Tyche's Grace

by Richard Parry

  We have you. That sure was an interesting turn of phrase. “Unidentified vessel, this is Captain Roussel of the Troy,” said El. “This system is under Empire jurisdiction. You are ordered to stand down and prepare to be boarded.”

  “The Empire,” said the voice. “The Empire.” El couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the repetition was laced with something that might have been longing, or hatred, or despair.

  “There a lot of cousin-loving on that ship?” said El. “Yes, the Empire. Under whose flag we all sail.”

  “We fly no flags,” said the voice. “Your ship is constructed of metal.”

  El frowned. She looked at Price, muting the comm. “You think this guy’s a little bit star-touched?”

  Price shrugged. “I think he’s spent too much time alone, sir.”

  El unmuted the comm. “The Troy is made of a lot of things,” she said. “But anger is one of them, for the lost souls on Paloma Station.”

  “Paloma,” said the voice. It sounded a little bit like a waiter she’d had in a high-class restaurant once, except the waiter hadn’t been so … unique. “Paloma Station? They were rendered.”

  “You assholes destroyed Paloma Station?” said El.

  “You are not like other Empire communicators,” said the voice. “They were more desperate before rendering.”

  Rendering. El turned the comm off. “Fuck this guy,” she said. “I want a jump, in-system. Ensign Shackleton? I want you to jump us behind them. Lieutenant Price, I want pretty much everything you’ve got pointed at them, and turn the volume up. I’ll give a good ol’ fashioned Empire display of ‘rendering.’”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Leo. “Jump is ready.”

  “Tactical is hot,” said Price.

  The emergency collision alarm sounded in the bridge, the lighting switching to an angry red. The ship’s computer spoke, urgent, his voice — as if a machine could have a male voice, but whatever, right El? — mirroring the words scrolling on the bridge holo. “Brace. Brace. Brace. Impact imminent. Brace. Brace. Brace.”

  “They’re outside,” said Dot. “They … jumped to us.”

  El turned to the bridge windows, the polyhedral ship off their port side. This close, El’s eyes could pick out subtle details. It was mostly metal but had chunks of rock used in its construction. Like an Ezeroc asteroid ship had fucked a toaster, and this was the baby. It rotated, the polyhedral faces catching reflected light from Paloma’s star. Each face had a huge drive core, and the predicted weapon mounts. Many, many weapon mounts. Up close, El got a feel for the size of it. It was a little smaller than the Troy, and if El thought in terms of decks, which she felt somehow wasn’t right here, she’d have said it was six or seven. It kept pace with their thrust, making it look easy.

  “Helm is not clear for jump,” said Leo. “Gravity well of foreign ship—”

  “I know how it works,” said El. “Price? Make it rain.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Price, and El heard the satisfaction in his voice. The railguns on the Troy’s topside rotated to port, and El know the railguns on their keel were doing the same. And unless Price was a moron, there would be another set of plasma cannons on the port side, about to say hello, asshole. “Firing.”

  The Troy fired, bright flashes lighting the bridge as the topside railguns fired. Impact blooms appeared on the other ship’s hull, pieces of metal and rock flaking off into the void. Blue-white plasma fired, lances of molten fury hitting the enemy starship. The surface of the polyhedron glowed with the impacts.

  “Good effect on target,” said Price. “Oh. Hang on.”

  “Price? Not in the mood,” said El. She realized her voice was tense, harder than the Gs pressing her onto her acceleration couch. “What have you got?”

  Price ignored her. “Helm, I need you to roll us. Put the bridge away from them.”

  Leo looked at El. “Sir?”

  “Do it,” said El. As the Troy tipped, she caught a last sight of the enemy ship rotating, rolling unmarked and undamaged panels towards them. All studded with drive cores, and those many, many weapons. “Price?”

  “Captain,” he said. “The interior of that ship is solid rock. We’re blowing chunks out of an asteroid coated with drive cores and weapons.” He didn’t say, they’re taking no evasive action other than to turn functioning weapons to face us. Price also didn’t say, I told the Helm to roll the ship, so the Bridge won’t get torched. “My assessment is we should get clear for jump.”

  “Where to?” said Leo.

  “Anywhere but here,” said Price. The Troy shook, the holo updating with damage reports. Decks four and five were hit with railgun fire. Estimated casualties at a thousand souls. A thousand of El’s sailors, gone in an instant.

  “Helm,” said El. “I want you to—” The Troy shuddered again, a decompression alarm sounding. She looked about and was about to start some quip about false alarms when El noted Dot wasn’t there anymore. There were the ruins of her acceleration couch, blood and tissue all over her console, the holo stage flickering. El took a second to process that. One of her bridge team was gone, snuffed out like a candle, by a round fired through the Troy, bottom to top. It wasn’t a railgun round, leastways not one she was used to. A railgun round would have cored the Troy, leaving nothing of the bridge and her valiant crew. She took in the tiny hole above the Comm station, air whistling out into the hard black, and thought, they fired something new at us.

  “Pour on some joules, Ensign,” said El. “I want those drives on a full burn. I don’t care if I stroke out. Get us clear.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Leo, hands working the console. The Troy roared at the hard black, the heavy hand of thrust pressing at El, an elephant standing on her chest. She felt her bones grinding against each other. A tooth chipped, and she swallowed blood and enamel. “Twelve Gs.”

  The holo stage blinked, showing the enemy ship holding alongside, burning with them. “More,” croaked El. Leo’s hand movements were labored, trying to work the micro console under fingertips that probably felt like they weight twenty kilos each. The bridge holo shone a warning, HUMAN SAFE LIMITS EXCEEDED. “More,” said El. “Everything.” Her vision blurred as the lenses in her eyes flattened under the thrust.

  The other ship kept pace. Price was still firing at them, and the enemy was still firing at the Troy. Ship to ship, the Troy’s tonnage and weapons loadout should have been enough. But the other ship was maneuvering easier. Or the crew weren’t human, without the problems humans faced in high G situations, like getting a brain bleed.

  The Troy rang like a gong, the entire ship groaning through her frame. Thrust eased, and El’s vision — still blurry, but the letters on the holo were big and bright for a reason — noting that they’d lost two drive cores from precision shots from the enemy. Thrust was down to a modest 6Gs, not that it mattered. Pushing 15Gs before hadn’t done anything.

  They wouldn’t get clear. They were all going to die.

  El turned to Price. “Lieutenant.”

  “Sir.”

  “Don’t run. You die tired.” She raised a shaking hand that still felt like it weighed more than her acceleration couch to point at the holo. “I want everything you’ve got to core that fucking thing. And if that doesn’t work, ram it.” She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of the emperor. Her captain, who had shown her how not to be afraid anymore. Right here, right now, she knew death was coming for her, hungry, yellow-fanged, and relentless. And that was okay, because she’d take a piece of the monster with her to the grave.

  Price didn’t answer her. “Helm,” he said. “Cut thrust.”

  “Belay that order,” said El. “This isn’t the time for mutiny.”

  But Leo nodded, working the console, cutting all thrust. They were still on the trajectory they had, continuing through space like a thrown stone. “Thrust is cut,” he said. Leo’s eyes were low for a moment, then he looked at Price. “They need to know.”

  Price unclipped his harness,
another hit shaking the Troy. “And they will.” He made his way to El’s couch. “Captain.”

  “What?” she said.

  He bent over, working the clasps on her harness. “Time to get out of your chair.”

  “Is this … are you fucking serious?” she said, trying to push his hands away.

  He stood up, a sad look on his face. “I’m really sorry about this, but there isn’t time for anything else.” He pulled his hand back and slugged her in the jaw. El’s head rocked against the couch’s embrace, and she saw red and black, her brain trying to come up with something that made sense here. It’s mutiny vied with he’s got some kind of psychosis, keep him talking. But when Price’s hands unclipped her harness, she was too fuzzy-headed to resist.

  “Price,” she said. She was slurring, the pain in her jaw making a mockery of her words. El wondered if Price had broken her jaw. “Please don’t do this.”

  “Sorry, Cap,” he said, slinging her over a shoulder. She had a moment to see Leo’s wide eyes as she was swung around, then Price walked towards the bridge airlock. “I hope you don’t think worse of me for this.”

  What the fuck is he talking about? “Price.” She scrabbled at his back, feeling feeble, like a newborn kitten. “Put me down. We need to save the Troy.”

  The airlock opened, revealing a familiar corridor lined with escape pods. He kicked the release of the first one, the door hinging open with a beep. Price slung her inside. When she tried to get out, he hit her again, this time — merciful Christ — in the stomach. She sagged, but Price forced her back, clipping the pod’s harness tight about her. He gave it a tug, checking it was fastened. “Captain,” he said. He offered her a salute before reaching up to grab the pod’s door.

  “Price,” she said. “Let me save the ship.”

  His face was hard around tired eyes. “The ship’s dead, sir. No getting out of this, not for all of us. But maybe, just maybe, if the eye of the empress is on us, one of us can get clear. Send a warning. I hope you understand.” The ship shook again, the lights flickering. “Godspeed, Cap.” He pulled the pod door down, sealing her inside. She could see him through the glass of the door as he entered coordinates into the pod’s systems.

  El tried to open the pod door, but it was sealed, a flashing EMERGENCY LAUNCH EMERGENCY LAUNCH on the glass. She screamed, “Price!” but her second-in-command turned away. The pod bucked as it launched into space, the lines of the Troy stretching away from her as she escaped into the hard black. The pod would work its tiny thruster to get to a safe distance before its own Endless field kicked in, taking her … wherever Price had sent her. Was he in league with the enemy? What was he doing?

  Bright fire bloomed at the base of the Troy as Engineering was cored by a railgun round. The enemy ship was spinning faster than before. Each face of the polyhedron brought a new array of weapons to bear on her ship. Her ship, her Troy. The Captain of the Skyguard. Sucker-punched by her second-in-command. Lights on the Troy flickered as it lost power, a gentle list taking hold as it was hammered by enemy fire.

  Another explosion tore through the Troy, and — even at this distance — El was sure she could see bodies hurled into the void. Her hand was on the glass of the escape pod, and by God she would get back to her ship if she had to get out and walk. El’s hand found her harness release, and—

  Every part of her soul, stretched and painful. Ten thousand sinners, judging her as she ran. An enemy, faceless, without remorse, hungry like they’d never been fed. The cry of the Troy as it died, a strong ship, deserving a better captain. The pure thrill of acceleration, impossible, unbelievable acceleration. She couldn’t feel it. She was it. She was everything. She was the universe.

  Stars stretched, made points of light that streaked outside the pod’s window.

  She jumped.

  CHAPTER ONE

  WHEN GRACE WOKE, she had Nate’s arms around her, his scent close. White sheets stretched out under her, rumpled from their sleep. From their cabin on the top decks, the rumble of the Mercenary sounded so faint as to be almost subliminal.

  The trick with waking up next to Nate was to be stealthy. To be quiet, slipping from the bed like a ghost at the coming of dawn. Grace reached out to peel the sheets back.

  “Morning,” said Nate. “Was waiting for you to get up.”

  Grace sighed but snuggled back into him. He was always so damn warm. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Hours.”

  “Then why is there no coffee?” Grace kissed his arm. “Call yourself the head of an empire. Hmm.”

  “Well,” said Nate. “Thing is, with coffee comes responsibility.”

  “How so?”

  “I get up, and there’s problems to fix. Here in our bed, there are no problems.”

  Grace smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “You’re concerned about training.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Every time we train, I get bruised. You don’t even sweat.”

  “I sweat!” Grace thought for a moment. “I mean, sometimes.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” said Nate. “You don’t sweat.”

  “Exercise is the best way to start the day,” said Grace, trying her best to hide a smile.

  “You sound like you’re trying to sell me something,” said Nate. “Never sell to a salesman.”

  “You’re no salesman,” said Grace. “You’re a pirate.”

  “I’m the emperor.”

  “Same thing.”

  “This, from the empress herself?” Nate poked her back. “It’s your empire too.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “And it won’t save itself.”

  “Eh,” said Nate, nuzzling her hair. “Stay here. For a little while.”

  “We’re going to Cantor,” said Grace. “And you need to have your training session before we go.”

  “You’re going to beat on me before I die?” said Nate.

  “I’m going to beat on you so you don’t die,” said Grace. “Whole point. Now get up.”

  • • •

  Coffee would wait.

  The Mercenary’s training lounge was huge, the size of a stadium. Many of the ship’s crew were here, getting a good clean sweat on. More than a few eyes followed them as they walked, heading towards an open padded section. The mats were no tatami, but they’d do — good Empire tech, enough to absorb falls and tumbles without leaving broken bones. Just a few bruises, to remind a person to keep their guard up.

  Grace carried two bokken, wooden practice swords that would hurt plenty but were unlikely in the extreme to sever limbs. As she led Nate onto the mat, she tossed one of them his way. He caught it in his left hand, golden metal fingers closing around the wood. Good. Two weeks ago, he wasn’t comfortable enough using his augmented side. Nate used to be left-handed, and still was. The point of their drills was to teach him to be comfortable using either hand with a sword.

  Nate had argued with her use of the word augmented. He’d said prosthetic, and she’d said you can crush steel, and left it at that.

  They faced each other across the mat. Grace held her bokken low, circling him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Ah,” said Nate. He tugged one of his ears. “There’s about a hundred people watching.”

  “They don’t matter,” said Grace.

  “They do to me,” said Nate.

  “Then you better not lose,” said Grace, letting herself smile. “Think of it as an incentive.”

  Nate made a big reluctant show, all sighs and shoulder rolling, then ran at her. She’d expected no less. He often tried distractions before he fought, and Grace figured it was a good tactic. Not a great tactic against someone like her, who could read minds. But against the everyman? It wasn’t a bad option. She let him come, then stepped to the side, her bokken rapping against his, the sound tight and hard. As he passed, Grace tapped Nate’s butt with her practice sword.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Clumsy and slow,” she said.

&n
bsp; Nate looked hurt. “It’s before coffee.”

  “You think the Ezeroc wait for coffee?” said Grace. Then she struck, hammering her bokken overhand. Nate’s reaction speed was amazing, his wooden sword coming up to block her strike again, and again, and again.

  They broke apart, both panting a little. “Not bad,” said Grace. “You’re getting better with your off hand.”

  “Which ones my off hand?” said Nate.

  “Precisely,” said Grace. And she struck again. The wooden swords tap-tap-tapped against each other, an accompaniment to their breathing. Nate was no sword saint, but he’d worn the Black for a previous emperor. He was fast, and he was strong, and better with a blade than anyone else she’d fought. Or almost anyone else. Grace knew two other souls whose skill was higher.

  The first was sensei, who had died years ago at Grace’s birthday party. Sensei was, bar none, the best person who’d held a blade in the universe.

  The second was Kazuo Gushiken, Grace’s father.

  Thoughts of her father almost unbalanced Grace, and she slipped on a stray slick of sweat. She stumbled, caught herself, and stood up. Nate waited, watching. Grace shook her head. “Why didn’t you attack?”

  He looked surprised. “Because you’re training me,” he said. “Be unsporting.”

  Grace laughed. “Only Nathan Chevell wouldn’t strike the person who’d hit him a hundred times before.”

  Nate relaxed his stance. “I figure there’s plenty like me who wouldn’t want to strike a person while their back was turned.”

  “Might be,” said Grace. “Not my experience, but maybe.”

  He sighed. The morning of long sighs. That’s what they’ll call this. “Coffee?”

  “Not yet,” said Grace. “Time for you to swap hands.”

  He did. They sparred again, Nate using his flesh and blood hand. The bokken tapped their rhythm out once more.

  • • •

  Breakfast was a simple affair. When they’d first boarded the Mercenary, the chefs had tried making elaborate feasts for the emperor and empress. Nate had said I’ll get fat, which was his way of saying don’t make a fuss on my account. He didn’t care for the trappings of power, and it was one of the many things Grace loved about him.