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

by Richard Lloyd Parry

  “And so would we,” she said, not backing down.

  “How can you not care!” he screamed. “Our friends are dead, El!”

  As he raged, she flinched, but didn’t look away. “It’s not that I don’t care, Cap.” She held a hand out, palm up, towards a pinpoint of light in the distance. Cantor Station. “There’s a safe harbor. A place to lick our wounds, rest up against the coming storm. Make sure the Empire’s safe. The emperor and empress. Ain’t no way this day would have ended better if you’d died.”

  Nate was about to scream a little more, because it made him feel better, when a big hand descended on his shoulder. October Kohl leaned forward into the flight deck. “Way I see it,” he said, then shook his head. “Way it is. Both the same, see? Way it is, is you’re about to say something. Probably something dumb. You’ve got that look about you.” Nate blinked, so Kohl kept rumbling on. “You’re alive. Emperor’s Black, that’s what we do. But we couldn’t. Not this time. Blasters against starships?” He laughed. “No man can win that fight. Hell. You’re about to say something stupid like treason.”

  Nate looked down at his metal hand, gripping the acceleration couch so hard the metal and plastic were creaking. “Thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Well, give me some warning,” said Kohl. “You fire El—”

  “Treason isn’t like losing a job,” said Nate.

  “Eh,” said Kohl. “It kinda is, except the part about death at the end. Anyways.” He shrugged, big shoulders rolling. “You give me a heads-up, and I’ll have a job for El. In the Black. Because she protected your ass when I couldn’t.” He looked out the windscreen, then checked the holo stage as data scrolled by. “Is that fucking Cantor? Why the fuck are we back here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nate.

  “Me neither,” said El.

  “You don’t?” said Nate.

  The comm chirped, Hope’s voice coming in loud and clear. “Cantor station isn’t allied with the Empire or the Republic. Leastways, it wasn’t before. They’re your notes. I just read ‘em. Anyway. Cantor is a repurposed bridgeliner. She’s got a bunch of tech we can use. Maybe beg, maybe borrow.”

  “Maybe steal,” offered Kohl. He gave Nate’s shoulder another pat. “We okay?”

  “We’re okay,” said Nate, breathing in and out a couple times.

  “Good talk,” said Kohl, walking back to the ready room.

  “It was the only way,” said El. “It was—”

  Her voice cut off as the acceleration couch’s armrest splintered under Nate’s golden fingers. They both looked as plastic and bent metal fell to the deck as he opened his hand. “It was the only way,” said Nate.

  “Right,” she said. “Right?”

  Nate ignored her, because he wouldn’t stop saying stupid things for a while. He clicked the comm, hailing Cantor. “Cantor Station, this is…” Nate trailed off. What were they? Not an Empire starship. Empire just had its balls kicked through the roof of its collective mouth. No. They were a heavy lifter. A tiny ship, flying free in the hard black. “This is the free trader Tyche. Come in, Cantor.”

  The comm hissed, automated systems handshaking. The Tyche and Cantor Station negotiating, trying to make sure each was who they said they were. On the Tyche side, this was harder on account of the ship’s missing transponder. It’d make a landing rough, as the only folks who flew without a transponder were the pirating kind.

  After a moment, the station comm spoke back. “Tyche, this is Cantor Station. We’re on lockdown. Please divert your course.”

  Nate squinted out the window. “Cantor, we cannot comply. Our Endless Drive is…” Nate glanced at the error readouts on his console, “not operational. If we can’t dock for repairs, we’ll die out here.” And it won’t be a clean death, battling for our homeworld. It’ll be a coward’s death, running out of air or food in the hard black.

  “Tyche, this is Cantor Station. We’re on lockdown. Please divert your course.” The comm clicked off.

  El sighed. “Sounds less than hospitable.”

  “Could be on account of how we left last time,” said Nate. “Except, they don’t know it’s, well, us.”

  “Tyche has a certain reputation,” said El. “She’s been all over. Saved the universe, some folk say.”

  “Some folk are crazy,” said Nate. He jumped a little as another hand descended on his shoulder, this one smaller, gentler. Grace.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey yourself,” he said. He realized his flesh and blood hand was shaking a little, and he wasn’t sure why.

  “The station is full of Ezeroc,” Grace said. “I can hear them from here. It’s infested.”

  “Wasn’t like that last time we were in town,” said Nate.

  “No,” she said. “Maybe the planet below? I don’t know.” Grace shook her head, then leaned forward, resting her forehead on his shoulder.

  He reached a hand out to touch her hair. “It’ll be okay,” he said.

  “Maybe,” she said. “But it’ll never be the same.” Grace raised her head, then looked at El. “Thank you. I almost lost the most precious things in all the universe today.” El just shook her head, looking away, shame chasing regret across her face. Grace turned back to Nate. “Captain.” She put emphasis on the word, like it was a title heavier than emperor. “In that station, people are dying. They need us.”

  Nate gave a short laugh. “Earth has more dying people.”

  Grace nodded, not looking away. “It does. But if we help these people, they will help us save those people. If we look after the few, we look after the many, Nate.”

  He wanted to disagree with her, or argue, or maybe just shout again. But she was right. She was almost always right. “Helm?”

  “Cap.”

  “Take us in. Find a hangar.” Nate looked at the ceiling. “Hope?”

  “Still here,” she said over the comm.

  “I figured,” he said. “We’ll need Cantor to open the doors aways, let the Tyche in. Can’t do repairs from a standard dock.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You want me to hack the bridgeliner’s security?”

  “Sure,” said Nate.

  “Okay,” said Hope.

  • • •

  Nate expected Hope to do Engineer magic. Maybe wake the station’s hangar bay, opening big doors wide to the hard black. As the Tyche approached, Cantor Station’s bay three doors opened, sure, but inside were figures in ship suits. Nate leaned forward, keying the comm. “Hope?”

  “Cap.”

  “I thought you would hack the station,” he said.

  “No,” said Hope. “I mean, yes, I understand you thought that. But no. I wasn’t going to hack the station.”

  “Why not?” said Nate. “There are people there. People with blasters.”

  “Right,” said Hope. “One of them is a person you know.”

  “Tooth Fairy?”

  “No,” said Hope. “Meenaz Lodhi. It was in the file you sent. Anyway. Hacking the doors on a bridgeliner is hard. It’s supposed to be hard! You don’t want explosive decompression on a starship. But subverting the station’s comm net? That’s much easier.”

  “You … phoned it in?” said Nate. The comm clicked. “Hope?” No response. “I can’t believe she called for help,” he said.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t think of it,” said El. “Was a time, you’d have done that first, not tried to break in.”

  “Once a pirate,” said Nate. She didn’t respond, so he said, “Always a pirate.”

  “You were never a pirate,” she said, looking forward, avoiding his eyes. “You played at being one, sure. Made jobs easier as often as harder. Took what work was going. You forgot, I think. You wore the Black, once.”

  “Black is the color of pirates, El,” said Nate.

  “No,” said El. “Pirates wear motley. Mismatched garb from a hundred different victims. They’ve got the blood of their enemies as face paint.” She shook her head. “Never would have
signed on with a pirate, Cap.”

  He sighed. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick with his temper. Running an empire was hard work. Thirsty work too, and precious few opportunities to have a beer. Still, there was that time, at Cantor, where he met a woman who wanted to play a straight game. Wasn’t trying to set him up to die. After friends. And she was in that hangar, suited against vacuum, waiting to meet with him again. Was he crazy? Here, at an anarchist station. People with a history of gunning for Empire ships. They’d bind him in irons, take him to a brig. They’d want a ransom.

  As the Tyche slipped inside the hangar, the noise of maneuvering thrusters overlaying her usual hum, clanking sounded against the hull. The station had them, docking clamps engaged, holding them fast. They weren’t going anywhere for a spell. Even at full strength, the Tyche wouldn’t have been able to blast her way out of here. Not without killing hundreds of people, and Nate wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.

  He stood, stretched, then grabbed his sword from behind his acceleration couch. Nate checked his blaster, then nodded to El. “Good flying.”

  “That’s not a fucking apology,” she said.

  “No,” he agreed, turning on his heel and stalking through his ship. Kohl and Grace fell in behind him as he exited the ready room, their boots all clanking against the floor as they walked the crew deck. Nate paused at the top of the ladder to the cargo bay. “Could be a nasty welcome.”

  “Could be,” said Kohl. “I brought a spare gun.”

  Grace just brushed her hair out of her eyes, then gave him a wan smile. “I’m just happy my luck has changed,” she said.

  Nate laughed. “Since you’ve crewed with me, you’ve had nothing but bad luck. Aliens, honest to God mind roaches. Machines, trying to tear us down. Traitors at the head of the Guild. How you figure that for luck?”

  “Oh,” she said. “Because you’re with me.”

  “I’m gonna throw up,” said Kohl. “Let’s go.”

  Nate put a hand on Grace’s arm, then drew her in for a kiss. She smelled of stress, and sweat, but also of Grace, a scent under the rest of it that said it’s me. He let her go, slinging himself down the ladder. Nate walked to the airlock. The ship chimed as pressure outside equalized, and he pressed the panel beside the door. It hissed open, shutting behind them, and repeated the cycle, opening up to Cantor Station.

  Outside the airlock, an old-style helmet under one arm, was Meenaz. Beside her, two guys who looked like deck hands, conscripted into service as guards or soldiers. All of them looked tired, worn thin, and Nate almost said, we should start a club. The guards, or soldiers, or whatever the hell they were, didn’t look at the crew. Their eyes roamed the hangar, looking for danger. Interesting. They’re not here for us. The age of the weapons they carried, and the ship suits they wore suggested they were on the last legs of supplies. The ship suit labels didn’t read Cantor Station. They read Cantor, a plain ship label, the old Republic symbol below it. Nate felt a story lay there, but perhaps one for a different time.

  Meenaz stepped forward, hand outstretched. Nate shook it, and she said, “Welcome, Emperor.”

  Nate winced. “Might just be captain,” he said.

  “The Guild Bridge in this system has reported crazy things,” she said, releasing his hand. “But it’s still Emperor, out here. Cantor keeps its promises.”

  “Good to know,” said Nate. He gestured at the Cantor station people, taking in their suits, and their weapons. “Things have taken a sharp turn since we were last here.”

  “They have,” she agreed. “Our station is infested. Ezeroc. They’ve taken over the command deck. We can get you patched up and on your way. But we can’t do much else.”

  Nate bowed his head a little at that. Moments ago, he’d been ready to draw down on these people. He’d assumed they’d be like the rest, liars, and cheats, and thieves. That bending the knee had been a show, and when he displayed weakness they’d come for the kill, hungry for a piece of the Empire’s corpse. Nate turned his bow into a nod. “No,” he said.

  “No?” said Meenaz.

  “No,” said Grace, stepping forward, standing side by side with Nate. “It’s not how we work.”

  “You don’t want our help?” said Meenaz, eyes going between them.

  “Oh, hell,” said Nate. “We want your help. No shame in admitting that, leastways not when you can see the smoke pouring from the hull. But we’ve got time to kill.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Meenaz.

  “Cap means we’ve got roaches to kill,” rumbled Kohl. “It’s our thing.”

  Meenaz’s eyes shone, and she rubbed them with a gloved hand. “Okay,” she said. She turned to go, then paused. “It’s a rare crew that would show a helping hand when they’re down on their luck.”

  “Hey now,” said Nate. “Just a moment ago, you were extending the hand of aid to us, all up to your ears in your own problems. How rare is it?”

  El clanked up behind them. “Oh good,” she said. “No one’s shooting.”

  Nate turned, giving her a look he hoped was authoritative. “Helm?”

  She ignored him. “Lodhi, right?” El held out her hand. “Elspeth Roussel.”

  “That’s right,” said Meenaz. “But I thought you were Skyguard Captain Roussel.”

  “Not anymore,” said El. “I’m just thirsty. There a bar here?”

  “Down a deck,” said Meenaz. “It’s where we’ve put the refugees. The Ezeroc are pushing from the Bridge — sorry, the command center — down. We’ve got the bulkheads sealed, guards stationed everywhere, but it feels like a backward slide.”

  “Is the bar overrun?” said El.

  “No,” said Meenaz. “But—”

  “Then there’s no problem,” said El, walking past them, feet slamming against the decking. When she was ten meters away, she turned back, staring at Nate. “You know where to find me.” Her footsteps faded as she walked off.

  Nate sighed. Friends, dead. If he let it, the grief would crash over the top of him, break him down, make him fail his crew. Push it aside. For now. Then you can mourn. And his ship? Broken. Helm, missing. Empire, crumbling. And while he trusted Hope, she’d brought what looked like a death robot, and put it in his hold. And the only haven they had was overrun by Ezeroc. El would have to wait. Bigger issues here. He adjusted his belt, then offered Meenaz a smile. “Let’s go see about your bug problem.” At least Hope’s death robot wasn’t awake yet.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HOPE SPENT A lot of her life looking at schematics. It was a good way to see how other people thought about problems. What she’d worked out in her short turn around the stars was that most people didn’t think about problems in useful ways.

  Take Cantor Station, for example. The station was a repurposed colony ship, a bridgeliner salvaged after too many runs shipping underwear or watermelons or other things across the hard black. The ship had a huge hold someone had tucked a bunch of scaffolding into. The scaffolding turned into decks, and the decks into habitats, and so on, until the station was a behemoth all to its own.

  If you were an Engineer, it was like someone surrounding you with an orchestra made of sheet metal, with people dragging awls across the surface. The shrieking of wasted potential in Hope’s mind made her want to get angry.

  However, there was a unique opportunity here. The Cantor, before it became Cantor Station, was designed in an old style. It was supposed to use Guild Bridges but was so old there hadn’t been enough Bridges going where you needed to be. It packed a bunch of Endless tech onboard, enough reactors to outshine a decent star, and all of that had been plated over to make a viable station.

  She flipped through her holo. And still no one had tried her idea of suspending a station using Endless fields. Cantor was a perfect opportunity, but no, some shortsighted fool had just put in temporary decking and called the job done.

  What Hope wanted about now was a decent Engineer to talk to. Someone to bounce ideas off. Sure, sure, tear
ing Endless Drives out of the Cantor would be easy enough, but that wasn’t the problem of the moment. The real challenge was what the cap would do when he got his ship working again. Hope knew Nate better than maybe anyone except El and Grace. She knew him better than Karkoski or Chad, even though Chad could read minds. She knew he would, once his ship flew again, point the nose back towards Earth and try and kick ass.

  And at that point, they’d all die. After wanting to die when Reiko had been killed, Hope had worked out she wanted to live, and it felt unfair that the compass was turning back towards certain death suddenly.

  Someone to talk to would be cool. Sure. But they’d all gone off the ship to shoot insects or whatever. Hope thought about what waited in the cargo bay: a sort of Reiko potential. Hope had made Reiko 2.0’s body as close as she remembered. After nights in her wife’s embrace, Hope remembered pretty well, and where recollection was fuzzy, holos filled in the blanks. But every time she’d tried to embed memory into Reiko 2.0, waiting for life to return, nothing happened. Sometimes the body would twitch, flail around a little, and then go somnolent once more.

  Hope cracked a stim, rubbing it across her gums, then tossed the empty into the recycler. Her arms trembled a little as the rush took hold, and she stood, all nervous energy and nowhere to put it. Hope brushed a lock of pink hair aside and left Engineering. Down to the crew deck, along to the ladder, where she swung down to the cargo bay, and walked right into Saveria.

  Literally.

  They bounced apart, two atoms in a collider, but neither of them exploded, which was a plus. “Hi,” said Hope.

  “Hey,” said Saveria, getting up.

  “Sorry,” said Hope. “I thought I was alone on the ship.”

  “Me too,” said Saveria, rubbing hands on her ship suit pants. They were a borrowed pair, and looked a little baggy, but that was fine, because they still kept air in. “Everyone left and seemed to forget about me.”

  “They do that all the time,” said Hope. “All the time! When it’s time for a reactor to be fixed, they know where to find me. But any other time? No. It’s like they forget I’m even here.”