Sixteen Tomes: Black Ocean: Mirth & Mayhem, #8

By J.S. Morin

That's the thing about unfinished business; it doesn't go away if you ignore it.

 

Chuck and Mort team up to finish a job Mort had to leave undone. A dark wizard is on the loose with a head start and the entire galaxy in which to hide. Their only lead? A mystical connection that Mort doesn't want to talk about. To make matters worse, their target has an accomplice, and it's someone Mort isn't inclined to get rough with.

 

On the homefront, Brad is grounded both literally and figuratively. Stranded on a retrovert planet with nothing to do, he's forced to make his own fun. And what better way to liven up a dull planet than to run a scam on the people responsible: his family.

 

Sixteen Tomes is the eighth mission of Black Ocean: Mirth & Mayhem. It follows a mismatched duo of itinerant comedian and outlaw wizard as they roam the galaxy trying to eke out a living and stay ahead of the consequences of their actions. Black Ocean: Mirth & Mayhem looks back at an earlier era in the Black Ocean universe, and returning readers will get to see how some of their favorite characters came to be. Fans of morally gray heroes and slick talking conmen will love this series.

 

Grab your copy before someone else does.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magical Scrivener Press
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781643557632

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

Sixteen Tomes

SIXTEEN TOMES

MISSION 8

BLACK OCEAN: MIRTH & MAYHEM

J.S. MORIN

Copyright © 2021 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: 978-1-64355-763-2

Printed in the United States of America

SIXTEEN TOMES

MISSION 8

Mort folded suit coats, dress shirts, ties, vests, slacks, and shoes until everything fit into an attaché case. Reductive magic wasn’t his strong suit, but without pausing to think what he was doing to the articles, the packing proceeded apace. It would have gone quicker if he’d been alone—or if his companion wasn’t actively attempting to thwart his departure.

There’s no need. You don’t have to pursue him. You’re aiding the very forces that work against you.

They’d arrived separately at Mort’s Jazz Town boarding house. He hadn’t wanted to put up with her badgering the whole trip from New Cali. Once back on her turf, however, there was no way to be rid of her without causing either scene or spectacle.

He couldn’t lock her out of the boarding house; she owned it.

He couldn’t use the local cops to get her charged for harassment; she owned them, too.

He could have reduced her to a pile of ash that was incapable of nattering at him. But, alas, she owned him after a fashion as well.

Mort gave the room one final sweep of his gaze. The closet, the dresser drawers, the nightstand—all open and empty. If there was anything left in the washroom from his daily toilet, he’d replace it aboard the Radio City.

Don’t you ignore me! Keesha shouted as Mort stormed out of the rent-free room.

The wizard paused. He didn’t dare look back.

You want me ignoring you. You need me ignoring you. I understand what you’ve done and why you’ve done it. But you’ve chosen a side, and it wasn’t mine. I’m not in the habit of leaving loose ends, let alone active impediments to an assignment. As such, I don’t expect I’m much good at it. I haven’t killed you because I don’t want to. Don’t force my hand.

Without waiting for a reply and without looking back, Mort trudged out of the boarding house in search of a taxicab.

Chuck sat waiting at the table in Joan and Stu’s cramped dining room. There was really no excuse for how tiny the rooms were in this place. Since the backyard was twice the size of the house, there was a ton of wasted real estate given over to grass, patio furniture, and a swing set that hadn’t seen use in thirty years. Knock out a few walls, throw up some bricks or whatever the fuck these replica ancient houses were made of, and there would be plenty of space for a dining room where a broad-shouldered fellow could swing his elbows.

Pass the ketchup, if you wouldn’t mind, Joan called out in that sickly sweet clarion voice that suggested someone was filming a sitcom nearby.

Normally, Chuck knew better than to ketchup a steak. He’d eaten in establishments where a chef might exit the kitchen with murderous intent if she caught you dousing a fillet or a porterhouse in artificial tomato compote. There were colonies that might deport a visitor over such an offense.

Without comment, Chuck lifted a suspiciously light bottle and handed it down toward the in-law end of the table.

When Joan squeezed, the bottle wheezed. A sputter of the red sauce spattered her plate. Holding back an obvious scolding, she scanned the table and discovered the culprits. Mike and Rhiannon had both used the ketchup like frosting atop their steaks. Hardly any hint of the meat was visible except at freshly cut edges.

Chuck didn’t blame his kids. He was using domestic beer to soften each mouthful of Stu’s steak briquettes before attempting to chew. Despite claims that medical care across Peractorum conformed to ARGO Medical Association standards, he could never shake the feeling that the doctors here were little better than a placebo. Cracking his chompers on beef-scented charcoal was a sure ticket to a dentist’s office.

You’ve hardly touched your dinner, Sport, Stu commented jovially with a nod toward Brad’s plate.

The teenager didn’t need coaching or parental intervention. Not that hungry.

Joan had gotten up to find a replacement ketchup bottle. She perked up at the chance to busybody the younger generation. Aww, sweetie. Was racing camp not everything you’d hoped for?

"It wasn’t all bad," Brad mumbled as he poked his mashed potatoes with a fork.

We’ll find you something here in New Cali to cheer you up.

Chuck had already denied a request to tag along with Mort in Jazz Town. With the kid having taken up piracy, he deserved to be grounded—both in the flying and the parental discipline senses of the word. While trying to think up punishments on the way back from Copa IX, the best he’d come up with was sucking it up and staying with his grandparents for the rest of the summer. Any punishment Joan was liable to devise would blow Chuck’s paltry imaginings of teenage hell out of the water.

Brad glanced up tentatively. Surfing school, maybe?

Gritting his teeth, Chuck held back his instant commentary.

His first reaction was that Brad knew nothing about surfing, wasn’t even much of a swimmer, and was a sack of ribs in a bag of pale spacer skin. Plus, surfing was a macho guy sort of sport, which would attract a demographic that might result in a broken nose or a cracked jaw the way the kid got on people’s nerves.

Then, Chuck realized that whether they were in the class or not, surfers would attract girls. New Cali was the sort of colony where teenage girls would wear makeup with their swimwear before heading to the beach. And God forbid Brad actually gained any competence at the sport. A little muscle and a tan over that scrawny frame, and Chuck would be fighting off paternity suits nonstop until Brad turned eighteen.

Luckily, Joan was wet blanket enough to forestall any such possibilities. Oh, I can’t imagine them having an opening this far into the summer. But we’ll find you something.

A loud knock at the door broke the rhythm of dinner.

Wonder who that could be? Stu asked rhetorically as he wiped his mouth with a napkin that matched the gingham tablecloth and headed to find out.

Please be dementia services… please be dementia services… Becky chanted in a whisper meant for only Chuck to hear.

"I’m looking for Chuck Ramsey," a gruff voice announced loudly enough that everyone in the house heard it clearly.

Brad’s eyes lit.

Uncle Mort? Mike asked hopefully. There was nothing like a wizard to make things interesting. Frankly, much as the snoozeball of a colony needed a little livening up, he’d really hoped to keep Mort away from Stu and Joan until he was willing to burn this Peractorum bridge for good.

Lemme go see what he wants, Chuck informed everyone and yet no one in particular.

Chuck arrived at the living room to find Mort dressed shipboard style in sweatshirt and denims. The clothes fit the time period but not the vibe New Cali tried to cultivate. He was slovenly and laissez-faire when everyone around here was trying to cram themselves so hard into the mold that they had parting lines in their plastic faces.

Chuck, step outside a moment, Mort told him.

We’re in the middle of dinner, Stu informed his rude guest.

Mort put an arm around the shoulders of Becky’s father and guided him in the direction of the dinner noises. Wouldn’t dream of interrupting the family meal more than I already have. With a subtle shove that didn’t have enough magic behind it to foul the primitive local technology, wizard and father-in-law parted ways. Mort took Chuck by the sleeve and dragged him out the door.

What’s up, big guy? Chuck asked, trying to keep things lighthearted. He lowered his voice. Thanks for getting me out of there. Phew, lemme tell you, I—

No time. We need to get spaceborne.

Huh? What? Confusion morphed into an in-on-the-joke grin. Ah, ya got me. This is payback for that dinner I spoiled in Jazz Town. Gimme a few to choke down the rest of my steak, and I’ll smooth things over with your—

Can you shut up a goddamn minute? Mort snapped. Chuck’s guts fell into his shoes. He wasn’t accustomed to the wizard’s ire aimed in his direction. I’ve got a real problem. And funny you mention that dinner engagement you shanghaied me from. Because I was there to track down the gentleman I was dining with. Thanks to our little adventure, I’ve lost him.

You’ve been… Chuck trailed off, not daring to voice a guess aloud in case he was misreading the wizard. After all, magical folks had some funny notions and a distinct culture of their own. He didn’t want to offend a clearly agitated murderer.

Yeah, Mort confirmed. I have been. Let’s vamoose. You’re my chauffeur until I get this mess sorted out.

Chuck glanced back toward the house.

He could say no.

He could go back inside and finish dinner, listen to Joan try to shoehorn Brad into a summer enrichment program, watch his kids make faces and hold out on eating anything until bribed with a dessert, play footsies with Becky under the table before having to go to the Yuk Yuk Goose and put on a whole show and have drinks with Ed before he could come back and get her to make good on her flirting.

That last bit almost got Chuck to dig in his heels and put up with the rest.

You owe me.

If Chuck had ever wavered, that was the knockout punch that was going to get him dragged along on whatever this adventure was going to be.

"I’ll comm Becky from the Radio City."

Whatever Mort and Dad had gone off to do, it had to be more interesting than staying behind. The comm had come ex post facto, as Mort called it. Brad couldn’t remember the exact translation, but it amounted to too late, sucker. Now he was planetside without even a starship whose override codes he’d memorized.

This wasn’t the first time that Brad had considered running away. It was, however, the first time he felt fairly stuck where he was. Peractorum wasn’t exactly crawling with starships, nor was it the kind of place where one going missing would be easily overlooked. Also, adults on this planet seemed to actually get all up in everyone else’s business, especially underage business.

"Brad! Mom called from downstairs. Come make yourself useful!"

Mom never sounded so much like she gave a shit as when she was showing off what a great mom she’d turned out to be. Gramma Joan was annoying as shit, but that didn’t mean Mom had to kiss her ass the entire time they were colony-bound with them.

Brad slid off the top bunk, couching the brief fall with a flex of his knees. Mikey had given up the top bunk when he arrived. Now, the arrangement was Brad up top, littles head-to-foot sharing the bottom. What sort of sadistic asshole put bunk beds in a guest room? A petition to relocate to the basement with a sleeping bag formed in Brad’s mind. But with Grampa Stu’s beer fridge in the basement rumpus room, he expected that to be a nonstarter.

With a typical teenage slump to his shoulders, Brad slogged downstairs to see what fresh hell they’d cooked up for him.

Be a dear and take Mike to baseball practice.

Brad glanced from his colony-proper mom in her monotone blue dress to his sportsball-clad kid brother, wondering when the whole goddamn galaxy had lost its mind.

Who’re you supposed to be?

Fit in. There’s clothes in the closet your size.

Brad opened his mouth to object but stopped when he saw the red-dot-of-a-laser-scope-on-my-chest look in her eyes. She was also using her argument-forestalling smile. Filing this imposition away as munitions for a future skirmish, Brad headed back up the stairs, stomping the whole way.

When he returned to the kitchen moments later, Brad was a