Collusion Course: Black Ocean: Galaxy Outlaws, #10

By J.S. Morin

The biggest problem with employing criminals is that they're criminals.

 

What's a guy gotta do to get a little respect? As the head of an up-and-coming criminal empire, Carl Ramsey just can't seem to catch a break. Stranded in the middle of nowhere, he is forced to rely on loyalty, savvy, and the promise of a big payday to keep the rank and file in line. But how can he deliver on his promises while overseeing repairs on a dead ship, praying that his lover and best friend can recover their lost loot, and keeping the galaxy's most notorious crime lord at bay over long-range comm?

 

And to make matters worse, his parents dropped in for a visit and have settled in while he's away. It's going to take all the fast talking Carl can manage, and he still might need a little help from his friends.

 

Collusion Course is the 10th mission of Black Ocean: Galaxy Outlaws, a science fantasy series set in the 26th century. Do you wish there had been a second season of Firefly? Do you love the irreverent fun of Guardians of the Galaxy? Have you ever wondered how Star Wars would have turned out if Luke and Obi-wan had ditched the rebellion to become smugglers with Han and Chewie? Then Black Ocean: Galaxy Outlaws is the series for you! 

Pick up your copy of Collusion Course, and aim to misbehave with the crew of the Mobius.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magical Scrivener Press
• Release date: Jun 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781939233998

J.S. Morin

I am a creator of worlds and a destroyer of words. As a fantasy writer, my works range from traditional epics to futuristic fantasy with starships. I have worked as an unpaid Little League pitcher, a cashier, a student library aide, a factory grunt, a cubicle drone, and an engineer--there is some overlap in the last two. Through it all, though, I was always a storyteller. Eventually I started writing books based on the stray stories in my head, and people kept telling me to write more of them. Now, that's all I do for a living. I enjoy strategy, worldbuilding, and the fantasy author's privilege to make up words. I am a gamer, a joker, and a thinker of sideways thoughts. But I don't dance, can't sing, and my best artistic efforts fall short of your average notebook doodle. When you read my books, you are seeing me at my best. My ultimate goal is to be both clever and right at the same time. I have it on good authority that I have yet to achieve it. Visit me at jsmorin.com

Book preview

Collusion Course

COLLUSION COURSE

MISSION 10

BLACK OCEAN: GALAXY OUTLAWS

J.S. MORIN

MAGICAL SCRIVENER PRESS

Collusion Course

Mission 10 of: Black Ocean

Copyright © 2016 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.

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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: 978-1-939233-99-8

Printed in the United States of America

COLLUSION COURSE

MISSION 10

Mort strode across the hangar, hand outstretched. There was a small gathering at the base of the shuttle’s ramp. Familiar faces all, but it was the man front and center who drew Mort’s attention and shook that welcoming hand. He was solidly built, hard old muscle gone to firm flab, with a jaw like a galleon’s prow and a jutting brow that hung an awning over his eyes. The hair atop Don Rucker’s head glistened, and didn’t budge as he moved. The pearly white smile gleamed fit to shame a shark.

Mordecai, good to see you again.

Mort looked the old gangster in the eye and had the satisfaction of seeing arguably the most powerful man on Mars flinch and avert his gaze. Don. It’s been ages.

But if the head of the Rucker Syndicate had been Mort’s primary concern, his guests were both a surprise and a far more welcome addition to their little moon-side hideaway. Chuck Ramsey was a scarecrow of a man. He had a round face perpetually fixed with a smile and a tall, gangly frame with wide shoulders and little meat. Until he spoke, it would have been hard to imagine that this man was Carl’s father. Hey, Mort! You old hobo! Heard you finally picked a spot to settle down and I couldn’t help coming to see the world that finally had enough gravity to keep you planetside. Keeping all these starch-collared button pushers in line, I hope?

While Don Rucker had warranted a handshake, Chuck Ramsey got a bear hug. Chuck, they let you off Luna? I thought that’s where they—

Keep all the lunatics, Chuck finished for him. "I’m not that old, Mort. I still remember my own material. And that’s not even A-list stuff. I only break out those sad-sack jokes for retirement parties and political shindigs."

A woman with blonde hair gave Mort a peck on the cheek. Chuck’s been insufferable the whole way here. You should have heard him go on. Said it was going to be like old times again. If he gets on your nerves, all I ask is that you return him in working order. She gave Mort a sly wink.

Mort hugged her as well, though more gently than he’d greeted Chuck. Becky. Retirement’s looking good on you. I’d swear you were still 40. How’s my girl been these days?

Becky’s smile diminished. Nancy’s fine, best I can tell. Convocation’s getting harder and harder to squeeze for information. All your old friends are important people now, with secretaries and bodyguards to keep busybodies like me at bay. But I saw her on a news feed attending a benefit event with your Cedric.

Mort’s next words caught in his throat. The mention of that name flashed an image across his mind of a boy in red flannel pajamas being trundled off to bed. That was how he’d last seen Cedric The Brown. Clearing his throat, he found his voice. So, how’s the little rascal these days?

He’s a terramancer, apparently, Becky replied with a tilt of the head that flounced her dyed locks. Go figure. You burn planets to the ground; Little Cedric builds them back up.

Mort scowled. That jumped-up asteroid was barely habitable when we got there! Anyplace that needs gadgets to make the air breathable isn’t fit for living on.

Sliding into the morass of reminiscence, Don Rucker insinuated himself between Mort and Becky. He reached an arm around and was inches from settling a hand on Mort’s shoulder when he caught himself. Phony glad-handing and forced familiarity were second nature, but even Don Rucker knew better than to lay hands on a wizard. Sorry. Old habit. But, um, Mort, I’m looking to see my daughter, and your yappy-dog navy castoffs are telling me I can’t. They tell me she’s not here. Fine. Give me a comm ID where I can reach her or tell me when she’s getting back. I’m not used to being kept waiting.

"Don, you came a long way. I can respect that. But Carl’s got the Mobius on the trail of some… oh, who the hell knows? It’s Carl. Might be a fifty-thousand terra payday or a lead on a job that’s a setup by some corporation we’ve pantsed. Flip a coin. Point is, he’s not here, and they’ve been quiet the last few days."

Chuck wandered over to the edge of the conversation. Let me get this straight. My boy’s set himself up as head of a new enterprise, with a hundred men and women under him, and he’s out there risking his neck working heists?

Mort gave a firm nod. Chuck, you always had a way with words. Lots of green wood around here, not quite fit to burn, if you know what I mean.

Wrapping an arm around Mort’s shoulders, Chuck led the way out of the hangar. Don and Becky remained behind as the rest of Don’s entourage disembarked. Mort, old buddy, I think we ought to do Brad a favor and spruce this place up while he’s gone.

Carl, Mort corrected him.

Chuck waved away Mort’s pedantry. Brad, Carl, whatever he wants to call himself. All the way here I had these grandiose visions of what he could do with these kinds of resources. Turns out, he’s planning to let them rot on the vine. Can’t let that happen, Mort. We’re gonna save Brad from himself.

As Carl aimed the tip of his plasma torch at the bulkhead, it was plucked from his hands. The Mobius was in truly dreadful condition, and it was all hands on the repairs. Or at least, that was how Carl envisioned it.

Whaddaya think you’re doing, peachfuzz? Roddy snapped, slapping the neck of the torch against a bare hand. This ain’t quite a wreck. Get your ass in front of the holo and don’t bother the repair crew.

But—

Yes, the repair crew is everyone else but you.

BUT—

NO! We want this mess back in flying shape, and you’re… not… HELPING!

Carl grabbed Roddy by a fistful of his coveralls, near the collar. I know how to use a fucking plasma torch.

"You use it on salvage jobs. Dead ships. You don’t even do much of a job then. I sure as hell don’t want you working on anything we need to live. You couldn’t weld a straight line if you had cybernetic arms, and you cut more corners than a mob accountant. You have the attention span of a stim addict, and you understand the ship’s systems only slightly better than Kubu."

That’s a low blow.

Roddy snorted and stuck the plasma torch into a back pocket of his coveralls. Rather bruise that ego of yours than hear you swearing the same time the hull breach alarm goes off.

The door slammed shut, leaving Carl alone with his thoughts. He stared at the crack in the wall of his quarters. It was only a few centimeters long, and there was a quarter meter of space beyond that to the outer hull. There was practically zero chance of venting the ship to vacuum, no matter how shoddy a job he made of it. Plus, if he’d done it himself, any time he had a guest in his quarters, he could show off his handiwork. Of course, with Amy sharing these quarters, those sorts of guests would probably be few and far between. But it never hurt to plan ahead.

Carl laid his head back against the foot of his bed and sighed. The air was a little stale in all three ships. The Hatchet Job, Mermaid, and Mobius were all docked together as repairs continued. Mobius had taken the worst of the beating in their battle against the Sokol, but was best designed to take one. His systems were simple, intended to weather wizardly tantrums with minimal long-term damage. Carl’s ship was providing most of the life support for crews working on the other two.

He was tempted to take Roddy’s advice, just to spite him. The couch had come through the battle like a champ, without so much as a spill or scratch. He could plop himself down, crack open a beer, and watch old flatvid horror movies about dead ships in space. That’d show them how much he cared about helping.

There was a quick knock on his door. It opened before he could respond, and Yomin’s head poked inside. We’ve got a problem. Her hair was soaked with sweat, and there was a smudge of grease across her cheek. She was out of breath.

What broke this time?

She shook her head, raining droplets of sweat onto the floor of Carl’s quarters. "We fixed the nav com on the Hatchet Job."

So what? Without engine power, we’re not going anywhere. The Mobius’s nav computer was little better than a datapad, but it had been online since yesterday.

"It’s the Sokol. The wreck is drifting toward the Habogad System."

Carl shrugged. Never heard of it.

Neither had I until I found out that our payday is on course to crash into its third planet.

Oh.

Yomin’s eyes widened in an exasperated frustration. That’s it? ‘Oh’? You’re the one in charge. What do you want us to do?

That was a loaded question. Carl wanted a lot out of life, but there wasn’t a lot on his list that any of his crew could deliver on short notice. He could use a little less condescension in the repairs department and a little more attention paid when he gave orders. I want you to fix a ship so we can do something about it.

Chuck Ramsey chewed his steak as politely as the gamey texture and sour tang allowed. It wasn’t beef, or anything even pretending to be beef. The naval gangster of a cook said it was local, and Chuck believed him. He also said it was from a 250-kilo rodent that gnawed through rock, which was a bit tougher to swallow—almost as tough as the steaks made from its flesh. At least the local fruits fermented into a respectable wine.

Flatware clanked, and glasses clinked. At the far end of the table, Don Rucker sucked the air out of the room.

Never can get used to Old Earth cuisine, Don remarked offhandedly through a mouthful. His voice carried the length of the room without any seeming effort at volume. He looked sidelong at Mort as he spoke, as if the comment was for his benefit alone. All those fancy sauces and biochemistry tricks. At least laaku food has the decency to look how you want it to look and taste how you order it. Why would I want to eat a sand-castle that tastes like a steak, you know? This…? He waved his fork around, a bit of meat skewered on the end. Maybe not the best I’ve had, but it’s honest. You know?

Mort was eating what looked like a turkey leg, but Chuck doubted it had more than a passing similarity to the bird. He gestured back at Don with it as he replied, still chewing. "You’ve just got to find the right restaurants. Take Boston Prime, for example. You could walk into a Turbo Sushi and get scienced-up plesiosaur sashimi. But you can also find yourself a table at King Richard’s Tavern and get honest-to-God barbecue pork, from pigs that have never been in a starship."

Don guffawed from his belly. Even I don’t have the kind of money to throw at eating Earth-raised meat. Now if you want to talk about Martian food…

Don blathered on, but Chuck knew it was a habit, and there was little chance of interesting conversation listening to that end of the table. Don Rucker damn well had the money to blow on overpriced meals, but he was pathologically averse to looking like he was that sort of rich. Chuck knew the type long before he’d met his son’s father-in-law. Some men are born to money, some earn their way to the top, but it was a peculiar specimen who both inherited blood money and put in his time at the lower rungs of the operation. Don wanted to be one of the boys—a working man, an honest businessman—and still own a piece of half the cops and judges on Mars. But he rarely left Mars and was dull as toothsoap if you weren’t pinned under his glare and on the wrong end of a business deal.

Chuck leaned over and whispered to the woman on his left. So, what brings a nice girl like you to a primitive moon like this?

Her name was Sephiera, and Mort had introduced her as the senior officer from the ship they now dined within. She had that weary, haggard look of someone who’d been hitting the gym too often and the buffet line not often enough. It probably made her look older than she really was, but that only kept Chuck from feeling quite so guilty about being twice her age. "We crashed. I thought