Tyche's Deceit

by Richard Parry

The way out was like any way out. Full of assholes, howlers, and deadbeats.

  When the man in black had unlocked the cell — opaque glass walls turning clear, giving Kohl a view of his surroundings, and allowing the cameras outside a view of what occurred inside — Kohl had relaxed. He was sure that the man in black was playing a straight game. Why else would he be snatched off the street after axing a bunch of Republic soldiers? Activities like that had garnered many a gang runner a death sentence before the day was done. Hell, they could have just shot him in the street. They were going to a lot of trouble to keep him alive.

  He’d been perplexed when the glass box they’d put him in turned opaque. Prisoners didn’t get privacy, that was the whole deal. But then the door had slid open with a hiss, five men had come in with evil in their hearts, and Kohl had understood. It was a test. Hell, the cap would have tried to talk his way out. Kohl had seen the way Nate moved, knew in his prime he’d have been a fearsome opponent, but that leg and arm bound him up. So, the cap would have talked.

  Not Kohl. The talking route was boring, and he’d always figured that wasting words where fists could do all the talking you’d need was a bad principle to follow.

  Anyway, he’d beat on those boys like they were a collection of dirty rugs. Test passed. After that, the Republic officer — looking like he was in charge on account of the uniform, but actually being the man in black’s bitch — had come in. Events had unfolded, and now October Kohl was leaving, about to do a little more heavy lifting for a heavier load of coin.

  No elevators out of this dungeon, though. Elevators were risky for officers. Basically a kill box: you needed a prisoner sedated or dead to use ’em right, which was just too much like hard work, which is why they were walking up a ramp. Ceramicrete floor, walls, and roof. Kohl hadn’t got a good look on the way in because he’d had a bag over his head, but he figured he hadn’t missed much. Not much at all. Green was the color, kind of a puce shade, but that might have been the lighting strips.

  Back to the assholes: there were a lot of guards. Like, a lot. More than might be expected in a prison. Kohl had seen the inside of a few jails in his time, because he wasn’t one for following rules, especially if those rules got in the way of a good time. Uniforms everywhere made his skin crawl, and the scar on his back shoulder started to itch. The same scar where that damn bug had been under his skin, burrowing up his spine. The same bug Gracie had cut out of him. He still didn’t understand why she’d done that, but it was nice of her. It helped him live to see another day, and earn good coin.

  A guard took in the look on his face, and said, “Prisoner. Don’t eyeball me, son.”

  Assholes. Fucking assholes. “I ain’t a prisoner, and you sure as hell ain’t my dad,” said Kohl.

  The guard’s jaw clenched, muscles in his neck bunching. He saw the man in black, like he’d just noticed him, and then saw Kohl wasn’t wearing prisoner restraints, and said, “My mistake.”

  “Yeah,” said Kohl. “You boys sure make a lot of those.” And then ignored the guard, because nothing else would happen. Sure, he could have swung at the guy, but it wouldn’t have done anything but slowed him down getting outside. And he wanted to be outside, because these places smelled the same: bad. Antiseptic over vomit and blood.

  Bringing Gracie down, now that was a thing. He’d told the man in black — the guy was still walking at Kohl’s side, like he wasn’t afraid of anything — that he’d do it for free, and there was a time that would have been true. But the scar, and the itch, reminded Kohl he had debts to pay. A little more red ink, right alongside the marks he carried in the ledger when the cap pulled him out of a shit situation in a shit town, working for shit people.

  Howlers: down the ramp, four guards were dragging another prisoner. Standard orange suit, mask on the guy’s face to stop him biting, long poles attached to a metal collar on his neck. Kohl had been strapped to a chair as he was wheeled in, but this other guy was getting the star treatment. Kohl almost felt jealous, right until the prisoner screamed something about let me go you fucking pigs or I’ll rape your daughters, and one of guards had stepped in with a shock rod and lit the guy up.

  Gracie could have found a shock rod on the Tyche, brought it to the hold, and made Kohl dance at the end of strings made of burning blue light. Gracie hadn’t; she’d come with a sword, because that’s who she was, but she hadn’t meant to use it on him, because that’s also who she was. Until Kohl had made her, because of the fucking bug, the Ezeroc thing inside him. And then Gracie, she’d fought the good fight, right until Kohl had beaten it out of her. And when she was broken, she’d still got the drop on him. She could have cut his head right off with that sword. Even Kohl agreed she’d earned the right. But she hadn’t. She’d cut the Ezeroc out of him, took the risk she’d miss, and Kohl would finish her, and that perplexed Kohl. He wasn’t used to giving people a second chance, or a third, or however many she’d given him in those few minutes in the Tyche’s hold.

  More assholes: there were always more. Like the man in black, walking at Kohl’s side. The weird thing about the man was he wore no uniform. Just that plain black suit. Nice shoes, a belt of real leather, which would have been expensive, and borderline contraband, but once you were high enough up people stopped looking at things like that. The problem with this particular asshole was Kohl had already killed him. He’d used his laser carbine on the man and turned him into a shower of exploding meat.

  About that. Kohl cleared his throat as they came to a vaulted door, all manner of locks and seals designed to keep bad on this side, away from the less bad on the other. “So,” he said. “I figure we’ve got a conversation between us due.”

  “How’s that?” said the man in black. There was a rhythmic beeping, and the door clanged as bolts drew back. It hinged open.

  “Well,” said Kohl. Better to be direct. “There was that time I killed you.”

  “Best left in the past, don’t you think?” He held a hand out, palm up, in an after you gesture.

  Ahead of them was another puce-green corridor, but there were fewer assholes and no howlers. Kohl walked through. “I guess,” he said. “It’s just that it’s been my general experience that once you reduce a man to his component parts, that’s it. There’s no do-overs. No come-backs. It’s a set of guidelines that have served me well. It’s what I do.”

  “Learning new things is a part of living a fulfilling life.” He kept pace with Kohl, not acknowledging any of the people they passed. They — assholes all — stood aside to let them pass. Eyes down, sometimes a hushed intake of breath.

  Interesting. Kohl looked at the man in black, then kept walking. Nothing unique about this asshole, apart from him not wearing a uniform inside Asshole HQ. “I figure you’re not really a person.”

  The man in black thought about that for a few moments, brow furrowing. “If it walks like a duck,” he said.

  “What?” said Kohl.

  “It’s an expression,” said the man in black. “‘If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, it must be a duck.’”

  “Ducks don’t talk,” said Kohl. “That’s stupid.”

  “It’s … a metaphor,” said the man in black. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You’re not a duck, that’s for sure,” said Kohl. They arrived at another door, this one a little less like a vault, and a little more like a security door. It slid open with a few beeps. “I figure you’re a clone. From a clone army.”

  “If that works for you,” said the man in black, “you have my permission to go with it.”

  “There’s another thing,” said Kohl.

  “What’s that?”

  “Y’all got a name?” said Kohl. “Like, what do I call you?”

  “Sir would suffice.” The man in black paused before a door. “Here we are.”

  “I don’t even call the cap, ‘Sir,’” said Kohl. “Leastways not often. So let’s pretend that’s not going to fly. What’s in here?” He looked at th
e door suspiciously. It was closed, sure, but it had no markings, signs, or other leading indicators of what was inside. In Kohl’s experience, there were two types of door like that: the first was a janitorial closet, and the second was a place that harvested organs.

  “Why don’t you call me Abel?” he suggested. Abel, huh? “It’s a back way out. Your equipment is here, along with your clothes.”

  “Back way?” said Kohl.

  “Back way,” agreed Abel. “If we take you out the front, there will be questions. Questions need answers, and answers take time and energy away from the real purpose of our glorious Republic.”

  “I get you,” said Kohl. “Silence is golden.”

  “Silence can be bought,” said Abel.

  “Whatever,” said Kohl. “I just want my gun.” With a click, the door opened. Not an organ chop shop, not a janitorial closet either. So, Abel wasn’t a bald-faced liar. That was worth bearing in mind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AMEDEA WAS STRANGE. That was the feeling Grace got from her; not angry/mad/rage, or confused/fear/fear, just strange. Like there was a hole where her mind should be. Not a hole, but a blank space, a white wall, perfect, not a blemish on it.

  Grace could almost always tell what people were feeling. Her … gifts were of questionable providence. She couldn’t pluck the thoughts from people’s minds like her father. He’d had to work at it, but with concentration he could hear people, or so he said, and sometimes influence them. Grace didn’t have to work at it; feelings came off people, emotions showering her like a summer storm.

  Also strange was Nate had drawn on Amedea, blaster in his hand. He’d put a hand behind him, pushing Grace back, like she needed protecting, the nose of his blaster hungry for targets. Off Nate, Grace was getting fear/fear/anger. The odd thing wasn’t that he felt that for himself.

  If she had more time to unpick that, she might have been flattered. As it was, it was annoying, because she couldn’t draw steel down on this room of Republic sympathizers. “Nate,” she said.

  “Back up,” he said, not looking behind him. Blaster still moving between Amedea, and the pale man, the medtech, and — almost reluctantly — Harlow. “We’ve got to leave.”

  “Nate,” she said. She wanted to say these Republic assholes can be made to talk, just give me one, any one, and I’ll cut it out of them, but there wasn’t time. “We’ve got to stay.”

  “Say what?” he said, the cant of his shoulders suggesting confusion louder than the confusion/confusion coming from him.

  “Listen to her,” said Amedea.

  “There are noises coming from you,” said Nate, waving his blaster at Amedea. “I’d suggest you stop that for the moment.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me, Nathan Chevell,” said Amedea. “I know it like water’s wet. I know—”

  Nathan fired his blaster, a bright arc of plasma going past Amedea, gouging the brickwork behind her. She stopped talking, eyes wide. “Hey,” said Nate. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  Grace took a careful step forward, put her hand on Nate’s shoulder, gentle like a small bird. She leaned her lips close to his ears. Hear me. “Nate, if these assholes set us up, it gives us an opportunity.”

  “Spell it out,” said Nate. “I’m itching to just lay down cleansing fire in this room.”

  “Uh,” said Harlow. “Nate?”

  “Not now, Harlow,” said Nate. Frustration/confusion. “I’ve got a lot of inputs going on, you get me?”

  “Sure,” said Harlow. “It’ll keep.”

  “The opportunities are like this,” said Grace, lips almost touching Nate’s ear, body close to his. “They can tell us how they know about us. They can take us to whichever part of the Republic sent ’em here. It could be the same part that’s selling out entire colonies for bug food.” While she was talking, Grace kept scanning the room. Amedea’s eyes went wide when Grace said selling out entire colonies and Harlow seeped anger/betrayal when she’d talked about the Republic sending them here. Neither of which was conclusive, but … “Not everything here is what it seems.”

  “Listen to her,” said Amedea. “Listen to your Assessor. You pay her to Assess things. Things you do not understand. This is one of those things.”

  “Sister?” said Grace, pulling away from Nate and the comfort of his closeness. She was getting herself ready to do what needed to be done. “I’ll come over there and cut on you myself if you don’t shut the hell up. We’re having a moment here.”

  But Nate relaxed, the tension leaving his gun arm. He didn’t lower his blaster, but it seemed from his hesitation/caution he wasn’t about to spray the room with plasma. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. So, Assessor, what’s your take?”

  Grace closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the room, the people in it — the medtech, who was all terror/fear/run/flight, Harlow’s sullen/smoldering anger/betrayal/friend/foe, the pale man who was opportunity/patience/excitement, and Amedea’s empitness. Grace breathed, then opened her eyes. “Harlow is your friend, and you need to work out what’s going on with him over a beer.”

  “That’s what I was going to say,” said Harlow. “It’s just—”

  “Not yet, Harlow,” said Nate. “I’ll let you know when shit’s not quite so real on this side of the room.”

  “Got it,” said Harlow, and looked at his feet.

  “Amedea is something different. She’s not here,” said Grace.

  “She’s right there, Grace,” said Nate, pointing with his blaster.

  “You know how we’ve had our little talk about the things I can do,” said Grace.

  “Oh,” said Nate. “Oh.”

  “Your Assessor has the right of it,” said Amedea. “You need to—”

  “Haven’t finished,” said Grace, giving her a glare. “Medtech’s just a medtech. He doesn’t want to be here. We don’t want to be here, so maybe we get him and Harlow in the same bar later. The guy there? The one who needs a tan.”

  “Hey,” said the pale man. “I spend a lot of time down here.”

  “I see him.” Nate swung the blaster to point at the pale man. “What about it?”

  “He’ll sell us out,” said Grace. “He’s a liar and a thief. I’m a liar, and I know those. You’re a thief, you know what they look like.”

  “Hey—” started the pale man. He didn’t get to finish — faster than Grace could track, Amedea’s blaster cleared its holster and fired. She shot him three times, although after the first shot the need for the next two was questionable. The pale man was thrown back by plasma fire, his torso coming apart in flaming pieces of meat.

  Nate swung his blaster towards Amedea, then back at the remains of the pale man, then back to Amedea. She ignored him, examining the burning remains of the pale man, then holstered her blaster. Grace took in the medtech, who was cowering on the floor, body in a fetal position, and Harlow, who’s eyes were wide, his mouth wider, but with no noise coming out. He seemed epoxied to his chair, which was the safest way to be in this sort of situation.

  “Thanks,” said Amedea. “I haven’t been able to get a read on that guy. Had my suspicions, but … well, when you spoke his guard came down. Got a glimpse.”

  Grace swallowed. “Nate, we should go.”

  “Uh,” said Nate. “Look, I’m confused. You said we should work on these guys until they spilled intel. Now we should go? What’s changed?”

  “What’s changed is I know what Amedea is,” said Grace.

  “What’s that?” said Nate.

  “Nathan Chevell,” said Amedea, leaning forward, eyes hard, “I’m the devil. I’m the evil that brought down your precious Old Empire. People like you call us espers. But as with so many things in life, all is not what it seems. The question you need to ask is whether you want to find out where the Bridge goes. How far this jump is. Whether what’s on the other side of space is something you can bear to see. Or, you can leave. I won’t stop you. You can get back in your ship and fly far away, as far as you can before th
e end finds you, like it will find us all.”

  “Huh,” said Harlow. Surprised/surprised.

  “Harlow,” warned Nate. Surprised/confused/conflicted.

  “I know,” said Harlow. “Not yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Nate, looking at his blaster. He said something that sounded like hell with it and holstered it. Then he looked at Amedea. “Is Amedea even your real name?”

  “It’s the name I gave myself when I broke free of my chains,” she said. “It’s the realest name I have.”

  Grace’s fingers found Nate’s arm, squeezed. “We shouldn’t trust her,” she said. “I can’t get a read on her.”

  Nate turned, looked at Grace, and put his hand — flesh and blood, warmth and comfort — over hers. “Grace? I can’t get a read on you. It’s how we work, all of us. I ain’t saying we should trust her. Hell, if you’ve seen what I’ve seen? Seen what espers do? You’d want to run.”

  “Why aren’t we running?” said Grace. Because she wanted to run. The only other esper she’d known was her father. She’d felt his dark soul, his desire for dominion over people, felt his I’m better than you leaking out no matter who he looked at. But like everyone else, she’d heard the stories. About how espers had cored the Old Empire, tore it down from the inside. The Republic had risen against them, a response to fight the good fight. Humans vowed to rid the universe of people who could see into your mind and into your heart. Bounties were set to keep humanity clean. The bounties weren’t high enough. Not yet. But high enough to keep Grace hiding, flawed diamond that she was.

  Nate gave her a crooked smile. “I gave you a shot, didn’t I? Best damn call I made.” Grace swallowed. She didn’t know what to say about that. Nate curled his fingers around hers, gave them a squeeze, then turned back to Amedea. “Okay. Let’s say I want to make this jump. Kick in the Endless Drive, see what’s on the other side of those stars. Where do your charts take us?”

  “To hell,” said Amedea. “To the broken, crippled heart of the Republic.”

  “Cool,” said Nate. He looked at Harlow. “Harlow? Now’s your moment.”