Stuck in the Astral with You: Mission 14: Black Ocean: Mercy for Hire, #14

By J.S. Morin

It may not be healthy, or particularly tasty, but it's reasonably affordable and Earthlings LOVE it!

 

Tanny and Esper's rebel syndicate needs to hit the Ruckers hard and where it hurts: in the finances. They decide on a target, one that most of the galaxy is blissfully unaware is owned by a vicious criminal gang: Friendli Foods. Purveyors of the Milky Way's favorite junk foods, they make shipments to Earth on a megafreighter large enough to feed billions. Tanny has a plan to hijack it.

 

Meanwhile, Esper embarks on a mission to ensure that the rebels aren't blamed for the hijacking. They need a patsy, and what better way to set one up than to replace a mid-level lieutenant in the Rucker organization with a mole. It'll be up to Esper to convince a bunch of hardened killers that she's one of them—and to turn them against their own people.

 

Stuck in the Astral with You is the fourteenth mission of Black Ocean: Mercy for Hire. Set in the Black Ocean Universe, it continues the saga of the galaxy's sweetest bounty hunter and her loyal sidekick (who is NOT a dog!) and introduces a colorful cast for new and returning readers alike. Fans of vigilante justice and heroes who exemplify the word will love this series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magical Scrivener Press
• Release date: Jul 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643551098

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

Stuck In The Astral With You

Stuck In The Astral With You

Mission 14

J. S. Morin

Magical Scrivener Press

Copyright © 2020 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: 978-1-64355-109-8

Printed in the United States of America

Stuck in the Astral with You

The rec room doors slid open. Immediately, the faint ringing of sleigh bells assailed Tiffany. The association formed in her mind in an instant, and the holographic evergreen tree in the middle of the room made it official.

Shit, when did Christmas happen? she mused aloud to no one in particular.

Pulling out her datapad, she checked a feature she rarely paid much attention to since leaving a life of schooling and extracurricular activities behind: her calendar.

DECEMBER 20, 2563

Looking up with a scowl, she shouted into the room, Since when did we start dragging this shit out a whole fucking week?

Heads turned. Games of pool and cards paused. The general scrounging from the snack buffet halted as everyone waited for someone else to answer. Ever since learning of the existence of the Rucker Syndicate, she’d been warned of hardened, ruthless criminals who weren’t to be trifled with. These days, she was the one who no one wanted to piss off.

Word had gotten around, circled back to the Errand of Mercy, and filtered through to this rival band cloven from that common stock. There were wizards, and there were Wizards. The former mooched off Convocation credit, tinkered with star-drives, maybe levitated a few items here or there. Basically, party tricksters. The latter created piles of ash and left a trail of will readings in their wake.

Get in the spirit, sweetie, Jeanine called out as she approached with two glasses filled with a yellowish-tan liquid. One of these found its way into Tiffany’s hand.

She gave a sniff. Her nose crinkled. Eggnog? Nana, I can’t stand that shit.

Nana Jeanine gave a knowing smirk. Maybe you’ll like it better with a little brandy in it.

Tiffany raised an eyebrow and inspected the drink anew. Nana might have had a point. She took a cautious sip and swallowed. Bleagh. Two shitty tastes that taste shitty together. She passed the glass back to her grandmother and jerked her head toward the tree. So, was all this your idea?

No, but I was the one who told them to just go ahead and light it up. Hard enough feeling festive when your whole family wants to pretend you’re dead. Being out in this purple slimescape doesn’t help any.

Tiffany gazed into the astral. One entire wall of the rec room was floor-to-ceiling windows, interspersed with structural stanchions. She sighed. You get used to it.

Not at my age, you don’t.

Tiffany was about to launch into a counterargument before realizing she didn’t care. Sure. Whatever. But it’s not going anywhere. She worked her tongue around her mouth and sucked at her cheeks in an effort to purge the lingering aftertaste.

It was one of those intuitive senses that grandmothers had. A shrewd look twinkled in the old woman’s eyes before she turned to head for the buffet. Maybe we can find something to put some holiday cheer into you.

Following along thanks to some strange intergenerational hex, Tiffany browsed the offerings. There was the usual fare of beer pretzels, beer nuts, and just plain old beer, along with cheese, crackers, nachos, and chicken wings. In addition, a number of holiday-themed treats had been scattered down the length of the table. Cookies shaped like trees and wreaths were slathered in green frosting. Miniature yule logs and stubby candy-cane-looking pastries of the same shape tantalized from within individual plastic wrappers.

Tiffany lifted a discarded cardboard box left nearby the festive treats. Merri Snakks?

Jeanine shrugged. It was either those or bake homemade. And your mother got her lack of kitchen skills from me.

A nostalgic smile came unbidden. Hey, not everyone can bake like Judy Griddles, Nana. She still had vivid memories of the fire rescue team putting out the blaze at Nana’s house one Christmas when she was five years old.

Jeanine gathered an assortment of the holiday-themed treats on a plate.

You’re gonna get sick if you eat all those, Tiffany warned with her best scolding voice.

Nana sighed. Bringing them to Candace and Roger. If it weren’t for me, I swear they’d forget to feed those two at all.

A bucket of ice water washed over the conversation. Tiffany swiped a hand across the plate, scattering the snacks. They’re lucky to be eating at all.

With that, she stormed out of the rec room.

Galen Frome tapped at the datapad in his lap while he reclined, feet up on his desk. The day’s shipping manifests scrolled by, checked in turn, compared to warehouse inventory, and approved with his inspector ID code.

Not that Galen was an inspector anymore. He’d been Chief of Operations going on five years now, with a promotion due next June. If he kept Martinelli Storage and Logistics operating smoothly until then, he could retire his inspector ID code for good.

Until then, he supervised a facility of 927 loaders, inspectors, logistics support specialists, a client relations team, and his brother Natron. Natron didn’t do much, but he was listed on the payroll as Quality Control Chief.

Natron did, on occasion, knock on Galen’s office door to interrupt his work. Hey, we got a guy here to see you, he announced after letting himself in.

Galen flicked his datapad with the back of one hand. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something? Have Liza deal with him.

Natron put a hand to the side of his mouth like he was some kind of holovid spy. It’s. You. Know. Who.

With a clatter, Galen dropped his datapad on the desk. No. I don’t know who. And I’m in no mood for guessing games. If it’s Viv, send her on up; otherwise, I’ve got a report to file. Vivian had an annoying habit of barging in during his business hours. But their anniversary was coming up soon, and he couldn’t think of a damn thing to get her. Maybe a piece of his time might blunt the sting if he blew that.

Natron shook his head. It’s a couple guys from the you-know-what.

Galen got up, ready to shove his little brother out the door despite giving away ten kilos’ worth of muscle. Leave. Now. Delegate, or so help me, I’ll find someone else to fill that QC office.

Through gritted teeth and in a whisper that might as well have been a shout, Natron blurted out, It’s the Ruckers.

Ruckers? Here? Impossible. We’re done with that bullshit. They got their piece of the company. We don’t get surprise shakedowns anymore. That was the deal.

YOU tell ’em that!

With a huff, Galen shouldered his way past his idiot brother. No amount of delegating was going to get rid of syndicate tough guys. But he wasn’t going to be bullied. He was protected now. If these idiots weren’t with the program, he had a contact in the organization with the clout to set them straight.

The catwalk outside Galen’s office overlooked a five-story drop to the floor with a view of stacked cargo containers close enough to jump across—for a more athletic gentleman, leastwise.

Metallic steps rang as Galen’s shoes pounded toward the duracrete of the warehouse floor.

Waiting for him at the bottom was a human advert for steroid supplements. Beady-eyed and with a jawline shaped like a shovel blade, he barely fit inside the slick business suit he wore. Seams bulged. Buttons clung on desperately to hold the front closed. Long hair slicked back against his head before gathering in a ponytail.

You Galen Frome? the man asked.

Yeah, what’s the meaning of—?

Here, the Rucker representative said, pressing a pair of datagoggles into his hands. Put these on.

Hoji, Galen’s foreman, came running from a nearby aisle of shipping containers. Boss, they’ve got guys going around with magnetic boxes, sticking them to support beams.

What’s this all about? Galen demanded. All he wanted were simple answers. There was an easy solution here. The whole gangster theatrics thing had worn thin for him long ago.

Put the goggles on. A comm will connect. Read from the prompter.

Galen didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. What are your people doing with those boxes?

The gangster seemed nonplussed. We’re going to blow up this warehouse.

WHAT?

And if you play along, we’ll let your people leave first.

If?

The rest registered in his mind, but the threat echoed in that lonely word if.

Donning the datagoggles, Galen’s view was obscured by an opaque interface screen that indeed promised a readied comm. Not feeling like he had a lot of choice today, and making a note to read his Rucker handler the riot act over this interference in his business, he decided to play along.

After all, the explosives were a threat. If he complied, there was no way the Ruckers would blow up a warehouse they owned a controlling interest in.

Mouth dry, he waited for the connection to come through. When it did, he recognized the face.

You… you…

Tania Rucker was stern-faced and menacing, sitting in a high-backed chair with a backdrop of bare steel behind her. What is this? Who are you, and what do you want?

Words hung in front of his eyes, interposed between him and Ms. Rucker. So much for his Rucker handlers…

Clearing his throat, Galen began reading. Haltingly, mechanically, but pushing forward while trying not to let the words sink into his own mind.

Tania Rucker. You should have known this was coming. Actions have consequences. And this—

Who are you!

Galen ignored her and blabbered on. More words scrolled up into view as he read. Is the first of many. Know that all of this could have been avoided. You’re going to regret the day you were born. I know I do. This messenger doesn’t even know he’s about to—

Without reading the last word, Galen tore off the datagoggles. His feet were already moving, breaking into a run for the nearest emergency exit.

But no sooner did the goggles come off, the whole building jolted with a linked series of explosions. He had only a fraction of a second to process the wall of flame rushing up to incinerate him.

They strolled the cobbled street, heeled shoes clacking with each step. Esper wore her favorite frilly pink dress; Karen wore a matching version in saffron. As her guest gawked at the quaint little shops and the burbling fountain, Esper studied her companion’s reaction.

So, this is where it all happened, Karen mused. This is where you took me when the casino had used me up and left me broken. This is where you pieced me back together again.

A lump formed in Esper’s throat. She’d known this was a bad idea, but somehow, she found herself unable to deny Karen’s request to see this place. So many had been turned off by the mental realm. Couched comments hinted that Tanny still had nightmares about their kidnapping by Lloyd Arnold. Ilsa had nearly suffocated upon realizing she wasn’t breathing real air. It confused Kubu to no end. It just… felt nice sharing Esperville with someone who appreciated it.

But this wasn’t how she wanted it remembered.

Not exactly.

Karen twirled, expertly billowing her skirts. Her dimpled smile was conspiratorial. Oh, I realize. Same theater, different stage.

Esper scowled playfully. Hadn’t thought about it like that.

I assume you kept it all.

Kept?

Karen shrugged as she walked backward effortlessly in her heels on the uneven street. I don’t know how it works. Kept? Remember? Magic it up anew? Can I see my old high school, for instance?

Taking a deep breath, Esper steeled herself. This wasn’t going to be a pleasant afternoon of chatting at the cafe patisserie after all. All right. Let’s go have a look.

She allowed the streets of Esperville to dissolve like a holovid scene until the cobbled streets had become a gymnasium floor. Painted lines ran in concentric ovals, marking out the lanes of a sprinting track. Sets of bleachers made of cheap plastic and grimy from years of use ran up both sides. Fluoro-tone lighting shone down from fifteen meters overhead.

Karen spun,