Tyche's Deceit

by Richard Parry

  Plasma. They were trying to shoot me with plasma. That’s not very nice.

  She still couldn’t breathe, but Kohl was off her, running off some damn place. He moved quick for someone that big, and she’d caught one glimpse of his wide eyes — not angry for a change, almost confused, maybe scared — as he made for the Tyche’s half-healed cargo bay door.

  October Kohl is running away and leaving me to die. That’s not very nice.

  Hope’s arms flailed at the ground, like a bug trying to right itself, and then she found herself crawling back towards the docking tether. The cable was charred and melted in a spot, a tiny chip against the nanofibers it was spun from. She’d need to get the whole thing squared away if the Tyche would make it off the ground. Hope could just imagine El firing the thrusters, and either the Tyche doing tiny circles in the air or tearing one drive clean off. Either way, the ship wouldn’t go anywhere with the cable here. It needed to be cut, and that was that. She worked her rig’s console, its visor sliding over her face, as its arms reached for the cable.

  There was a spatter of energy, pieces of melted metal spitting against her visor. Her HUD lit up with errors.

  One of those bad people just shot off one of my rig’s arms. That’s not very nice.

  Hope kicked off the cut-and-clear program in the rig, this time hunkering down near the base of the cable so she wasn’t such an opportunistic target. She didn’t know if that was the right thing to do, because it made it harder to cut the cable, but she’d seen the cap and Kohl do much the same thing when people were shooting at them, so. The only person she didn’t remember doing this was Grace, because Grace fought with a sword, and she had to crash into her enemies, like a wave. Like a tsunami.

  She didn’t know if Grace would have liked Reiko, but something small inside her said no. Grace didn’t seem to like people who smashed bottles over the back of her friend’s heads. It was a fair rule to live by.

  Hope’s rig was chewing away at the cable, only seconds having passed. It felt like minutes or hours, but the clock on her HUD made a liar of her mind, the elapsed time between her ooof as she hit the docking bay floor and getting to this cable only twenty seconds. It was five seconds longer than Kohl’s disappearance into the interior of the Tyche. Another plasma blast hissed over her head, making her hunch even further down, and adding another five seconds — twenty-five now — to the clock. The good news? Twenty-five seconds was long enough for Kohl to come back out of the Tyche, that new weapon he loved — some kind of laser, Hope didn’t care what make or model, but she was intrigued by the computer inside it — under an arm.

  She thought she could hear a click-click-whine-fzump as the laser felt about the bay, found one person who’d run in and started shooting, and turned that person into a cloud of red steam. Kohl was pointing the weapon at them, not looking, and doing the weirdest thing: he was running back for Hope. He wasn’t hiding inside the Tyche, he wasn’t telling El to just leave, dammit. The big man’s weapon discharged once more on the way, red light reaching deadly fingers towards another person and turning them — their dreams, everything they’d been from birth to that moment — into a spray of red mist. The red mist was caught in the heated air from the Tyche’s drives, swirled, and dispersed. Like that person had never been.

  Kohl slid to a halt next to her. “Hope. You’ve got to go.”

  “Almost done,” she said. “Why are you here? You’ve got to go get the cap. Go get Grace.”

  He looked confused, then hid it behind the action of pointing his laser again. It discharged, one more person stopping their life’s journey instead of continuing. “Can’t go without you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m the least useful person in a battle against alien insects.” With that, the cable holding the Tyche to the ground sheared loose, all the tension leaving it as it snaked free to fall beside the ship.

  Kohl frowned, like he was trying to do some complicated arithmetic. Then he said something that sounded like fuckit and just grabbed the back of her rig. He dragged her like she weighed nothing — 45KG wasn’t nothing! — back towards the Tyche. She was yelling at him, not that she could remember afterwards what she was yelling. Things that sounded like put me down and just go and why won’t you let me die, I want to die, then I can be with her, and then she was sailing through the air. She saw, for a moment, a higher view of the scene. As she turned through Kohl’s toss, she saw the three people laying down fire on the Tyche. One of them in that exact moment turned into a spray of red and white steam. Her turn continued, and she was looking up at the Tyche, a small spot of carbon scoring under one drive drawing her eye. I must get to that she thought, and then she crashed in through the half-healed cargo bay door. The breath went out of her — again! — but she didn’t let that stop her. She needed to get back outside, back to Kohl, to get him in the ship so he could save her friends, and also to let her die.

  Kohl was at least partially of the same mind, running back up the ramp towards her, his carbine speaking for him. More red, another person gone, just more mist instead of future potential. One of the two remaining people fired a shot, luckier than most — depending on your point of view, not Kohl’s — that splashed hot plasma against the ramp. Some of that backwash hit Kohl, his suit burning, and he went down with a yell. Hope curled herself into a ball — she couldn’t help it. She wanted to be with Reiko, or be with the nothingness where her wife had gone. But Hope’s body still reacted the way that selfish meat did. Always trying to avoid the fire.

  When Hope raised her eyes, Kohl was gone. She stabbed the comm. “El. El, we can’t go.”

  “Gotta,” said El, the drives of the Tyche roaring like judgment. The Endless Drive gave a tiny shove of positive energy, lifting the Tyche off the dirt, muck, and misery of people. Towards the clean of the sky.

  “El. Kohl’s not on yet.”

  “Hope, we’re on the clock.”

  “Just … wait,” said Hope. He came back for me. “I’m going out to get him.”

  “You’re fucking what?”

  But Hope clicked the comm off, praying — although there was no one to pray to, and if there was, they wouldn’t be listening. The universe didn’t work like that, because if it did, Reiko would still be alive. The Tyche was holding level in the air, floating above the docking bay. Hope grabbed the edge of the tear in the airlock, fingers against rough metal, and dared a look outside. She couldn’t see Kohl, couldn’t see where his body was. She couldn’t hear much of anything either, the roar of the drives and the kickback spume of fire pushing all other noise away. The air was swirling around now, and Hope realized that in all her life she hadn’t been outside when a ship was taking off. Of course you haven’t, it’s why you’re still alive. Pink hair rushed around Hope’s face, and she tried to blink it away, then brush it away, then gave up, closing her visor. She leaned out. “KOHL!” But her words were torn away, lost on the wind like the remains of the last person Kohl had turned to red steam.

  A flash of red light caught Hope’s eye, and another one intruder vanished in a spray of chunks and steam. He’s alive. She scurried outside the hull, ramp already retracting underneath her, but she knew this music. She had a program for it. The arms of her rig — just three now — scrabbled like crab legs against the hull, holding her there. Gripping with the strength of steel, claws that would hold a crew member fast even under thrust. She made the rig walk around the hull, and that’s when she saw him.

  October Kohl, swinging from that damn cable, carbine pointed out. His face was sooty and singed, one eye shut, either gone or just squeezed tight against the pain. The roar of the wind as the Tyche held steady was everything now, so loud it was impossible to think. Even through the visor of her rig, she could barely think. But Hope didn’t need to think. She needed to get to Kohl, swinging out there, hanging above the ground. Her comm line crackled, El saying something like what’s happening but there just wasn’t time to deal with that. Engineering needed focus; you
put the biggest fires out first. The rig scrambled Hope around the hull, closer to Kohl. The big man saw her. Shook his head — at her or the situation, she didn’t know — and then pointed his gun below. Two more shots. Two more people gone — where had they come from? — and that was that. Kohl let his carbine fall, the sling catching to slap against his bulk as the storm of the engines buffeted him. This is what it’s like when we’re just hovering. What is it like when we’re moving?

  Hope reached out her hands. Her little arms — 45KG, that’s all she had — were stretched towards Kohl. The man swung, back and forth, back and forth, bringing the line closer. Below, a new danger entered the hanger — a vehicle like a tank, all big treads with the muzzle of a massive cannon.

  They’re trying to shoot the Tyche out of the sky. That’s not very nice.

  Kohl reached the end of his swing, slamming into Hope. She held on, as tight as she could, and smelled the sweat and fear and old liquor on him for a moment. The tank-thing below was swinging the mouth of its cannon to bear on the Tyche, and she looked at Kohl. He nodded, slapped the comm on her wrist, and screamed, “Go! We’re in!”

  They weren’t in. But they were never going to be. The Tyche clawed at the sky, engines roaring with the fury of the phoenix, and she climbed for freedom.

  A blast came from that cannon, white light as bright as a tiny sun. Metal rained around Hope, pieces of the ship falling back to Earth. The PDCs opened and slid from their slots, one no farther away than five meters, and the Tyche answered. The ship seemed to be yelling at those below: You cannot have me. You cannot have my crew. They are mine, and they will always be safe.

  The tank below turned into slag. Not a big explosion, just a thousand rounds of kinetic anger striking the same spot in a second.

  One of the rig’s claws slipped free as the thrust piled on, and Hope couldn’t do anything about it. She had her arms around Kohl — she couldn’t let him go, not now. Which meant the two of them were attached to the hull by the rig’s two remaining claws. She needed a program to pull them back in, but she couldn’t do it. Not while she held Kohl. They needed to land. They needed to just take a breath.

  Kohl reached for the side of the hull, one hand grabbing for purchase. He held on. Kept them safe. He had two arms. Her rig had two arms. That’s all it would take. Just them, working together.

  The cargo bay that had seemed so far was now a lot closer. A more realistic goal. As they pulled each other closer to safety, Hope thought: Well. Not dying today. Maybe tomorrow I can be with Reiko.

  But not today.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  WHEN NATE CAME around, it wasn’t with the rosy glow of a decent night’s rest. He didn’t have sleep in the corner of his eyes, nor did he have the pattern of a pillow on his face. He had minor burns, gravel embedded in his chin, and a missing chunk of time.

  The air car was still burning, the air heavy with the reek of burning polymers. Grace had vanished.

  Nate scrambled to his feet. Take stock. Harlow? Still there, looking like he’d rather not be. Fuzzy in the eyes, jaw slack, useless to God and the Empire both as they used to say. Weapons. Blaster was in his holster. He pulled it out, checked the charge, spun it on his index finger — why not — and slipped it back into the holster. Damage control. His metal hand was fine. Metal leg less so; it was complaining like a cheap toaster, all whines and delayed action. It is what it is. Good enough to walk. Not good enough to run.

  But it was more than good enough to find Grace.

  The warehouse doors stood open, which was a change — he was sure of it — from last time he’d looked in that direction. No movement, just a dark opening on the left corner of the building. He looked down at Harlow. “You going to be okay?”

  “Is it Tuesday?”

  “Great,” said Nate, setting off towards the warehouse. It was step-squeeeeak, step-squeeeeak as his metal leg dragged along. He wanted to curse it, but it didn’t feel right to abuse something that had helped save his friends. It meant there was no point in trying for a stealth approach. He sucked at stealth as a general rule anyway. More of a blasters-blazing kind of guy.

  The warehouse was silent. No generators, not the gentle hum of a reactor. Whatever had shot them down was running dark, batteries and capacitors doing their jobs.

  Unless this was an Ezeroc installation with a warehouse around it. The Ezeroc ship — that giant asteroid that could jump like an Endless-equipped ship, without the limitations — hadn’t used a conventional drive or shown an energy signature. Walls of solid rock, the Tyche’s standard ship-to-ship weapons leaving a scar of carbon but no appreciable damage. The Tyche hadn’t known what to make of it, which was why he rammed a Republic destroyer right up the asteroid’s ass, overloaded the ship’s reactor, and ran the hell away. That was a trick that worked once, and would never work again. The Ezeroc seemed smarter than that.

  Why, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was that humans had never found alien life until now; Nate was betting the bugs gobbled up all the competition out there. The hard black was ruled by a race of insects that used humans for fuel. Maybe it was because these particular asshole bugs were in his hometown living the high life, and no one seemed to care.

  Figurative hometown. He was born on Ganymede, which was nice. But Sol was his home system. Anyway, the bugs? They seemed to be comfortable here, which implied they were on the leadership team. Managing things from the top.

  You’re just postponing. Dragging the chain. Sail’s not going to hoist itself. Nate stepped inside the warehouse, expecting death from a thousand places. His blaster was in his hand — Lord knows how it got there, but things like that happened sometimes, and he was grateful for it.

  Nothing. Not the slow drip of water. Nor the whisper of demonic voices, or the scuttle of things with too many legs.

  Just a damn warehouse. No lights though. Which was kind of spooky, but also annoying. He flicked the light on his blaster on, a beam stabbing the darkness. Almost as an afterthought, he flicked the light on his ship suit. There. Now you can see. Go get your girl.

  Hmm. ‘Your girl,’ Chevell? Maybe in his dreams. Maybe one day a woman as gifted as Grace Gushiken, as wonderful despite the harsh universe she’d lived through, would find a scarred relic like him interesting.

  Still. Got a nice ring to it.

  He’d expected the interior of the warehouse to be big. A couple of cells full of wailing espers in the corner, a hundred or so bugs in here for good measure. He’d point his blaster, squeeze off some shots. Buy Grace — who’d be freeing the espers by now, on account of her having two working legs — a little more time. The espers would stream out into the cool night air, run past him with fear in their hearts and the devil on their tails, and he’d die a valiant death as the last man in the breach.

  The warehouse was of indeterminate size, because all he could see from here was a long corridor stretching to the right down what looked like the building’s entire length. On the interior wall of this corridor — let’s call it the left side, Chevell — another door was set. All the way down the end. Okay, so you may still plug a breach with your dying body, but you’re gonna have to work for it.

  Step-squeeeeak. Step-squeeeeak.

  The weird thing about the corridor was how empty it was. No holo displays, no pleasant reception team — automated or otherwise — welcoming him to this fine facility. No guards, or guard stations. No water cooler, snack machine, or wastebasket. No consoles. Just an empty corridor, plain white walls playing back to him from the beams of his lights.

  Step-squeeeeak. Step-squeeeeak.

  He made the end of the corridor without incident. No Grace. No sounds of fighting. Still no hissing of insect wannabe overlords. Nate faced the door, a simple swinging affair. No lock, no windows. A metal plate fixed into the front to guide where you were supposed to put your hand. He raised his metal fingers and pushed against it, unsurprised to find no resistance. Grace must have come this way, so if it had been locked she’d have
… unlocked it. As the gold fingers of his synthetic hand led the way, he backed it up with the muzzle of his blaster.

  Another corridor. Also white and empty.

  At least, that’s what he thought until he got the door all the way open and stepped through. This was a mirror of the previous corridor in layout, stretching back to the other side of the building. Straight corridor, one door at the end, right side this time. As he played the beam of his light down the corridor, three thoughts came to him:

  1. Bodies.

  2. Ant farm.

  3. Assholes.

  Bodies, because the walls farther down were littered with them. Just like on Absalom Delta, people were embedded in a kind of organic material in the wall, pulsating tubes extending from their mouths, leading away down the corridor, through the walls, or into the floor. The people were shriveled, eaten away from the inside, and the cause was probably some Ezeroc hive Queen motherfucker in here using humans like batteries. That was a thing needing a resolution.

  Ant farm, because the layout of the building — the layered corridors, doors at each end — reminded him of one. Simple structures, planned chambers for various uses without aesthetics humans could see other than utility. Except this was constructed by human hands with human materials. The Ezeroc might have used slave hands, but they’d also used slave tech. Ceramicrete. Girders. Hell, there was fucking plaster over the top. Like they’d used this as a showroom for a big concept idea. Hey. We’re coming to your world to suck your brains out. Want to invest?

  Assholes, because right down there, near the end, was the man in black. Same dude as back at Harlow’s bar. Same dude as on the rooftop (except it couldn’t be, because that guy was dead, but they sure looked the same). Nice suit if that was your thing, black shoes reflecting Nate’s lights in the gloom. A not-quite-a-smile on his face. This particular man in black was slumped on the ground, slit throat, one arm ending in a bloody stump. There was a pool of blood under him, still with the shiny wet of a fresh kill. Arm looked clean cut, which was a Grace signature if ever there was one. Last time she’d tangled with one of these assholes she hadn’t come out on top. This time? Grace was swinging for the fences.