Mercury Out Cold: Mercury Hale, #3.2

Mercury Out Cold by Steve Rzasa

www.steverzasa.com

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission from the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

INTERSTICE BOOKS and the INTERSTICE BOOKS logo are trademarks of Steve Rzasa. Absence of TM in connection with marks of Interstice or other parties does not indicate an absence of trademark protection of those marks.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Cover illustration: Tithi Luadthong

Layout and design: Steve Rzasa

Copyright © 2020 by Steve Rzasa

All rights reserved

International Standard Book Number: 9781733585187

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Chapter One

December

I had the pulsar stave ignited, ready to beat back a slavering astral fiend when it ...

Kidding.

It was totally dead in my apartment. The only thing battering down my windows was the rain outside. Gloomy clouds shrouded San Camillo’s buildings in a sticky fog. Sticky and cold. Just another beautiful December.

The pulsar stave was deployed but not powered—not yet. A flicker of will extended through my fingers sent yellow-white energies along its carvings, delivering just enough heat to its target. Said stave flicked a slice of pepperoni off the pie slumped against the inside of a white cardboard box from Carlito’s. Warmed it nicely. To be fair to the box, its molecular makeup wasn’t much different than the grease soaking its base, so it was probably more pizza than container.

I tossed the slice into my mouth and chased it down with pop. I burped, then let out a contented sigh. Which nobody could hear, because I was on my own. Just me and The Mandalorian.

Yeah, living the dream, I said to the empty apartment.

I twisted on the couch, hoodie and blue jeans barely warm enough. Should’ve kicked on the heat. Forget that. No way. The forecast said it was supposed to be sunny and low 60s. Not this rainy and 40 crap.

Great. I sighed. Baby Yoda was cute and all, but even he couldn’t banish my gloom. If there were literal doldrums, the city was stuck in them. And it was only noon.

My phone perched on the arm of the couch, brushing against my hair when I stretched and yawned for the 95th time that afternoon. Man. Had I even left the apartment? Never mind that. Had I left the cushion?

Biggest question: Since when did I care?

Boy. Save the world a couple of times and one’s sense of carefreeness gets easily supplanted by responsibility. What a drag.

Enough of that. I punched the speed dial icon at the top of my phone. It rang twice.

Hello?

Hey, Liz.

Oh, hi, Mercury! Elizabeth Stojan’s voice could have shot a beam of light from my phone’s screen, it was so sunny. I pictured her in—ironically—the darkest room of Procyon Foundation’s temporary secret headquarters, pink hair catching the glow from dozens of display screens ranging from tiny to huge. Nice day outside?

No, Liz, it’s raining. Miserable.

"Oh, yeah? I couldn’t tell since we’re down here below the silo but I always like to imagine it’s pretty out because otherwise it just makes the day dreary and slows me down and then I can’t get anything done, which is bad because if Ms. Lark—"

Got it, Liz. Say, since you’re hanging out in Tracking, could you—

Nope.

I blinked. Nope? Nope, what?

Nope, as in, no tachyon spikes, no interdimensional rifts, not a single rip in the past three weeks, or any other readings out of the ordinary.

Okay. You auditioning for Forecasting? I thought they were fresh out of dreamers to tell us when astral fiends might next make their appearances.

No, um, but this is like the sixth time you’ve called me since Tuesday.

Tuesday? I craned a neck. There was one of those freebie nature calendars stuck to the fridge, this year’s featuring coastal California photos. December was a nighttime image of San Camillo’s skyline glittering across the bay. Yikes. It was Saturday. And me, without plans. I mean, without plans beside epic Star Wars.

Still there, Mercury?

Yeah, I’m here. I figured I’d check. It’s quiet around here. Especially with Loredana gone. She and her girlfriends had headed Los Angeles for a ladies’ weekend. Good timing.

We were getting married in twelve days.

I glanced at my stealth suit. Gray and black patterns fit together like puzzle pieces, glistening in the lamplight. I should be off the couch, fighting crime. Seriously. With the near end of the world a few months before and the almost-immolation of San Camillo not long after, I’d kind of let the whole local vigilantism thing slide. I mean, I’d charged for the work because hey, I needed the money, but since I’d been back in Procyon’s good graces, I didn’t require extra income.

Not a great reason for taking a break, I know.

I checked my phone. Yeah, the public had noticed. People griped about me not preventing the things police had to clean up after—all the ravages of a big city. But keeping everything this side of the Interstice dimension safe from astral fiends who’d love nothing better than to drain humans of their lives took priority.

Maybe it was time to branch out, though. As in, the real hero stuff.

Okay. So, let’s do it. I slapped my hands on my knees and launched upright. And immediately grimaced, thanks to the dull ache in my leg that turned into a full-fledged stabbing pain. My prosthetic held my balance nicely, but the stump where flesh and blood ended still hurt. Bad weather made it throb worse.

I grabbed the suit. Shimmied out of my jeans and into the form-fitting attire. The pulsar stave’s energies writhed across its surface and bled into the suit, which channeled them into—well, channels, I guess. Bright lines on the jumpsuit’s borders. The stave’s energies also filtered into the prosthetic leg, which Liz had built along the same technology as my outfit. Lent me a nice boost if necessary.

I checked myself out in the mirror and grinned. Not too shabby.

So, Liz didn’t have any monster for me to chase, huh? No problem. I could find bad guys aplenty. I banged open the living room window and leap onto the fire escape ...

Right. Still raining.

The cold downpour hadn’t let up. I let water run off my face a moment before concealing all my features with the suit’s mask. Seriously?

Well, good thing the suit’s feet were fabricated with traction in mind. They stuck like magnets to the slippery metal as I vaulted down the fire escape and across to the next building.

Yeah, I know—dumb move, leaving my apartment that way. The suit had a bonus, though: Invisibility. Or, better put, adaptive camouflage. I was a blur of asphalt, brick, glass, and clouds as far as anybody who glanced out their window was concerned.

Ready to rock. Ready to put the smack on bad guys in my neighborhood.

And after thirty seconds perched on the railing, the rain managing to dampen me even through the supersuit, I took another look out the cars splashing through the puddles past lampposts sporting soggy wreaths and muttered, Forget this.

I went back in and shut the window. What was my major malfunction? It’s like I was tangled up in astral fiend’s tentacles, except pizza and beer and TV were threatening to drain my life away. I yanked the mask down and rubbed my face. Get a grip, Mercury.

Gee, it was almost like some major event had me anxious.

Wedding, maybe?

Spoiler: I’d never been to one. Not even someone else’s. So, the thought of standing up in front of people with Loredana before me, in the dress she still wouldn’t reveal ...

Fear’s not a word I throw around lightly.

My phone buzzed. Fingers crossed—Liz? No such luck.

Instead the caller ID told me I was getting Lieuten-ant Gabriel Ramos, San Camillo Police Department. Joy. I answered, Yo.

Will you stop? You sound like you’re auditioning for an MTV special. Ramos had one of those voices that made him sound like he was perpetually perturbed—which, in fairness, he was. And I may or may not have had something to do with that on more than one occasion. Suit up and get out to Court Street, by the overpass.

MTV special? Look, Ramos, if you’re gonna insist on talking like a forty-something I’ll have to up my game for snarky rejoinders.

Ramos sighed. I swore I could feel the breeze. Just hurry up, will you? This one is right up your alley and I didn’t want to call out the rest of the task force.

Task force? As in San Camillo Police Department Extraordinary Crimes Task Force? Whew. Clunky ac-ronym aside, I was all about putting in some mileage with the SCPDECTF—or goon squad, as we liked to call it. On my way. Don’t slay any monsters before I show up.

Wouldn’t dream of it. He hung up the call.

And I had already flung myself through the rain to the next building.

COURT STREET’S NEIGHBORHOOD didn’t look any better in the rain. But it smelled less terrible, because of the trash getting flushed down the gutters. I mean, sure, the electric candles in scattered windows and the one plastic Christmas tree put up a valiant fight against the blahs. Gloomy weather made the ramshackle buildings and pockmarked asphalt more depressing. Bonus? No drug dealers hanging out on the street corners. Even they stuck to indoors.

I somersaulted off a rooftop, did a parkour bounce twice down the sides of it and its neighbor, and thumped atop a Dumpster without slipping. Heck of a superhero landing.

Too bad the only person to appreciate it was Ramos.

He crouched behind the same Dumpster, his semi-automatic pistol drawn. Huh. He didn’t have his rifle, so it must be an astral fiend of the smaller variety. Funny Liz hadn’t spotted it—but given the way Procyon reorganized its secret activities, I