants. But it summed up both the military and political stance on those unable to defend themselves. It also explained why they’d summoned Convocation assistance from halfway across the galaxy rather than use a blunt instrument to solve their problems for them.
“So, in the nuttiest of nutshells, they’re willing to let me inflict collateral damage so they can sit back, shrug, and let the Convocation take the blame.”
Two heads nodded. Mordecai could imagine hearing the loose little brains rattling around inside them.
With a sigh, Mordecai turned his sights to the manor house. It lay a good half mile away, across uneven terrain riddled with slabs of rock and splashes of bog. The structure itself bore stylings of an English country house, right down to the hedgerows around the empty starship pad.
Turning toward his own vessel, Mordecai bellowed, “Percival! Why couldn’t you have landed the bloody thing over there?” He pointed to the spot that lay within a cobbled walkway of their target.
“With all due respect, Guardian,” one of the local wizards cut in. “We waved your pilot down here so we’d be safe to plan from a distance.”
The other, silent until now, cleared his throat. “What, um, is the plan? Do you… need us to walk you through the—”
Mordecai was already trudging across the moor. “Nope. Just keep out of trouble.”
His hosts scurried after him, subtly not fast enough to gain ground. “But we lost six—”
“Idiots. Yeah. You mentioned that. Look, Boston Prime didn’t send you some fresh library aid, straight out of Oxford to bring back whatever little Ricky’s been reading—or possibly writing—over yonder…
“They sent the Guardian of the Plundered Tomes.”
A dry wind whipped across an open-air landing field. Chuck Ramsey squinted one eye and tried to keep the hull of the Radio City between him and the sand carried along with each gust. Lubeck IV wasn’t exactly the kind of colony tourism boards promoted. Lubeck Delta wasn’t even the nicest of the colony’s cities.
“Hey, how much longer on those fuel rods?” he asked, shouting over the howl.
The mechanic wore weather-ruggedized datagoggles and coveralls. His voice came muffled by a filtration mask. “Had a helluva time getting the old ones out. Don’t know what you did to ’em, but the color was way off.”
Chuck grinned despite the light sandblasting his teeth got. “Guy on Carlsbad juiced the rods for me. Can’t share the process. Promised 10 percent longer range, but I got 12. But what about the new ones? I got places to be. Gig on Orion.”
“I caught your show last night.” Chuck perked up. “I’m doing Orion a favor. No credit. Cash or digital, but you’ve either got the terras or you don’t have fuel rods.”
Despite the dig, Chuck didn’t flinch at the criticism. After all, he knew he was an acquired taste.
“Look. If I don’t make it to Orion by a week from tomorrow, there won’t be terras to pay anyone anything. Who wins in that scenario?”
“Comedy bar patrons across the galaxy,” the mechanic replied without missing a beat.
Chuck snickered. It was a good shot. If this guy had decided to heckle him last night, it might have improved what had admittedly been a lackluster show. “Look, friend. I know you’re not in charge here. How about I make you a deal?”
Even through the dust storm and the datagoggles, Chuck couldn’t mistake the mechanic’s scowl. “What kind of deal?”
Circling around, Chuck put a conspiratorial hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll bet you a refund of your ticket that I can get your boss to spot me credit for a full set of fuel rods. Deal?”
Perhaps sensing that Chuck hadn’t asked for anything if he won the bet, the mechanic jumped on the opportunity. “Deal.”
Leaving the man with a few pats on the shoulder for reassurance, he pointed up to the traffic control tower. “I’ll have boss-man give you a high-sign if he agrees. You wait here a minute.”
“’Kay…” the mechanic replied, then stood there with his arms crossed as Chuck braved the dust storm on his way to the tower.
“Who colonizes these hellholes?” Chuck asked the storm when he was sure no human ears could hear him. There had to have been ten thousand better planets out there, planets with near Earth-identical gravity, planets with balmy climates and sandy beaches, planets developed with enough environmental domes to cover all the inhabitants.
Leaning into the wind, Chuck made his way to the control tower and punched the door control. He ducked inside gasping for breath. The tower’s recirculating air supply blew fresh, clean, cool air that countered the inhospitable weather that had permeated Chuck’s outer layer of skin.
A moment’s glance searching for a lift only turned up a set of squared-spiral stairs leading up.
“Of course…” he grumbled. A colony that could afford lifts in public buildings would probably also pave their starports—and maybe construct windbreaks to keep ships on the leeward side of the storms.
On the way up, Chuck peeked in at the intervening floors. There was some kind of break room or c afeteria, an office, equipment storage. He could work with this.
At the top floor, Chuck encountered the traffic controller and owner of the shipyard. A quick glance at the name plate on the guy’s workstation identified him as Garson Smalls.
“Hi, Garson? Chuck Ramsey. Got a minute?” It took all his willpower not to make light of the man’s name and work in a French waiter joke.
“Who?”
“Comedian Chuck Ramsey, captain of the Radio City, currently ready for departure on pad 22.”
Garson was a leathery specimen of colonist, looking like he’d spent a few too many unprotected days out in the dust. A local, no doubt, not an itinerant spacer job-hopping the galaxy. He nodded when the pad number clicked. “Oh yeah. The one looking to buy fuel rods on credit. What is this? A One Church charity operation? Scram. Come back when you can pay.”
Chuck waved away the notion with both hands, crestfallen that the traffic controller could insinuate he might be looking for a handout. “No. Nothing like that. But your ground team already pulled my old fuel rods. I think there might be enough oomph in them to get me to Mallostar. I was gonna offer your guy 20T to plug them back in so I could get out of here. But he wanted the OK from you first. Can you just give him a wave? I already handed him a hardcoin twenty in good faith.”
In only took Garson a second before he sighed and stood from his chair. He leaned close to the window and waved until the mechanic waved back. “There. Good luck limping to Mallostar.”
The cockpit of the Radio City echoed with the sounds of guitar strings. Becky Ramsey sat with an antique acoustic perched in her lap, strumming chords to an Early Data Era classic. It was less the kind of antique that appreciated in value and more the kind that had been forgotten in a rented storage locker and purchased on the cheap at auction. Years of mistreatment at a prior owner’s hands had left the body scratched and the neck slightly warped, but it kept tuned for a few hours at a time. Becky would have sung along, but getting lost in a song usually got her closing her eyes, and she was on watch.
From the pilot’s chair, the Radio City offered a wide forward view of its surroundings. Floor-to-ceiling, the windshield presented a flat front that played havoc on the craft in atmosphere but was great for sightseeing at low speeds. Out in the Black Ocean, some careful maneuvering could result in spectacular viewing angles.
For now, the front window aimed squarely toward the control tower of the Lubeck Delta landing yard.
She’d seen the wave from the regional traffic controller. The thumps and clanks from the hull made it clear that someone out there was working on installing fresh fuel rods. From here on out, it was a waiting game.
“Mom?” Brad called out from behind her. Becky turned to find her oldest son approaching.
Whip thin and gawky, Brad looked like he’d never met a comb or a clothes processor. His oversized boots clomped on the deck plates, but they’d hopefully last him the year before he outgrew them. Not that Brad seemed like he was in any danger of becoming a giant. But over the past year or so, he’d gone from a scrawny runt to just regular scrawny.
“How much longer until Dad gets back?”
Something in the innocence of that question made Becky instantly suspicious. “Where’s your sister? I asked you to watch her.”
“Mike’s on it.”
The notion of leaving a five-year-old to watch his three-year-old sister didn’t inspire confidence. “Your dad’ll be back any minute. Now scoot. I’ve got to be ready up here.”
“Make you a deal…”
Becky’s blood ran cold. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll watch for Dad if you make Rhi’s cookie-snacks.”
Becky checked the landing field. No sign of Chuck yet. “Is that what this is about? You don’t want to work the food processor?”
“And you don’t want to sit here playing Blowin’ in the Wind off tempo while you watch a door.”
“I wasn’t off—” Becky caught herself before letting her son sidetrack her. He was getting to be as bad as Chuck. “Fine. But when you spot him, yell. And… start the engines.”
Brad spread his hands. “Hey, no problem.”
They scooted past one another, and Brad wriggled into the pilot’s chair.
Brad Ramsey cracked his knuckles and took hold of the flight yoke in both hands. The grips were too large, suited for Dad’s hands better than either his or Mom’s, but he’d gotten used to them. Not that it mattered, since the Radio City was parked with the engines off. Even Mom couldn’t object as he twisted and pulled, mimicking the motions of a deep-space dogfight that the unarmed Radio City couldn’t begin to participate in.
Noting that Mom had left her guitar on the co-pilot’s seat, Brad hefted it and strummed a few open chords.
“Definitely out of tune,” he pronounced. Plucking the strings one at a time, he set about tweaking each to get them playing proper notes. The longer he kept at it, the worse it all sounded. Finally, after a test strum that resulted in a particularly grating chord, he set the instrument back down and positioned it as if he’d never touched it.
When he looked up, Dad was out in the wind, running toward the Radio City. One arm raised, he circled a finger in the air in the whirly-bird “spin up the engines” sign.
“Well, shit.” Brad had missed his father’s exit from the control tower. Clearly, Dad was in a huge hurry, too, since Dad never ran unless someone was after him. “I can’t possibly get Mom over here in time.”
The words were an argument to himself, and he made a good point. There really wasn’t a choice.
Flicking through the pre-flight without hesitation, the Radio City flared to life. Engines hummed. The floor buzzed. Outside the ship, men’s voices shouted in anger, their exact words lost in the commotion.
Remembering that they were here for fuel, Brad checked the fuel gauge. Three of the four slots showed full. The fourth was blank, indicating no fuel rod present at all. Also, there was a blinking warning that the fuel panel hadn’t been closed.
Shrugging in resignation, Brad eased open the throttle and lifted the Radio City off the ground. Gingerly, he gave it a little forward thrust and lurched toward the running parent heading the other way.
Taking his eyes off the landing field, he reached over and flipped first the vacuum interlock then the control to fold down the passenger ramp. It wasn’t a long trip to rendezvous with his dad, so Brad immediately started a 270 degree right turn to bring the ramp around without slinging the unsecured fuel rods out of the Radio City.
“BRAD! BRAAAAAAAD! Bradley Carlin Ramsey, what do you think you’re doing?” Becky shrieked as she raced back to the cockpit.
“Hold your horses,” Brad replied casually. He watched the altimeter as it self-corrected its data range to include fractions of meters. With the deft touch of a surgeon, he brought the vessel to a quarter of a meter off the ground and held steady.
“I’m in!” Dad bellowed. “Hit it, kid!”
Not needing to be told twice, Brad slammed the throttle to full, not pulling back on the yoke until they passed the control tower, letting the ion wash kick up a storm that would blind visual contact briefly.
“How did you know Brad was flying?” Mom demanded.
“No need to apologize,” Dad assured her jovially. “I’m fine. Kid stepped in and covered for you.”
“But how did you know it wasn’t me?”
Even with his eyes on the approaching stars, Brad knew Dad’s shrug well enough to picture it. “Kid’s got panache. Don’t get me wrong, you fly great. But… without the panache. Phew. I could use a beer.”
“You don’t wanna take over?” Brad asked, a thrill building in his belly.
“Nah. You’re doing swell.”
Brad’s eyes lit. This was it. He was flying for real. Sure, he’d flown all over colonial space, landed dozens of times, docked with space stations, and gotten to play around with deep-space maneuvering.
But this was the first time he’d piloted a getaway.
“Vessel Radiocity, this is Lubeck Planetary Security. We’ve got a report that you just burned out of Lubeck Delta with an unpaid fuel tab.”
