Hotel Caledonia: Black Ocean: Mercy for Hire, #7

By J.S. Morin

A murder mystery you can sink your ship into.

 

Esper has a rendezvous with a mysterious contact aboard an undersea luxury cruise ship, an exclusive submarine hotel for a cozy five-day getaway. She's going to get all the intel she needs to cut off the head of the Cult of Ra—at least that's the plan.

 

When she first meets her contact, it's at the scene of his murder.

 

Then someone sinks the cruise ship, trapping Esper and the other passengers with the killer.

 

Now, Esper has to discover the killer's identity, recover any stolen intel the victim might have had on him, and keep the other passengers alive. Because it's a luxury liner, help from the mainland is on the way. Rich people don't stay in trouble long, so Esper has to act fast, otherwise, her best chance to put an end to the Cult of Ra just might sink along with the ship.

 

Hotel Caledonia is the seventh mission of Black Ocean: Mercy for Hire. It follows the exploits of a pair of do-gooder bounty hunters who care more about saving the day than getting a payday. Mercy for Hire builds on the rich Black Ocean universe and introduces a colorful cast for new and returning listeners alike. Fans of vigilante justice and heroes who exemplify the word will love this series.

 

You can check out a copy any time you like...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magical Scrivener Press
• Release date: Mar 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643550329

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

Hotel Caledonia

HOTEL CALEDONIA

MISSION 7

BLACK OCEAN: MERCY FOR HIRE

J.S. MORIN

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

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

Printed in the United States of America

HOTEL CALEDONIA

MISSION 7

Caledonia: 90 percent water, 10 percent tourist trap. Oh, the balmy winds and yellow sunshine weren’t for your typical Luna Park day-tripper. This trap had upscale projecting from every spare power socket. Boutiques lined the avenues as soon as Esper, Kubu, Wesley, and Tiffany left the Cousteau Starport. A string quartet played Vivaldi on a street corner for tips. Paving stones, artfully formed into colorful mosaics, served in place of permacrete below foot.

Ahead of them lay the harbor where the Venetian Dream moored, awaiting passengers.

Esper had her ticket, printed at the starport on the Caledonia Cruises kiosk. The plastic was still warm as she kept a firm grip on it within the front pocket of her hoodie.

Wesley ambled along at her side. He dug inside a crinkling bag labeled Fusion Flavored Po-To-Crisps. But when he pulled out his hand, it held a bacon cube pilfered from the Empty Nest’s food processor. The actor popped the salty meat morsel into the air with a flick of his thumb, catching it in his mouth.

Seriously, can you stop that? Tiffany asked. We’re someplace classy for once.

Classy people like bacon cubes, Wesley replied with an air of authority. You can’t undo eons of evolutionary work in a few good years of commodities trading or a couple starring holovid roles. Paint a tuxedo onto a polar bear, and it’ll still eat raw fish.

Tiffany grumbled. It’s called sashimi.

Esper’s datapad chimed, muffled in her pants pocket. She pulled it out. The screen displayed a message from Aliyah Hanzo.

HITTING ORBIT. COMM WHEN YOU’RE DONE.

Looks like we’re marooned until this is over, Esper commented, passing the device around.

The food smells very clean here, Kubu said. I don’t mind being here.

Code for: very expensive, Tiffany clarified. If you’re getting food served by a laaku with a bowtie, you’re not dining on the Cheapo Card.

Esper snickered. She’d half forgotten about Cheapos. Her family had a subscription back before her brothers signed on with the Ruckers. Two-terras Tuesdays at Tophat Toppings. Kids eating free with a paid adult meal at Chompsters. You three will be fine so long as Tiffany remembers her hand signs.

As another of Wesley’s bacon cubes popped into the air, it failed to fall. The brawny actor poised beneath the treat, mouth agape. With his goal just half a meter out of reach, he hopped and tried to snatch it in his teeth. The cube dodged away like swatting at an airborne leaf.

Tiffany glared past Wesley at Esper. Tiffany will be fine.

Gravity failure, Wesley reported. Bridge to Star-Drive. This is Captain Wesley. Emergency bacon teams to the gravity stone, on the double. He continued trying to wrangle the wayward cube from the air in front of him, repeatedly missing despite deft snatches and mongoose reflexes.

Kubu leapt and caught the cube. He landed with a quiet chuckle, never having bothered chewing.

A small group of onlookers clapped.

Esper flushed. She shot Tiffany a warning look. Don’t draw attention.

We’re walking with a talking dog, Tiffany replied with a shrug. Bound to get weird looks.

I’m not a—

You’re talking. You look like a dog. Own it.

Kubu hung his head and tail.

The brickwork streets wandered with amiable lack of purpose. But this wasn’t a function of artistry or the free spirit of local craftsmen. Beneath the veneer of quirky charm was a downright scientific level of planning. Esper had done a cursory omni search on Caledonia. The colony was only thirty years old. Before the terramancers got hold of it, it was a ball of ice that would have turned penguins into icy-pops. Engineers and architects had worked hand in hand to turn the planet into a comfy mint for printing terras—or to be precise, for squeezing them out of anyone who breathed the terraformed air.

Esper could sense the resemblance in purpose and form to the layout of Pharaoh’s Paradise. Her skin crawled as she envisioned the red brick shops and wrought-iron filigree replaced by yellowed stone, the street musicians replaced by quick-grab food carts and lilting flute music played in a minor scale.

We should get you guys checked into your hotel, Esper suggested. The sooner she could throw herself into the mission, the better.

Kubu cocked his head. "Our hotel? What about you?"

This is a cruise ship. I’ll crash with you guys tonight, but after that, I’ll be heading undersea.

I looked up your cruise liner, Tiffany said and gave a whistle. Swank City. Five stars all the way. Your contact is probably figuring it would bankrupt the cult to send anyone after him there.

Wesley ate another cube of bacon, carefully pushing it past his teeth before letting go. All inclusive, or do we need to… he cleared his throat, still chewing, perform a money-increasing maneuver first?

We’re not working anything here. Esper wasn’t about to let this trip devolve into a series of misadventures ultimately culminating in her blowing her contact’s cover. This is a simple meeting. High security. High safety. You three just need to sit tight until the cruise gets back and keep an eye out for last-minute ambushes when we arrive back in port. Departure and arrival are the danger points. If we keep the scene clear, I should be able to spend the cruise learning everything we need to strangle the Cult of Ra out of existence.

Kubu bounced from his front legs to back. I see it! I see it! He wagged furiously. It’s so big and shiny!

There it was, as promised. Esper caught sight of it as a turn in the street gave them an unobstructed view of Pier 17. The ship, the Venetian Dream, stood tall in the water, glistening as if freshly dipped in silver paint.

Esper had lost track of the number of starships she’d taken around the galaxy. From her tiny Squall to the flagship of the Poet Fleet to all the freighters, shuttles, and passenger liners in between, she’d grown accustomed to thin layers of steel and scientific contraptions keeping her safe from the void of the Black Ocean.

The Venetian Dream was little more than a glorified luxury hotel, its conceit being exclusivity and privacy as well as a breathtaking undersea tour of Caledonia’s flourishing ocean biome. The fact that science would be protecting her from an inrush of water instead of a loss of oxygen seemed like a trivial distinction.

Well, what are we waiting for? Tiffany asked. Yay. It’s a boat. C’mon. I’m hungry, and this planet has five-star DinnerBlab ratings oozing out of every bistro and buffet.

Esper’s gaze lingered as the others moved on.

Destiny.

She was so close, she could smell it. This was going to be the downfall of the Cult of Ra. She’d done enough to warrant the attention of whistleblowers who trusted her over the patchwork of interstellar authorities with jurisdiction but not the will to take on the multiplanetary organization.

And if it’s a trap, we feast on brains and get the info anyway.

Shut up, you. Esper looked both ways to see if anyone had overheard.

You coming or not? Tiffany called back. "If I fuck this up, I’d like someone who can actually book us a room on credit."

Right.

It wasn’t time. Boarding would begin tomorrow afternoon. And with the cost of their preferred hotel running over a thousand terras a night, they were either pawning the expenses off on the unsuspecting—and uncaring—Convocation, or they were sleeping at the starport.

With a sigh, Esper took one last look at the Venetian Dream before a turn down a side street robbed her of her vantage.

Soon, she promised.

With a name like Sugar Beach, the preponderance of white sand and a stretch of cordoned-off ocean seemed like a given. Unlike so many other places in the galaxy, Caledonia didn’t pull a bait and switch. Tiffany booked them a penthouse suite with a view of both the water and the Venetian Dream’s anchorage, just around a jutting peninsula from their hotel.

Esper had stood by proudly as her apprentice had conjured a fairly accurate Convocation sigil between the fingers of her right hand, not so much as fuzzling the console at the hotel reception desk.

Now it was time for the tables to turn—slightly, at least. Esper’s fashion sense was a decade miscalibrated with popular culture and an era misaligned with non-wizardly tastes. Esperville had the air of a Victorian garden party. Mortania had been Camelot if Merlin overthrew Arthur. By her reckoning, she’d spent far longer in those imagined realms than the real world of dress styles and trends in accessories.

A merry bell tinkled—real copper with a clapper and everything—as the pair entered Mary-Ann Gauthier’s. Inside, the air reeked of money. Expensive gowns adorned mechanical models whose articulated limbs showed off how the fabric would hug a body in motion. Necklaces and earrings sparkled within display cases. A gaggle of wealthy patrons milled the irregular aisles, scowling at dresses like art critics and running fingers across the fabrics.

Tiffany’s eyes lit with avarice.

Only what we need, Esper cautioned.

Her apprentice’s eyes weren’t blinking. Right. Need.

They must have lingered by the door too long. One of the salesforce came over, sporting a trendy miniskirt dress and retail datalenses. May I help you? The words tinged with polite skepticism. Neither she nor Tiffany appeared to be the sorts who could afford to shop at Mary-Ann Gauthier’s.

"I’m traveling on the Venetian Dream and didn’t pack for it," Esper said.

Oh. How lovely, the saleswoman replied, her opinion of them flickering up a hairsbreadth. Now they were traveling on a cruise ship looking like borderworld hitchhikers. But at least Esper had upgraded to a passenger on the luxury liner. Do you have a budget in mind?

But not one who can afford to be on it.

Tiffany cut in with a tight smile. Nope. Charge it. She held up a hand and once again displayed the Convocation insignia.

Instantly, the saleswoman’s demeanor shifted. I see. A wizard. Sending your sister on a cruise, I take it? What’s your name, dear?

I’m her teacher, Esper said, leaving aside the legal guardianship issue as extraneous. And since when does anyone take names of wizards? She tried to sound just stern enough to make the woman think twice about requiring identities.

We get audited more frequently than many businesses, the saleswoman explained with an apologetic smile. We don’t provide ephemeral services, and our merchandise inconveniences the Convocation accountants more than most.

Code: this place was insanely expensive. It was an exception to the wizards of Earth not caring about cost. To trouble those hidebound aristocrats back on Earth, who dispersed terras across the galaxy practically via catapult…

Tiffany stiffened. Sorry to have bothered you, miss. We should be—

Esper Theresa Richelieu, Esper said proudly. No point in lying. Time and again, she’d had to remind herself that she was no longer a Convocation fugitive. Whether she was in their good graces—technically violating her parole merely by showing the sigil—Esper proved her Convocation membership in similar style as had Tiffany. She turned to the teenager with a hard look. "She worries that she’ll develop a reputation as a spendthrift even before her apprenticeship ends. Not without merit, I might add…"

While it might have sent a jolt of shame into Tiffany, it had the exact opposite effect on the woman looking to sell them formalwear. A few taps on a slender datapad, and the woman began a tour of the shop.

If you’re looking for something to wear on an undersea cruise, I’d recommend staying away from nautical colors. Too on-point. Would you mind stepping into the fitting scanner a moment?

Esper obliged. As she shrugged off her leather jacket, the saleswoman held up a hand. No need. The scanner sees right through to the skin.

That brought on an embarrassed flush. What business did that scanner have peeking underneath her clothes? What other Peeping Tom-bots did this little boutique have hidden around the store?

The scanner was a shin-high podium with a round platform the size of a dirt-roller tire. A pair of tall bars rotated around the outside like they were trying to swirl a forkful of pasta.

Then the machine dinged.

Ooh, fun, the saleswoman cooed. Figure like that we can do so much with. I’m thinking something classic. Maybe an A-line or body-con, depending on how much attention you want to draw. Or possibly—

Mermaid cut, Tiffany butted in. Pink. I imagine you’ve got that sequin shimmer material by Chretièn?

The saleswoman didn’t bat an eye. All the glamour of sequins without the mess of them popping loose. Of course. We also have the new Benentendi fabric with—

The Chretièn will do, Tiffany stated firmly. And not too long on the hem. She’ll need matching heels. Go with twelve centimeters and adjust the hem accordingly.

Esper cleared her throat. She and Tiffany exchanged glares.

Fine… ten centimeters on the heel. She raised an eyebrow that said that was the lowest Esper was getting away with.

Will that be all? the saleswoman asked.

By now, a few of the other patrons had gathered close by, just near enough to eavesdrop but not close enough to justify calling them out on it.

Tiffany grinned. We’re just getting started.

From a second-story balcony at the Del Carmen Cafe, Wesley and Kubu watched passengers trickle aboard the Venetian Dream. Their table was a salvage yard of tiny stacked plates and scattered teacups. As he stared through a pair of binoculars, Wesley chewed.

Why are not many people getting on the boat? Kubu asked. It’s getting close to leaving time, and that’s a big boat. More people should fit.

Wesley chortled. Well, that’s the thing about luxury. Money buys space. You could cram fifteen laaku into a stateroom at a grand a head. Or… you can charge thirty times that, rent the suites to singles and couples, and save money on the all-inclusive menu.

Kubu pondered. It was easy to tell when the big lug was thinking because he wasn’t eating or talking. If Kubu’s mouth ever stopped working on one or the other, he was lost in thought.

Oh, to be a notion in that noggin. What novel and noble concepts must cross the xeno mind to bridge the species gap to Homo sapiens.

Plus, less poop, Kubu observed sagely.

That, too, Sport, Wesley agreed. Sometimes, it was just easier going with the current than trying to swim upstream.

A young woman slunk down the pier toward the Venetian Dream, arms hugging a shawl close around her shoulders. Wesley zoomed in. She had dark hair and a complexion that suggested either early twenties or cosmo work. With the guest list on this cruise, he could have seen it either way. A glint of silver at her neck suggested expensive jewelry. A troupe of cruise ship employees followed her with a six-piece set of matching luggage.

Once she disappeared up the gangplank, Wesley set down the binoculars and made note of her on his datapad.

Kubu looked over his shoulder. Why are you writing down lots of names and stuff instead of taking pictures?

Because… Wesley paused. That was one DAMN good question. "Normally, it’s against guild rules to take images of people. That’s a camera operator job. I… guess I sort of figured it was someone else’s job. But look! You can practically see the passengers from these descriptions."

Skinny… russet hair… medium boobs… Kubu read from the datapad. He looked up at Wesley with a scowl. I don’t think that’s a good way to talk about people.

Wesley snatched the datapad away from Kubu’s view. "It’s called intelligence gathering. Time-honored tradition. Need to be objective, not polite. And I don’t think whoever she