Empathy for the Devil: Black Ocean: Mercy for Hire, #16

By J.S. Morin

Meet the new boss, daughter of the old boss.

 

Tanny and Esper are done with games and tricks. This war is costing both sides too much. The peaceful transition of power Tanny had dreamed of now seems impossible. It's time to do what they should have done long ago: take the fight to the Rucker Syndicate and worry about the fallout afterward.

 

What sacrifices are Esper and Tanny willing to make to reshape the galaxy into a better place, and who will be asked to pay the price?

 

Empathy for the Devil is the sixteenth 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: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643551159

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

Empathy For The Devil

EMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL

BLACK OCEAN: MERCY FOR HIRE

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.

Magical Scrivener Press

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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: 978-1-64355-115-9

Printed in the United States of America

EMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL

MISSION 16

Stars glittered in the vast wilderness of the Black Ocean. Just seeing them filled Esper with a sense of unease. Since the loss of the Errand of Mercy, the comforting solitude of the deepest purple astral could no longer be considered inviolable.

I should never have left, she muttered to herself.

This was all her fault. Had she remained with the ship instead of agreeing to do Tanny’s dirty work, the Errand of Mercy wouldn’t have been such easy prey. What had she accomplished in impersonating Janice? Don Rucker had known where to find them. He’d struck back at them with a wizard versed in the Tome of Bleeding Thoughts.

If someone like Tiffany—not to cast aspersions—could lay her hands on a copy of that dreaded book, why not Don Rucker? Certainly, Mort had looked for a copy. But had he really? Had he tried, or had he comforted his anemic conscience with a pantomimed attempt at a search?

She should have foreseen the counterattack.

Hey, Tanny barked from the doorway.

Startled from her musings, Esper turned.

You going to help or not? Tanny continued. Distant conversations hinted at dozens of others outside.

The observation deck sported a planetarium view, replete with lounge chairs and low tables meant for drinks and snacks. Real leather upholstery and wood gave the place an authentic feeling of luxury. The scattered welding tools and crates of building supplies detracted in equal measure. A lunch cooler, left open, wafted the scent of pastrami.

Esper tucked her hands into the pockets of Janice Rucker’s jacket. It didn’t fit her; none of her outfits did. But the constricting dress and chafing undergarments felt better paired with her own body than any of her time wearing the psychotic gangster’s had. What do you need?

Tanny barged in and lowered her voice. What’s wrong with you? Snap out of it.

Esper sighed, promising herself a change of clothes as the dress squeezed her lungs. Sorry. Just a rough couple weeks.

Tanny squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds and held up her palms. "Wait. YOU’VE had it rough? We all just escaped being blown up and eaten by motherfucking dinosaurs."

Esper remained stoic. I’d have traded with you.

Blowing a disgusted sigh, Tanny headed for the door. Along the way, she kicked a plasma welder. Not all of us can burn our problems with a snap of our fingers.

Before she had time to escape, Bill Harker strutted in. When he saw the two of them, he gave an enthusiastic clap. Hey! While I got both of youse together, I been getting requests for a name.

You never needed a street name before, Tanny pointed out. I’m just gonna stick with calling you Bill.

Not me; the ship.

Seriously? Tanny replied. She didn’t roll her eyes, but Esper heard an eye roll in her voice. What about that casualty report I asked for? The food inventory? Has anyone gotten the omni connected yet?

Bill spread his hands. They’re working on all that. But they asked me about a name for the ship, so I brought the matter to you, Miss Tania.

Bill… I know you want to make yourself useful around here, but maybe start—

What was the name before? Esper cut in.

Bill looked to Tanny, who shrugged off being interrupted. Used to be a pleasure cruiser, see…

Just spit it out, Bill.

"The Hidden Mistress," he admitted with an apologetic smile.

Esper nodded. So, the upscale version of an hourly motel.

More the weekend getaway sort, but yeah. So, I was thinking, and—

Keep the name, Esper stated firmly. Though she spoke the words to Bill, they were addressed to Tanny. We don’t have time for this nonsense. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I ought to go find my apprentice and work out a sleep schedule. One of us will be awake at all times for emergency astral drops. It’s just not safe for us anywhere in the galaxy anymore.

Tanny’s way of doing business had gotten them to this point. Esper was done taking a back seat in this crusade.

Finding her way through the TransGalactica 500 didn’t pose the least difficulty. Flatpic maps graced the walls at regular intervals, each marked with a star labeled you are here. Tiffany couldn’t have gotten lost if she tried. And right now, finding someone was more important than losing herself.

Hey, you seen Ritchie? Tiffany asked a random passerby, one of the syndicate people whose name she’d never bothered with. The guy was hauling an armload of data cable, a loose end dragging on the carpet behind him like a tail.

Don’t think so, he replied with a grunt. If you do, tell him to get his ass to the data cage. Just off the engine room.

Uh. Sure.

Tiffany scowled, wondering what kind of wreck Esper had brought them. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, but they could give the one handing out free ships a little shit for picking something that wasn’t done being assembled.

Tanny’s goon squad swarmed the ship like worker bees that just heard the queen was coming for an inspection. Half probably didn’t have a damn thing to do, but fuck if they didn’t make themselves look like they were holding the galaxy together with their two hands and a datapad… or a plasma welder… or a crate of indeterminate contents.

As she cut through the ship’s fitness center, she spotted a familiar face striding past in the corridor beyond. Breaking into a run, Tiffany called after him. Bosch!

The accountant pulled up and glanced down at his datapad. I’ve got you in G2. I had Zack deliver your luggage. The latter was said with the faint disdain of a man who probably had some stuff on board the Errand of Mercy that there hadn’t been time to go back for.

Have you seen Ritchie?

Checking the datapad again, Bosch swiped a few times. Tapped. Swiped down again. Shook his head. Sorry.

Just as he started off down the corridor again, Tiffany caught him by the arm. What? What’s ‘sorry’?

Confirmed deceased.

Tiffany’s breath caught in her chest. How?

"Never made it off the Errand of Mercy. Well…"

Well, what? Tiffany demanded, focusing her anger on the messenger.

He did exit, just not in an escape pod.

Tiffany furrowed her brow.

He was in Cargo Bay 9 when it was hit. Hull breach.

Tiffany covered her mouth with both hands. They… they spaced him?

She’d been with him in that cargo bay, shooting at stupid targets. If only she hadn’t played along with his dumb date idea before dragging him back to her quarters. If only she’d made sure he’d gotten somewhere safe before rushing off to the bridge.

If only…

If only…

Not even a wizard could turn back time. Recrimination wouldn’t bring Ritchie back.

It was battle damage. It would have been quick…

Quick? If spacing was a quick, painless death, why was it a pirate’s favorite demise for mutineers?

Eyes welling, Tiffany pushed past Bosch in the direction she figured would bring her to G2. She didn’t want anyone to see her break down crying. Wizards had to maintain an image. Calm. Stoic. Verging on murderous anger, caged only by their vast patience. Not. Fucking. Crying.

Especially not over some bedroom toy.

A wall of fury held back her grief like a dam. How dare these fucking Ruckers go around killing people like it was fucking nothing? If every last one of them killed one another, the galaxy sure would be a better place. Maybe Tiffany could take her start with smug, heartless Bosch and his bullshit list of dead kids.

Ritchie had been a kid. Her age, physically anyway. Not out of high school. Who the fuck thought it was OK to tow him into this orbit? If these were the good Ruckers, then where was the bar of decency set? Had Esper slap-taped one to the floor, or had she dug a trench to bury the bar even lower than that?

In between thoughts of murder and averting her eyes when anyone spotted her, Tiffany counted staterooms. When she reached G2, she swatted the door panel with a palm and didn’t wait for the door to finish opening before slipping inside.

No sooner had the door slid shut behind her than the tears came.

Ritchie was a tech-addled idiot. But dammit, he’d been nicer to her than anyone had in a long time. Esper had been gone. Even Kubu had been preoccupied with Harmony. Everyone else was either afraid of her or put up such a tough-cookie front that they couldn’t approach her as a friend. Ritchie had listened to his hormones and pitched caution into the reactor.

And he was dead because of it.

Most of the Rucker people had come back from Poltid. Kubu’s new tribe had chased off or hunted down the local megafauna and only eaten a few before the big lug took charge. If he hadn’t been welded to her at the hip, Ritchie would have gotten to an escape pod like the others.

Wiping her blurry vision clear, Tiffany stumbled through to her temporary quarters. There was a bed with a comfy-looking mattress but no linens or blankets, not so much as a pillow.

Good enough.

Letting herself go limp, Tiffany flopped onto the bed and sobbed.

Squeezing shut her eyes, forcing out the tears to trickle down her face, she willed herself out of this broken mess of a Tiffany.

When she opened her eyes next, she was standing in the village square in Tiffsylvania.

With just her thoughts, no weird brain chemicals getting in the way, she found herself able to think a touch more clearly. Pressing her clenched fists together, she bore down and concentrated.

Time folded.

Folded in on itself.

Doubled.

Quadrupled.

Sexdecupled.

Puffing her cheeks, Tiffany felt the dizzy pressure squeezing her mind like a deep-sea diver without a helmet. She had, quite literally, bought herself time. She could barely conceive of the contortions Esper managed to speed through her nights. Mortania was, by contrast, so utterly alien and impossible that it was simple to just write off as magic.

But for now, Tiffany had found the time she’d need to regain control of herself before she acted the fool in front of the crew. Those Ruckers already looked at her like bait for street-corner fishing. And even that was a step up from being viewed as a child.

Savoring the hay-and-dung scented air that had grown so familiar during the lifetime she’d called this place home, Tiffany strolled toward the tavern.

Hullo, milady!

Tiffany waved. Hey, Griselda.

Morning, Wizard.

To you as well, Andere.

Tiffany exchanged similar greetings with everyone she encountered, up to and including the tavern keeper.

Your usual, Wizard Tiffany?

Sure, she replied mechanically. A pre-poured ale was already sliding toward her waiting hand. Closing her grip when the tankard hit came as a reflex.

Lifting the sudsy brew to her mouth, she paused and gazed down. She knew before the first drop touched her lips what it would taste like, how the cool, pleasant trickle down her throat would feel. And without outside stimulus to learn otherwise, it would never be any different. This wasn’t Mortania; all that came from this place was conjured by her own mind.

Setting down the drink without sampling it, Tiffany pushed back her stool and stood.

What’s the matter? Was there something wrong with—

Then the bartender was gone.

Rather, Tiffany was gone. The rest of the village was otherwise intact and unharmed. Tiffany stood atop a flat gray panel whose only distinguishing characteristic was its utter lack of characteristics. It stretched off to the limits of vision in all directions, perfectly flat. The blankest of blank slates.

What to build here?

With no pressing need and time on her hands until someone came looking for her aboard the TransGalactica 500, Tiffany started by conjuring giant geometric shapes in simple, bold colors.

Tanny ran a finger down the banquet table, squeaking along the clean, glossy surface. Smaller round tables, scattered throughout the function room, could seat six or eight apiece. The focal point, however, was the long twenty-seater beside the floor-to-ceiling glassteel window. Today, that view was of unidentified stars, nonsense constellations that obscured the identity of even the Black Ocean’s best-known locales.

One of those stars out there was Sol.

In the vast void, 100 billion stars glistened. Among them, Sol was unremarkable. Yet one of the planets orbiting that unassuming G-type main-sequence star was Mars.

Home.

Tanny’s home as well as the home of the Rucker Syndicate.

According to the nav computer on this luxury cruiser, they were so far from Sol that it probably wasn’t even visible out there, yet it loomed over her no matter where she looked. A galactic power center unlike any other, it rivaled entire alien civilizations when it came to the scope of their reach and influence. Tanny would rather have had the zheen or eyndar looking for her head than her father’s people.

People filtered into the function room. Her people. A quick check of the chrono built into her datapad told Tanny that it was just a few minutes until the start of the meeting.

She greeted her core team one by one, allowing them to arrange themselves around the table as they saw fit. In a way, it showed just how little anyone understood the command structure that they left two conspicuous empty places, one by Tanny’s side, the other being the opposing head of the table.

Were she and Esper partners or check and balance?

Last to arrive, Esper carried a wine glass brimming with a steaming black liquid. At first, the dissonance of the sight kept Tanny from identifying the beverage; then she caught the telltale aroma of coffee.

Sorry, Esper said as she leaned against the glassteel wall. I’ve got night shift, and apparently hooking up a coffee maker is harder than it looks.

Right, Tanny said, ignoring the excuse. "I’ll try to keep this brief. I know you’re