The Tyr: Arrival #1 The Tyr Trilogy

by Richard Fox

  There’d been no sign of the Hidden that had tried to drag him away, but Michael had changed his face to a Toiler’s hours ago and exchanged his clothes for some he’d found in an abandoned suitcase, so any Hidden trying to find him should have a hell of a time doing it.

  The idea to get away from them had seemed brilliant when he had it, but now he had no way of getting back into contact with his mother. And he still had no idea where his father was.

  “I’m going to be on Tyr forever. Got my wish alright. But will I get put into a work brigade or drafted into the army to get slaughtered first? Stupid. Stupid move.” He rubbed his upper arms, hoping the friction would get some heat back into his fingers.

  He passed a small gas station and saw that other refugees had beaten him there. The windows were broken and everything had been picked clean. Muttered curses and groans came from behind him. Michael quickened his pace.

  “Brother, come over here.”

  He kept going and a pair of Toilers stepped out in front of him, one armed with a crowbar, the other a crude club.

  “Brother, didn’t you hear us?” one asked.

  “He may be too young to be in a guild, but he knows the rules,” said the other, scratching his nose with a flick of his thumb.

  Michael now regretted taking on the markings of the Toiler caste. They had organized into trade syndicates after the last war, which gave them a fair degree of power when it came time to negotiate with the Royals that held monopolies on many industries.

  “I’m pledged to the teamsters, but I haven’t finished my apprentice term,” Michael said, raising his hands.

  “We’re with the docks, but you look hungry. Come on, we’ve got eyes on some food. You can help,” the one with the crowbar said. “It’s union or nothing, ain’t that right?”

  Michael felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air. When a Toiler said, “It’s union or nothing,” it was the same as saying you were with them or against them, and given how desperate everyone had become in the last half day, Michael wasn’t ready to make an enemy of every Toiler in the immediate area.

  “We’re nothing if we’re not union,” Michael countered with the appropriate response.

  “See, even teamsters know what’s good for them. Follow me, kid,” said the one with the club. They went around the back of the gas station where three more Toilers were squatting, additional simple weapons within reach. One had his arm in a sling, another bled from cuts on his face.

  “Pair of mercenary filth got a pack of food down in a ravine,” crowbar said. “They don’t want to give it up. One’s hurt and the other won’t leave him behind. So we go back there and convince them to give up the pack. We show up with enough muscle and they won’t fight this time. Here.” He gave Michael an ax handle and the impromptu gang moved off into the woods.

  Hours after the first attack and the Tyr society is already breaking down, Michael thought. Hours later and I’m part of a bandit gang. How the hell did I sink so low so fast? I’m not going to hurt anyone. I’m just a kid and—

  “Stay back!” a young woman shouted.

  Michael stopped in his tracks. He knew that voice.

  “We’re done asking!” Crowbar shouldered through bushes and slid down a muddy embankment. The rest of the Toilers followed, but Michael came down behind the rest.

  Lussea sat with her back to a boulder, one leg in a splint. Another Blooded, a young man the same age as Michael and her, had a constable’s truncheon in hand. He stood over her with his weapon held high.

  “You scum want more? I’ve got plenty for you!” the Blooded shouted.

  “Ain’t none of yours to protect you or turn us in to the Royals,” crowbar said. “Now just toss that pack to us and we’ll be on our way.”

  “No,” the Blooded said.

  “As you like,” said crowbar and rushed forward.

  Michael caught him by the collar and the Toiler’s feet shot out from under him. He jerked the Toiler back and threw him into a rock bed with an ugly crack of breaking bones. He swung his ax handle into another and earned a sharp cry of pain as a humerus cracked beneath the impact.

  One of the Toilers reacted to the sneak attack faster than Michael anticipated and stabbed at him with a knife. The blade nicked Michael’s side, bringing with it a dull pain, and he began to panic as the one with the knife slashed at him again.

  What had started as a brawl suddenly became a life-and-death fight.

  Michael backpedaled and swiped the ax handle across him, one hand on his wound. The knife wielder lunged at him, but his back foot slipped on the loose soil and the attack faltered. Michael punted him between the legs and the Toiler collapsed with a deep groan.

  Michael—now alive with adrenaline—slammed his weapon into the shoulder of another fighter, dislocating the arm. He whacked the butt of his club into the man’s face and broke his nose.

  “Run. Run!” Crowbar abandoned his weapon and helped drag away the one with a demolished crotch.

  Michael watched them retreat, his chest heaving. He glanced down at his hand covering the wound and saw a bit of red human blood on his palm, not the same deep violet color of the Tyr.

  “Thanks,” the Blooded said, “but don’t think that we’ll share—”

  “Lussea, are you all right?” Michael asked. “It’s me, remember?”

  “Michael?” She leaned forward, staring at his caste markings.

  “Yes, from…from the Linkers’ place on High Market. The Clays,” he said.

  “You know this guy?” the Blooded asked.

  “I do. I do!” She scooted toward Michael and the Blooded lowered his guard. Michael went to her and touched her face. “But you’re…you know what,” she said, “I’m not going to try and make sense of this anymore.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I was in a shelter with Bandar—he was the warden—but it was getting too dangerous with the fires and everyone ran…I broke my leg when a building almost collapsed on me and he saved me. Got me this far out of the city.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Where are your parents? Where have you been?”

  “It’s…” he glanced at Bandar, “it’s hard to explain. With…others around.”

  “What? We’re not all friends now?” the Blooded asked.

  “Bandar, we can’t stay here. Those Toilers might not have learned the lesson the second time. My splint? A crutch, maybe?” she asked.

  “He can…he can hold his own. Damn strong, even for a Toiler. You watch her. I’ll be back soon as I find a branch or something we can work with.” Bandar went into the woods.

  “Now you’re a Toiler?” Lussea loudly whispered, hugging Michael as best she could.

  “I can be any caste. Linkers were the best option for us for the most part. I was going to go with Blooded like you, but I thought I’d get drafted by the army if they saw me. I haven’t been making many good decisions lately and now, all of a sudden, I really want my parents around, but they…” He gave her a quick update on being arrested by the Shadows and the ambush at the bridge.

  “I don’t know where mine are either.” Lussea wiped away a tear. “Why are your caste doing this?”

  “We’re not all like this, but the ones with the spaceships and blasters are here and…first things first. Do you have some bandages or something?” he asked.

  “Here,” she said, bringing the pack around and opening it. Inside were packages of crackers, nuts, and several rolls of toilet paper. She thrust an arm inside and brought out a tin first-aid kit. “Should’ve had more medical stuff and water. A utility knife. But you were so insistent on toilet paper. That’s proven useful only once, but still…”

  He unscrewed the top from a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and dashed it over his wound, then against the stain on his shirt.

  “It’s useful again.” He tried folding squares of toilet paper into a pad, but his hands were trembling too hard. “Damn it…adrenaline. Dad told me that when the body’s in a
fight-or-flight situation, this sort of thing will happen.”

  Lussea finished folding the paper and pressed it against the cut on his synth. He grimaced at the wound. If it hadn’t been for the synth and its inherent toughness, the wound would’ve been much worse. He held down the field-expedient compress, then secured it to his side with a small roll of tape from the kit.

  She looked at his too-red blood on her hands and gasped. “That’s not…that’s not right…” She wiped her hands against her shirt.

  “We’re a little different,” he said. “Tell your boyfriend I’ve got Faben Syndrome, a Toiler blood disease. I’ll switch out my shirt later.”

  “He’s not…he saved me is all.” Lussea rolled her eyes. “I’ve never heard of Faben Syndrome.”

  “It’s not real. I’m just assuming he’s not real familiar with caste-specific diseases, OK?”

  “Can you switch to Linker again?” She poked at his markings.

  “I could, but how would we explain to the knuckle dragger that I’m suddenly not a Toiler?”

  “Oh, right. So what do we do now?”

  Bandar came out of the forest along with several long and somewhat straight branches.

  “We…we get you up and then we keep moving. Any place is better than King’s Rest right now…OK?”

  “That’s a start.” Lussea’s jaw worked from side to side, and Michael knew her well enough to recognize fear and uncertainty in her.

  And to be honest with himself, he didn’t feel all that confident either.

  Chapter 55

  Clay touched the bandage wrapped over his eye and around his head. There was no pain, but he needed to hide the damaged synth layer while it self-repaired. He leaned back in his seat in the rear of a utility vehicle, the bare metal of the interior and the too thin padding making him feel like he was back in the Corporation’s Compliance Force.

  Designing equipment with the soldiers’ comfort in mind proved to be a low priority for both species.

  Elsime sat in the seat next to him, a small radio set between them. She sat slightly hunched over, fiddling with a small tin in her hands.

  “We were in such a hurry to load up into this crap box,” she said. “Now we just sit here and wait.”

  “Welcome to the military. It won’t get any better,” Clay said.

  Elsime flinched away and looked up at him, like she’d forgotten he was there with her.

  “Prince—Crown Riktan…I’ve heard stories. Haven’t exactly been at this position for that long…what do you think he’ll do with you?” she asked.

  “Listen, I hope. If he doesn’t, then I’ll probably get burned at the stake…look at him.” Clay leaned around to one side of the seat in front of him. Fastal stood on top of a truck hood, speaking to a stunned motley crew of air force personnel and soldiers, a pair of Close Guard flanking either side of the truck.

  “What’s he doing?” Elsime asked. “I can’t make anything out.”

  “He’s giving them hope,” Clay said. “They all know what happened to the King. They saw the Myrmidons—sky demons—killing their fellows. Fastal’s showing them a path forward, giving them a reason to drive on and not give in to despair. We used to have men like him.”

  “Your caste doesn’t anymore?”

  “Somewhere…there might be some out there, but all the ones I’ve met fight for a bonus payment or to get out of debt. They’re all mercenaries. No honor. Fastal…all the stories about him are true.”

  “I could use some of that resolve he’s handing out right about now. What’s…what’s inside those things that killed the King? I had nightmares about Slavers coming to take me away when I was a little girl, but that thing was far worse.”

  “Just a man, like me.” Clay reached for a weapon absent from his hip. Fastal had him lock all his Corporation-tech weapons away. “If it makes you feel any better, if they tried fighting you in the same stuff,” he tugged at the collar of his freshly issued fatigues, “I’d say you’d come out the winners.”

  “But we’re not in that kind of a fight, are we?” The corner of her mouth pulled into a momentary sneer. “We can’t even get our radios to work. Nothing but static for hours.”

  “That’s not such a bad thing. If Fastal broadcast that he was bringing me to Riktan, the Corporation would take us out from the air—assuming they still want to kill me. Explaining to Fastal that radio waves keep going off into space—and my people can intercept them—took some time, but he’s inclined to believe me.”

  “We’ll be on the road for almost an entire day.” She opened the tin in her hand, revealing a few dried mushrooms packed into papers. “One of the medics gave me this. Said I should eat one to calm my nerves for a bit. Oaxa. I don’t know if I should. Take too much and things get…iffy. You want one?”

  She held the tin over to him.

  “Human and Tyr are pretty close physiologically, but we’re not entirely sure what it’ll do to us. This isn’t the time for science,” he said.

  The front doors opened and Fastal and a driver got in. The general reached for a radio handset clipped to the front dash, clicked the receiver, then tossed his hand up in frustration.

  “Still no radios. How long will this last?” he asked over his shoulder. Seeing the look on Clay’s face, he added, “Oh, our driver’s eardrums were blown out during the attack. We can talk. Just kick the back of his seat and point if you need something.”

  Clay shrugged. “They’re jamming from orbit…so until they stop, we move out of the area or we knock down the satellites doing the jamming.”

  “I remember talk about firing missiles from fighters to take down the heretics’ spy sats…” Fastal narrowed his eyes slightly.

  “Don’t bother. The Corp will knock down anything you can shoot at them.” Clay took a sip of water from a tin canteen.

  The vehicle’s wheels ground against loose dirt as it joined the convoy and rolled onto the road.

  “Close Guard’s taking the King back to the capital.” Fastal kept hold of the useless handset. “No one else in the kingdom knows what’s happened. The Prince will…I only met him once. He was a bean head at the Royal Barracks. A first year—”

  “I know,” Clay said.

  “He was very excited to get on the front lines and ‘kill heretics to please the gods.’ Wanted to serve in my command. I would have let him, if for no other reason than to tamp down his enthusiasm for combat,” Fastal said.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Elsime asked. “Don’t we need to fight?”

  “We have to fight smart,” Clay said. “Charging tanks across the field like at the Battle of Broken Hearts won’t end well.”

  “That battle didn’t end well for a lot of my men,” Fastal said, tapping the handset against a radio, “despite how the commissioned art made it look. I still have nightmares about that day. What’s the enemy doing right now, Clay?”

  “If they follow normal operations for a planet with your tech level…clearing out a foothold. From there, they’ll establish a colony and push ‘threats’ farther away.”

  “The Azure Islands.” Fastal rubbed his face. “We’re not helpless there. Blooded garrisons to discourage the Slavers from raiding. Royals know how to fight too.”

  “If I was in in charge of the Compliance Force, then it would be Marauders on the attack, which…”

  “Tell me everything about them,” Fastal said.

  Elsime began taking notes as Clay spoke.

  “…the suits can be—” He squinted out his side window. “Stop. Stop!” Fastal slapped the driver on the shoulder and Clay jumped out of the vehicle as it slowed.

  He ran into the forest and to a tree, where a fighter cockpit chair was caught in the upper branches, the parachute tangled in the next tree over. Clay put his hands on his hips and looked over the situation.

  “I’ll be damned,” Fastal said. “One of the fly-boys survived…probably.”

  “I need to use one of the weapons we ‘captured.’”
Clay drew a laser pistol from beneath his tunic and fired twice into the top of the tree. Flocks of birds burst into the air as the bolts impacted. Flames licked blackened branches and there was a creak of failing wood.

  The ejection seat fell a few feet onto a lower bough, then dropped down the side of the trunk. Clay caught the seat with a grunt, then plopped it onto the ground.

  The pilot’s face was cut, and bloodstains marred his caste markings so badly that Clay had to assume he was Blooded and not a Royal.

  Fastal gave the pilot’s shoulder a shake. “You OK?”

  The pilot smacked his dry mouth. Clay handed his canteen to the general and he poured water over the pilot’s lips.

  “Captain Jiniq…King’s Striker squadron,” the pilot rasped.

  “We’ve got medics on the way, hold tight.” Fastal looked at Clay. “Don’t make it harder for me to explain that you’re just my ‘aide.’ Not until we get to the Prince.”

  “Doubt many saw what I did,” Clay said. “Another soldier in the fight, at least.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a Tyr under all that?” Fastal asked. “Because you act like us.”

  “Don’t…don’t believe humans are like you. That will only end in disappointment and suffering,” Clay said, shaking his head. “Let’s get the fly-boy to the road. Sooner we’re on the move, the sooner we can get to the Crown Prince.”

  The two grabbed the carry handle at the top of the seat and dragged it back to the road.

  “Where’s my family?” Clay asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. I heard the Close Guard had them, but I don’t know where. Everyone that did know was close to the King and they’re dead…or maybe Matron Virid, but she said she didn’t know and I sent her back to the capitol,” Fastal said. “What happens to them is not my decision.”

  “We had plans for if we were ever found out, but not at the same time Corporate was hunting for us too. If they can escape, they will…but I won’t.”

  “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “Because we can change our caste at will,” Clay said. “We can go anywhere, be anyone. Finding each other could be…a problem when we’re separated. Which is why I’ll stay close to prominent people like you. Either you’ll bring my family back to me or they’ll find me on their own.”