Viva, Las Vega IX, page 1
VIVA, LAS VEGA IX
BLACK OCEAN: MIRTH & MAYHEM, MISSION 5
J. S. MORIN
MAGICAL SCRIVENER PRESS
Copyright © 2020 J.S. Morin
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J.S. Morin — First Edition
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VIVA, LAS VEGA IX
“Class, we have a new student starting today. This is Bradley Ramsey, a spacer who’s going to be with us for the rest of the semester. Say hello, everyone.”
“Hi, Bradley,” a ragged and listless chorus of twenty-three teenagers replied with downtrodden obedience.
“Just Brad, actually,” Brad corrected with a self-conscious smile and a tentative wave.
The instructor was Mrs. Braeburn, a forty-something brunette with an accent that the vice principal described as Kiwi—and warned that it wasn’t to be made fun of. Brad was certain there was a story behind that warning, one he secretly hoped would be worth an expulsion if he ever needed one.
For now, he was stuck.
Truancy laws on Vega IX kicked in for children of spacers after a month planetside. Brad had dodged formal schooling for nearly six weeks before Henderson School Board officials caught up with him and gave the Ramsey family a choice: public school, correctional school, or depart the system. Brad liked to think that Dad would have pulled up stakes before he let his eldest son get sent to a youth prison over skipping out on standardized education.
“I’m afraid you’re registered as Bradley, Mr. Ramsey,” Mrs. Braeburn replied primly, prompting a few titters from his new classmates. “We have a formalized system of respect and adherence to protocols. You are to address me as Mrs. Braeburn, and I, in turn, address you as either Bradley or Mr. Ramsey. Understood?”
“Yes, Mrs. Braeburn,” Brad replied, able to keep his expression politely attentive as he added you snooty bitch in his head.
“Who’d like to make room for Bradley up front?” Mrs. Braeburn asked. She swept a sickly sweet smile across the students closest to the vid board at the head of the room.
Brad’s eyes shot wide. Ever since arriving in his first-period class, he’d been eyeing the empty desks at the back of the room.
“I don’t know what you might have heard about spacers, but I have excellent vision,” Brad blurted.
“I’m sure you do. But I do have some experience with itinerant children who’ve spent too few years in formal schooling. I think I’d like to keep a close eye on you.” She took her vulture-eyed attention off Brad for a moment. “No takers? First one to volunteer can skip Monday’s quiz.”
Hands shot up as if spring-loaded.
Mrs. Braeburn shook her head. “Sad, really. Alas, we’re here to learn civics, not ethics. But I caution you each to look inward at how cheaply you can be bought.” She tapped a finger to indicate a boy in the second row. “Alton was the first with his hand up.”
One quiet cheer and a symphony of disappointed “awws” greeted the pronouncement. Alton gathered his school supplies and made a hasty and triumphant retreat to the rear of the classroom.
Brad slunk into his designated seat, disturbingly still warm with the residual heat of some other guy’s ass. Just as he was settling in, he caught a glance from next door. His neighbor on the left was smiling at him.
With Mrs. Braeburn turning back to yammer about Vega IX’s local parliamentary system, Brad turned to smile back.
She had hair so red it had to be one of those temporary gene treatments. Vega IX was a core world, after all. Shit like that got sold at shops same as booze and hormone regulators. Same went for the striking emerald eyes unless those were simple contact lenses. Brad promised himself some deep gazing into those eyes to determine for himself. Everyone in the class wore identical white dress shirts, slacks, and ties, but some students filled theirs out better than others. This girl counted among those who made Core World Bland look good.
“Hi,” she mouthed with a coy smile.
“Hi,” Brad replied in kind.
“Bradley, eyes up front. Same for you, Amelia.”
Brad snapped his attention forward, mouth agape. He caught himself before voicing a self-incriminating question.
This teacher was no fool. She didn’t need any help indicting Brad. “The screen is mildly reflective. That’s how. Now, who can tell me the minimum age to run for District Legislature…?”
It was Brad’s first day in the class, and Mrs. Braeburn wasn’t enough of a hardass to pick on him, knowing he had no clue about local politics. Comfortably slouching into his desk chair, Brad’s mind departed the premises.
Amelia. Her name is Amelia.
Maybe this cockamamie school business wouldn’t be so bad after all.
A merry little bell tinkled as Mort entered the store. If only the bell knew the business that brought him to Bellagio & Sons, it would have tolled a dirge instead.
The wizard took a deep breath, savoring the heady scent of honest-to-Gutenberg literature. Plastic books had a reek to them, chemicals cooked up by science-knew-what, not fit for discerning noses. Datapads could get themselves covered in words arranged in the text of iconic works but could never rightly be considered books. No, only books properly smelled like books.
Bellagio & Sons was Mort’s kind of place.
On a core world, it was all too easy to get overwhelmed by the ubiquitous technology, from science-stacked towers of steel and glass to continent-spanning floaty-trains to pedestrians laden like so many pack mules with gadgets they could hardly think straight. Earth did the decent thing and carved out sizable enclaves where wizards could feel like wizards. Not many other core worlds were so accommodating.
“Can I help you?” a genteel voice inquired, laced with a hint of phony Italian affectation.
Mort meandered among the shelves, admiring embossed titles and spines filigreed with gold leaf. He didn’t seek out the speaker to address him face to face. “Doubtful. I’m more perspicacious than your typical patron.”
“That might be the case for a typical purveyor of authentic paper books, but I assure you that—”
“Ever been to Earth?” Mort asked. He ambled over to the sales counter, where a hefty ledger sat beside a quill and ink to record transactions, and rested a forearm on the authentic wood surface.
The salesman was your average sort, almost a requirement when operating such a time-honored business. He wore a dress shirt starched within an inch of its life and white enough to suck the color out of Chardonnay. The gold chain of a pocket watch disappeared into a tiny pocket in the sleek black vest, worn like a uniform. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles had lenses so petite and perched so far down the man’s nose that they’d have been useless for any purpose but needlepoint.
Mort’s question caused the bookseller to lift his chin with pride. “I daresay I have.”
“Seen the Convocation library?”
“Indeed. Finest collection of magical literature in the galaxy. I’d be remiss as a merchant of rare and exotic—”
“And the Plundered Tomes?”
The man sneered. “Oh. Bugger all. It is you.”
Mort snickered. “You don’t have to like it, but our mutual friend isn’t allowed on Vega.”
The bookseller lifted a hinged section of the counter to allow Mort into the back room as he retreated deeper into his sanctum. “Since we’re apparently spies, I ought to have you call me Charlemagne.” The suggestion was liberally doused in sarcasm.
“How’s about I call you Bellagio, since it’s on your damn sign?”
“Point taken. But you’re excising what little fun might have been available in this dreary arrangement.”
Dreary would have been the last descriptor Mort might have used to describe his exploits of the past year. Ever since twisting Azrael’s arm into taking over as Guardian of the Plundered Tomes, Mort had received privileged intel on a series of dark wizards and a blind eye toward the method he chose to employ in their demise. Aside from the gloom-and-funeral solemnity with which his handler, Anubis, delivered the damned to their fates, the rest was a hoot-and-a-half.
“Who’ve we got this time?” Mort had been to three cities on Vega IX, met with three local contacts, and killed three unspectacular practitioners of the not-for-polite-society magic. But, like any good trooper, Mort always managed to make his own fun.
“You’re awfully flippant about this.”
Bellagio sniffed. “Well, in that, at least, we agree. The sooner I can discharge my duty in this matter, the sooner I can return to the company of my silent companions.” He swept an arm to encompass the lines of shelves.
“So… who? Where? What can you tell me about today’s miscreant? If you’re so all-bloody-fired-up to be rid of me, spit it out.”
Bellagio extracted a scrap of parchment from his vest pocket and unfolded it more times than would have appeared possible. When laid flat on the counter between the wizards, it bore no hint of a crease. The document faced Mort, not the bookseller, so Mort simply read the dossier for himself.
Attn: Mordred
There ended the familiar letters of Mort’s native tongue. The rest he was forced to read in excellently penned Sanskrit.
An esteemed colleague, Thaddius Bluth, has fallen from the proper way. He has been found guilty in absentia of experimentation on technologists involving ritual dismemberment, research goals unknown. He was last seen in the Centennial Park District of Paradise Province on the ninth planet of the Vega system. He is not to be left alive under any circumstances. If the method of his demise is horrific, certain well-placed personages would be obliged to his killer.
* * *
No. It would not result in a restoration of previous positions. You would do best not to consider that possible.
The letter went on to list Thaddius Bluth’s academic qualifications and professional accomplishments leading up to his disappearance from public Convocation life five years ago. It was the resume of a man lined up for tenure, not a criminal. Mort genuinely wondered what had sent this promising career off orbit.
Crimes be damned, this fellow sounded more a candidate for a friendship than a duel to the death. They were both Oxford alumni, former debaters, avid bowlers.
It didn’t bother Mort that Bluth had been on the lam during his watch as Guardian of the Plundered Tomes. He wasn’t a missing persons service, after all. If someone else found a dark wizard, that was one thing. But he didn’t devote library resources to looking. Once one turned up, if they were of an authorial bent, Mort or his agents would collect the books. If not, Wenling generally had more wizardly thugs at her disposal to clean up run-of-the-mill cads—the sort who bullied non-magical colonists or used their powers to commit sexual indiscretions.
Mort blinked at the page and reread it.
There was no mention of what written materials or research he might be expected to collect from Thaddius Bluth.
Sure, every once in a while, some paranoid or arrogant wizard would keep his notes in his head. But generally, it was the aspect of document retrieval that determined whether the Library of the Plundered Tomes got involved.
“You read Sanskrit?” Mort asked.
Bellagio had turned his shoulders, allowing Mort to peruse without anyone gawking. “Not well enough that I’d inadvertently spy on a confidential missive. Especially not upside down. If I might inquire…?”
“Yeah, they told me to burn it.” It was the last scribbled annotation at the end. Same as every other written communication he’d received from Earth.
“If you must, please do so once you have exited the—”
Mort halted him with a raised palm. “Not to worry. I know better than to light fires where I don’t want everything in cinders.” He passed a hand over the page, swirling it in circles without ever touching the paper.
At first, nothing happened. Then, the ink blurred, ran, and seeped to the surface of the letter. Slowly, deliberately, Mort lifted his hands, pinching his fingers together as if plucking a scrap of silk from the counter.
The ink oozed up into a glob, levitating until Bellagio took a hint and snatched up the inkpot beside his ledger.
Mort deposited the ink with a curt nod. “Waste not, want not. Hate to ruin good paper.”
The Hourglass was Chuck’s kind of place. White tablecloths. Martinis. Three-piece live jazz band that played in the background and between sets. The waiters wore tuxedos and carried drinks on silver trays. It was the kind of place that could afford to pay top-notch talent to top-notch clientele.
Chuck wasn’t about to let on that he didn’t qualify.
“You don’t gotta hang around here two hours before showtime,” Curtis mentioned in passing as he bustled, parting ways with the head chef as they crossed paths in the dining area.
“I like soaking in the ambiance,” Chuck replied nonchalantly. He lounged with his arms out wide, along the back of the leather-upholstered, semi-circular booth as if ready to encircle a pair of attractive young ladies who would join him at any minute.
Curtis Mancuso oozed core world. Every tooth in his wide smile gleamed gold. Not a strand of hair grew anywhere on the glossy-smooth skin of his head. His faux vintage horn-rimmed glasses concealed discreet datagoggles, and his suit fit him like a computer had scanned and printed it right onto his body.
For the past months, and hopefully the next few, he was Chuck’s boss.
“Naw, man. You got a ruminating look about you. And you wouldn’t be here—in the part of the day I don’t pay you for—if it weren’t something to do with me.”
Chuck snickered. “Guilty as charged.”
Curtis slipped into the far side of the booth, well out of reach of the comedian’s sprawl. “So… what you got on your mind?” He crossed his legs and tented his fingers, fixing Chuck with undivided attention.
Who knew what those datagoggles might be showing just then? Chuck had caught fleeting peeks from behind his boss, and the lenses were devilishly designed to only show data from the user side.
“Thinking of changing up the act…”
“Say what now?”
Chuck put up his hands in mock surrender. This wasn’t meant to be a radical suggestion. He wasn’t plotting a course for zheen space on this one. “Nothing jarring. Same audience demographic. It’s just… a different mix of material. The set I’ve been performing doesn’t hit any Dangerfield or Rickles. I think the Sunrise City crowd might really take a shine to—”
“Naw, naw, naaaaw… You got a good thing going here. A good thing. Don’t be messing with no good thing. You take this horse; you ride it. I got hard up for an act when Bristol passed unexpectedly—rest his soul. Agency hooks me up with this spacer with jokes older than asteroids. But it works. It works. Didn’t expect nothing but a couple filler nights till I could hire me a bona fide comic, but it works. And you don’t see me talking about shaking things up, trying something new.”
“I hear you. I hear you,” Chuck said. “But I was just thinking—”
“Thinking’s good. I like a thinking man. But a smart man is in how he does his thinking. Is he thinking long term: money, reputation, legacy? Or is he thinking short term: booze, tits, sitting on his ass in front of the holo? They both thinking. They ain’t nothing the same, neither. Which kind you is?” Curtis pushed his dataglasses down his nose and peered over them.
Chuck didn’t hesitate. “I’m my own kind of thinker. Long term. Short term. It’s all life, my man. Neglect half, the whole suffers. Holistic. That’s the word. Everything connects to everything else. Gotta keep a wide perspective.”
As the comedian rambled, Curtis nodded along. “A’ight, man. You deep. I feel that. Do your thinking. Just don’t be thinking nothing about changing that act. They billions of paying customers on this planet. Ain’t a fraction heard of you. You just keep dogging them same ancient jokes, grinning that same laughing-at-my-own-self smile. You a fortunate motherfucker even having a job on Nine. Don’t go blowing it chasing creative fulfillment or some buuull shit.”
With that, the owner of The Hourglass walked away, shaking his head.
Chuck didn’t argue. The power dynamic here was all askew. Curtis Mancuso ran the club as a hobby—the guy was made of money and could operate at a loss for the rest of his life. Chuck ran his hobbies as a business and needed every terra he could squeeze out of Vega IX. Unlike Earth, the gig-to-cost-of-living ratio was putting him ahead of the game, possibly for the first time in his career.
