Tyche's Demons: A Space Opera Military Science Fiction Epic (Ezeroc Wars: Tyche's Progeny Book 1)

by Richard Lloyd Parry

  El slid up to the bar, dropping a stack of coins on the plastic surface. No moody wood in here, just polymers so coated in dried up alcohol new life was blooming. The bartender, a kid about twelve years old by her judgment, too young to have more than a wisp of fur on his face, ogled the coins, then nodded when she pointed to a bottle of amber liquid behind him.

  There were several things she needed to work through, and almost none of those needed her to be sober. When her glass arrived, she squinted at the inside, then cleaned it with the hem of her shirt. A shirt which she’d borrowed, on account of her ship suit being dirty beyond even a student bar’s standards, and also on account of it being confiscated by Guild geeks who wanted to see what dead nanobots looked like.

  She poured liquid, the soothing slosh giving her something to think about for a moment. When the glass was full to the brim, she couldn’t avoid it anymore, so she thought to herself, Your starship died, El. The Troy and all souls aboard, lost in an ocean of black. How do you feel about that?

  El looked at the bartender, the kid not too dissimilar in configuration if not looks to Leo Shackleton, whom El had been joking with no more than ten hours ago by her relative time. You feel bad about that, especially since you got him in that Helm chair. He wasn’t like you, El. Leo flew the stars, but he wasn’t ready to die. El’s thoughts turned to Price, who wasn’t too young to die but definitely too pretty to meet the reaper. And to Dot, who’d trusted the Captain of the Skyguard to see them to a safe port. She took a slug of her liquor, not noticing what it was or what it tasted like, then poured a little on the bar’s top. “To lost friends,” she said, then took another sip.

  While thinking about the Troy, she thought about Paloma, and the lost station there, milled into powder. She thought about an enemy ship that looked a lot like an Ezeroc asteroid but with Guild tech bolted to it, and she thought, If the Guild is working with the bugs, we’re truly fucked. El put down her drink, then thought twice, picked it up for another swallow, and then pulled out her comm. She opened the portable unit’s holo stage, flicking open a message pane. El slotted the storage sliver Price had given her, then sent it off to Nate, Grace, Hope, and Kohl. At the top of the message, she wrote: This is what killed us, and then sent it.

  She almost jumped out of her skin when a guy slid into the seat next to her. It was Kohl’s man, Baggs. Jim. Jimmy. Joseph? It was a J-word. He smiled at her, friendly, like he wanted more than smiling, and said, “Hey.” He smelled of smoke and blood, but like her wore clean clothes, a civilian cut that might have been in fashion, and as easily not. He wore it like he didn’t care, and El figured that was about a hundred percent Emperor’s Black. They only cared about one thing.

  “Fuck off,” said El. “I’m here to drink.”

  “Me too,” said Baggs, reaching around her for the bottle. She didn’t argue, because she’d seen the smear where a woman named Georgina Guilella had stood, walking and talking before she … stopped. Ended, like midnight rain. Baggs took a swill from the bottle, then appeared surprised when the kid, or bartender, or whatever he was, slid a glass in front of the Black officer.

  “But you could be here for something more,” said El. She didn’t know if she was hopeful. Hell, she didn’t know what she wanted. Getting laid would be okay. It wasn’t like Baggs was in her chain of command.

  “Mostly I’m here to drink,” said Baggs. “George was a good friend.” El noted he didn’t call her soldier or partner, just friend, like he didn’t have too many of those, and maybe in his line of work he didn’t. He slopped liquor into the glass, taking a sip. “Also, you’re being followed.”

  “Right,” said El. “I’ve been on this crust for a couple hours, and I’ve got a tail already?”

  “Yep,” said Baggs. He frowned. “I don’t mean me. I’m just here to drink, but Kohl suggested if you died he’d take it as personally as if you were royalty.”

  “I didn’t figure him for the sentimental type,” said El, drinking more. The whatever-it-was — whiskey? maybe? — was terrible, in a way that only a ten-coin bottle could be. “I figure him for getting laid.”

  “I think he’ll prioritize that,” said Baggs. He held out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. Jonny Baggs.”

  “I know.” El shook his hand. Jonny. That’s it. A J-word. “Elspeth Roussel. Most folks call me El.”

  “Like the letter?”

  “Just like it.”

  “This bar is terrible,” said Baggs. He peeled two coasters away from the bar’s surface, a kind of slurping sound accompanying the action, and put them in front of her. Baggs pointed to the writing on the coasters. “This one says the place is called The Toaster, and the other one says we’re in a place called Loud Dive.”

  “I expect management changes, on account of various legal technicalities,” said El.

  Baggs laughed. “I bet. But your tail is real. Average height dude. Wearing a plastic poncho with a hood, which by itself is conspicuous, because there is no rain.” He sighed. “I figure today will keep getting worse.”

  “You reckon on fighting?” El drank a little more, then filled her glass again. Where the liquor went, she had no idea. “Been enough of that.”

  “Just when you think there’s been enough, more’s needed,” said Baggs. “You know, I grew up on Ganymede. Just like the emperor. Not here on Earth, like the empress. Ganymede is a little rougher. Good work for those who know how to find it. Bad work, too. Got the call, when they said new Black were needed to shield a man from a knife in the back. George and I, we came here. Put our blades in his service. Now she’s dead, and I think I’ll be joining her soon.”

  El felt her goosebumps form on her skin at Baggs’ words. “Jesus, Baggs. If she was as good a friend as you say, I don’t think she’d want that.”

  He smiled at her. “Not about wanting. It’s about what’s coming. Today’s been a strange one. Captain of the Skyguard’s ship turned to ash. Captain her own self shot down over Earth, no response from orbital cannons. It’s like it didn’t happen. I checked. No logs of weapons fired anywhere within a million klicks.” He rubbed his face. “Osaka. That place sucked.”

  El laughed. “It did.”

  “I figured the Tyche as a blessed hull before she fell,” said Baggs.

  “To be fair, her Helm wasn’t on board,” said El.

  “Even so,” said Baggs. “Crashing into a dead city. A fight against God knows what. Ezeroc still out there, on our world, El. The bugs are here. And no one’s panicking. I mean, the boss is panicking. But no one else. And now, you’ve got someone in a fucking poncho following you to a dive bar.”

  “Student bar,” said El.

  “Same thing.”

  “Guess it is.” El stood up. “How we going to do this?”

  Baggs looked at her sideways. “You’ll sit the fuck down and not get shot,” he said.

  El slid back on her stool. “Works for me.”

  “You could have fought it a little,” suggested Baggs, getting off his stool. “Be right back.” He put his glass on the bar top, then sauntered towards the exit, sunlight still valiantly trying to stream in around grimed windows.

  El turned to watch him go, then turned back to her bottle. The tide had run out a little, which meant she would be walking with more swagger than was polite, but it wasn’t the first time she’d been in that situation. She pulled her sidearm out, checking the action of the kinetic weapon, then slid it back into its holster.

  The crash of glass made her spin around, sliding off her stool to crouch on the floor. Baggs was lying on his back on the ground, an ugly line of red across his chest. El looked at the man, and first thought someone had to be very good to cut one of the Emperor’s Black with a knife and then she thought and whoever that was needed to be damn fast. She checked out the broken window and added fucking strong too. The screaming of bar patrons started, but a weak affair on account of the low population inside, but people still did their part to make a scene. El pull
ed out her sidearm as people scurried towards the exit, not standing on Baggs or the spreading pool of blood underneath him.

  She crouched next to Baggs. “Can you get up?”

  “No,” said Baggs.

  “Then I’ll leave you to die,” said El.

  “Give me a hand up,” wheezed Baggs.

  “That’s the spirit, soldier,” said El, hauling Baggs up. He was solid muscle, nothing wasted on his frame, and the effort of trying to haul his carcass upright unbalanced her a little. It was just enough so that the bolt of plasma that came through the shattered window missed her, blowing glassware and liquor behind the bar into burning, leaping flames.

  El pointed her sidearm out into the street, taking aim at a guy with a poncho and a blaster, and pulled the trigger. The boom of the shotgun shook her whole arm, the smell of cordite joining Baggs’ blood and the sticky sweet smell of burning liquor. She got one of Baggs’ arms around her shoulders, then helped him towards the back.

  “Where are we going?” said Baggs.

  “The fuck out of here,” said El.

  “Bad guy is at the front,” said Baggs.

  “That’s why we’re going to the back,” she said. “Less assholes. Less blasters.” She huffed under his weight. “Less chance of dying.”

  “No,” said Baggs. “Not how it works.” He tried to get his arm off her shoulders, but only spun them both to the ground. El’s borrowed shirt clung to the sticky ground but falling served the purpose of taking them out of the line of fire from outside. No other shots came in, but El wasn’t positive that’s because she’d hit Poncho or because he’d run off. El took a moment to eject the spent cartridge from her weapon before sliding a new one in, snapping the breach closed.

  “Ready to run again?” said El. “Only, it’s more of a stupid lumber, what with you trying to die, and me trying to live. We keep this up we’ll just go in circles while the bar burns down around us.”

  “Fair enough,” wheezed Baggs. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  El helped him back up, ready for his weight this time, except not, because he was heavier. She figured that was because he was not helping as much this time on account of dying, and despite the heat coming from the bar’s flames like fire from a forge, she felt a shiver. Not another one willing to die today for the Empire. She pulled Baggs up, gritting her teeth. “Put some effort in it, soldier. I’m doing all the work.”

  She got a weak smile, Baggs’ face already paler than a ghost’s, but he tried. They lumbered together toward the back of the bar, El kicking open the door to what could have been a kitchen in the bar’s better days. Now? It was a roach motel, scurrying things hiding under cups and plates stacked too high to be sanitary. When you come back, don’t order the fries. The back door was a simple affair, secured with a mag lock which made sense in a place where there were many thirsty people with insufficient coin. El keyed the lock, kicking open the door, to reveal Poncho standing there, waiting.

  She saw dead eyes, a blaster, and pulled the trigger of her sidearm. The blast tore a chunk out of the side of Poncho, spinning him away from El, but not before he squeezed his own trigger. Plasma tore Baggs from El’s side, and just like that, the Black officer was gone. The side of her was coated in pieces of him, and the impact from the blaster fire spun her away and back into the kitchen.

  The door with the mag lock slipped shut with a clank as the magnetic bolts re-engaged. El was panting, the thrill of fear making her want to wet herself. Her fingers shook as she ejected the spent shell from her sidearm, dropping the weapon in the process. Her hands were slick with pieces of Baggs, and she took two tries to field the weapon from the floor. Another cartridge went in the breach, and she snapped it closed as another plasma blast tore the door from its hinges.

  El didn’t look, just pointed the sidearm at the doorway and squeezed the trigger. There was a boom, then a sound like rain for the briefest of moments. She crawled on the floor to the doorway. Poncho was there, or what was left of him. Her second shot had torn most of his head off. Now he wasn’t moving, she could see where her first shot had hit, and while she was no expert, she would have figured on seeing things that looked like ribs in all the red. It didn’t look right, and as she dragged herself to her feet she saw why. There was chitin in the remains from the headshot.

  This man had been an Ezeroc puppet. Here, on Earth. And he’d known about her, enough to come for her. Which meant there would be more of them. Maybe at the Guild, with Nate, Grace, Kohl, and Hope.

  El threw up, not knowing why but figuring on the shock of it all, then reloaded her weapon. Her feet slid on blood-slick ceramicrete as she ran out the back of the bar. She had to find her friends. There were monsters in the void hunting Empire starships, but there were also monsters on Earth hunting people.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  GRACE SIGHED WITH the weight of it all. Her father, back in her life, as welcome as cancer. He’d been a thing on her to-do list, but Grace had put him aside while they dealt with more important issues. Like the Empire and saving humanity from being eaten by locusts.

  Now, dear ol’ Dad was back. She looked at Chinnery, then turned to Chad and said, “We need to get him to jail. Chinnery’s been dealing with my father. You know Kazuo Gushiken.”

  Chad nodded. “He puts the ass back in hole.”

  “So, we’re throwing Chinnery in the dungeons?” said Kohl.

  “Metaphorically. No dungeons here,” said Grace. “It’s a Guild Hall, not a prison.”

  “I’ll think of something,” said Kohl, in a way that suggested he’d already thought of something. “There’s a place I know. Need to take an air car.”

  “Fine,” said Grace. “Let’s go.”

  They walked the long length of Chinnery’s office, and Grace spared a thought for how many coins something like this had cost, just so the head of the Guild could impress people with it. It was theatre, but good theatre. You knew the weight of klicks of nano-forged line were strung above you, a gravity elevator into the hard black. Most folk figured it was sorcery that kept it up, and Grace counted herself among their number. She had no clue how it worked, just that the Guild freighted tonnes of materials up and down it. It lent a sense of occasion to a visit to Chinnery, or whoever would replace her father’s string puppet in this office.

  Her boots clacked on the polished smoothness of the floor, and while she was no louder than anyone else, she wanted the noise to go. Grace wanted to be invisible again, to wear a mask, because masks and hiding had kept her from his grasp. Kazuo Gushiken felt he owned her, and while he would be disappointed on that point, Grace reckoned Kazuo would leave a trail of bodies a klick wide if that’s what it took to get to her.

  As they reached the doorway to the antechamber, Grace felt a surge of fear/terror/run from below, a hundred minds at once, all feeling the same way. She looked at Nate. “Something’s happening.”

  He frowned. “Something like a birthday party?”

  “Something like people being murdered,” said Grace. Nate couldn’t feel what others felt. Nor could Chad. Grace’s original, stunted gift, still bombarding her with the pain of others. She broke into a jog, unsheathing her sword. The doorway from the antechamber opened without a hitch, no alarms raised, no lockdown evident. Does the Guild even have a lockdown protocol? A bunch of Engineers didn’t go to war often, but Grace would have factored on some kind of security. But nothing. The fear/terror/run/run/run grew louder and louder in her mind, overlaying the concern/protect from Nate.

  The antechamber led to a long corridor, bathed in bright sunlight from the floor to ceiling windows along its length. Outside, Grace could see no telltales of smoke, no people running for their lives. Just grass, manicured gardens, green laid among the white paths.

  She slowed her jog, looking out the windows. Nate joined her. “What’s up?”

  “No people,” she said. “When we came in—”

  “There was like a thousand guys out there,” said Nate. �
�Or more.”

  Chinnery groaned in Kohl’s grip. “He’s coming for me.”

  Kohl gave Chinnery a shake, Grace figured more from habit than any real feeling. “Good,” said the big man. “He’ll find you, then he’ll find me, and then we’ll have us a conversation.”

  “Conversation. That’s an interesting word for it,” said Chad.

  “Hope’s trying to teach me to use different words,” said Kohl.

  “I think she wants you to use ‘motherfucker’ less,” suggested Chad.

  “Why would she do that?” said Kohl.

  Karkoski looked up from her personal comm, a confused look on her face. Tight lips. Furrowed brow. “Fleet comm is down.”

  “That’s not good,” said Nate.

  “We need to move,” said Grace, pivoting on the balls of her feet, running for the elevator at the corridor’s end. She palmed the controls, shifting from foot to foot while waiting for the car to arrive.

  “Hold this,” said Kohl, shoving Chinnery at Chad.

  “Why do I get to hold the garbage?”

  “Because I’m better at killing folk than you,” said Kohl. He holstered his sidearm, unslinging a plasma carbine from his back. “We’ve each got talents.”

  “Mine’s holding garbage?” said Chad. Chinnery made to bolt, and Chad kicked the back of one of the Guild Master’s knees, causing the man to stagger. “Before you came along—”

  “The world wasn’t as fun, I know,” said Kohl.

  The elevator doors open, revealing the white-lined interior Grace expected, but also revealing splashes of blood against the back wall. She did a quick check of the interior. No other obvious damage or signs of a struggle, just a bright spray of red. The ceiling was good, no panels open. She listened with her mind, and felt Nate’s protect/urgent/hurry, and after a moment, the faint hiss of Ezeroc, below them. Opening her eyes, she stepped into the elevator, sword held low. “Ezeroc,” she said.

  “I hear ‘em,” said Chad. “Feels like a whole mess of them.”