“Okay ain’t good enough for a goddess,” said El.
Nate appeared at the flight deck airlock. “Saveria. You’re in my chair.”
“Cap,” said El. “Figure on giving her a few flight lessons.”
“On my ship?”
El gave him a look. “Your ship?”
“My ship,” said Nate, bulling on, unaware of the storm approaching.
“You want to fly it to Mercury?”
“Not as such—”
“Then take a seat,” said El. She jerked her chin at the ready room. “Plenty of couches. Saveria’s going to take us Solward aways.” El took the meaning of his look. “Don’t fret, Cap. We get into anything she can’t handle, I’m right here.”
Nate rubbed his stubble. “I mean, I could—”
“No,” said El. “You’re a terrible pilot.”
Nate sighed, turned, and left.
Saveria watched him go. “He’s the emperor!” she hissed.
“He’s a pirate and a liar,” said El. “Anyway. None of what I said wasn’t true. He’s a terrible pilot. Terrible. Barely get the ship off the deck without rupturing a drive core.”
“I’m right here,” said Nate. “I’m literally in the next room.”
“Terrible pilot,” said El. She nodded to the sticks in front of Saveria. “Come on, Miss I’m Okay. Take us up.” She took her hands away from her own flight controls, and waited.
Saveria reached toward the controls, then paused, before clicking the comm channel. “Flight Deck to Tyche. Prepare for liftoff.” She glanced at El. “Is that right?”
“It’s better than the cap would have done,” said El. “He’d have taken off, rattling us around inside the hull. Broken bones. Probably some herniation. Be a double load in medbay for a week.”
“I’m right here!”
• • •
Saveria hadn’t lied. El didn’t know what pirate ship she’d come from, but she figured Saveria would have been as good a pirate as Nate was a pilot: terrible. In a specific way, she hadn’t lied about being okay. Lifting off from Pluto was textbook, nothing flashy, skids all coming up at the same time. Rock fell away beneath them at a regular level, then Saveria took them around Pluto, putting the crust between them and whatever explosion the cap and Kohl had cooked up. Then the young woman had pointed the Tyche at the hard black, and hit the thrust at a modest 3Gs, just enough to let you know you were on your way.
“It’ll do,” said El.
“What?” said Saveria. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
El sighed. “Ain’t flying.”
“What?”
“It ain’t flying if you do nothing wrong. You need to do things wrong, but in style.” El scratched at her hair. “Being a Helm is all about style, Saveria.”
“You’d prefer if I crashed?” she said.
“Nope,” said El. “But if you’d crashed in style, we’d be talking.” She nodded to the holo stage. “Let’s get a flight plan.”
The comm clicked. “Don’t rush,” said Hope. “I’m still fitting the transponder.”
El leaned forward. “How hard can it be? It’s a transponder.”
“It’s a transponder created by a race of sentient machines,” said Hope. “It’s similar to our transponders, except where it isn’t. Did you know the crypto matrix is different? Lucky I’ve got the keys.”
“Hope?”
“Yes, El.”
“How long?”
“Oh, it’s done. I just finished. Check what the Tyche thinks.”
El clicked her console. The holo tank flickered, then blanked for an uncomfortably long time. When it lit, the border indicators with the ship’s name and transponder number had changed. She was no longer the Tyche. She was DEAD90076.
“That’s an interesting name,” said El.
“It’s hexadecimal,” said Hope. “They use base sixteen—”
“I know what hex is,” said El. “It says we’re dead.”
“Dead on,” offered Saveria.
“Maybe,” said El, holding her hands between her knees to hide the tremors that started for no reason she could determine. “What’s our flight plan?”
“Simple burn,” said Saveria. “Point us right down the middle.”
“Great,” said El. “Where to?”
“Um…” said Saveria. “Mercury?”
“No,” said El. “That’s where all the asshole machines are.”
“But—”
“I know,” said El. “We’re going to Mercury.” She watched Saveria try to process that. Best throw her a line. “Here’s the thing. Cap said we shouldn’t have run before. And while he was wrong,” and she made sure she turned her head to the ready room as she spoke, “it seems like we should check.”
“For survivors?” said Saveria.
“If it makes you feel better to think there could be survivors, sure,” said El.
“Earth,” said Saveria. “Okay.”
• • •
While Saveria flew the ship, El watched the sensors. The Tyche scanned the hard black with LIDAR and RADAR, seeking foes. While the Tyche was a warship, there were no fights in Sol System a heavy lifter could win. But their smaller size was on their side. Space was big. And, El hoped, the invaders had a lot to occupy their time.
She wasn’t wrong.
Comm chatter lit up her console, a man’s voice fuzzed with the static of distance or enemy comm jammers or both. “We’re under fire! Request assistance! Repeat…” Fzzzzt. “Hard contact.” Fzzzt-crack. “Immediate aid. Repeat, under fire.” Then, silence.
Saveria’s hand was moving toward the comm when El snapped, “Don’t touch that.”
The esper froze. “They need our help.”
“No, they don’t,” said El. “That wasn’t a human.” She remembered a warm voice that had tried to coax her to her doom. The man on the comm could have been the same warm voice. Strained through the sieve of stress and panic. “Hell, there are kid’s party toys that do a better job of hiding who you are. I know that asshole.”
“Helm,” said Nate, and she turned to look at him. “What is it?”
“I reckon a machine,” said El. She kicked data to the holo, the Tyche showing them bright and clear what was going on out in the hard black. Off their port bow, the beautiful blue of Neptune, rendered paler in the holo but unmistakable. The shipyards of Triton, the famous twelve spans of the orbital station stretching out from the core. Each of the spans was five klicks long, or should have been. Some of the spans were broken, sheared off, the Tyche showing NUCLEAR DETONATION and PARTICLE CANNON ASSAULT. The machines had done a number here. Couldn’t be the roaches, because they threw rocks.
Wouldn’t be anything left alive there. Triton was the Navy’s answer for more hulls, now nothing more than a floating hulk. The shipyard’s atmosphere vented, all souls lost. “My God,” said Saveria. “All those people.”
“Yep,” said El. “We used to call it asset denial. Thing is, if your enemy can’t build new ships to come at you, they’re dead in the water.” She sighed. “Putting a name on a thing doesn’t make it less terrible. There were tens of thousands of people on Triton Station. Most of ‘em were civilians. Engineers, accountants. Hell, janitors.”
“The machines killed civilians?”
El nodded. “I don’t think the machines are particular about what badges we wear, Saveria.” She tapped her console, the Tyche highlighting the radio signal’s source. The heart of Triton Station. “See? It’s a honeypot. Meant to lure the unwary.”
“How do we know whether people are really in distress?” said Saveria.
“Two answers to that,” said El. “First is, you’re an esper. You know. In ways I don’t. Failing that, there’s the cap, or Grace. Three people on the Tyche can see the shape of a human mind.” She frowned. “But the second answer is more real. We’re not going to need those skills. My bet is the machines have run through Sol System, cleaning house. What few folks are left will be food for the
roaches.”
Saveria nodded, like she was trying to make herself agree. “Everyone’s dead.”
“Most likely,” said El. She tapped at her console some more, seeing those green lights across the display. “Say. You getting a shimmy on the port drive?”
“A shimmy?”
“A shimmy,” said El. “Technical term. Port drive’s always been a little dodgy. I expect it’s the Tyche’s equivalent of saying her knees hurt when it rains.”
“You’re not making any sense,” said Saveria, but she sighed a great lungful out, in the way teenagers of the world were renown for. She touched her sticks, and the Tyche did a little wave, wingtips rotating around her central axis. “Hmm.”
“A shimmy, right?”
“Yeah,” said Saveria. “I hadn’t even noticed it. How did you…” She trailed off, working her own board. “I’m getting green everywhere. No errors.”
“While we’re on the rules of flying, we should cover off the most important ones,” said El. “I think we’ve already talked about how luck is better than skill. That’s number fucking one. But somewhere in the top five is the rule about how your ass is a better sensor than all the Guild tech in the universe.”
“What do we do?” said Saveria.
“We do nothing,” said El. “You stay here. I’m going to talk to Hope.”
Saveria reached for the comm. “We could call her.”
El held a hand out, a sharp motion. “No.”
“No?”
“No,” said El. “Remember the ass sensor? Mine is telling me something’s not right.”
“That doesn’t sound specific for a Guild-certified Helm,” said Saveria.
“Be that as it may be,” said El. She leaned back on her couch, facing the ready room. Nate and Grace were in adjacent couches, talking too low for El to hear. Ebony was snoring. Again. El cleared her throat. “Grace? Mind taking the chair?”
“I can do it,” said Nate.
“Nate,” said El. “Is your name Grace?”
Nate paused, hands on his buckles. “No.”
“Then chill out. Take a moment. And don’t, for the love of all that’s holy, sit your ass in my chair.” She pulled herself free of her own harness, slipping through to the ready room.
Grace put a hand on her arm as El passed. “Everything all right?”
“Sure,” said El.
“That means no,” said Grace. Her eyes searched El’s face. “You okay?”
“Sure,” said El, clenching her fists to stop the trembling. “Everything’s fine, Grace. I need to check a thing.”
Grace nodded, a short jerk of the head. “If you need anything—”
“I don’t,” said El. She looked at the deck. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Nine times out of ten—”
“Nine times out of ten, it really is nothing,” said El, setting off toward the crew airlock. As she passed Ebony, El nudged the woman’s boot. “Wake up.”
“Whuzz? What’s up?” said Ebony, eyes focusing.
“Something. Nothing,” said El. “Be ready.” She left Grace staring in her wake as her feet rang against the Tyche’s metal floors. She ignored Nate as she passed him, hands still clenched. Just need to make sure everything’s fine. And if it’s not, we’re all fucked.
Outside the ready room and its hanging questions, the Tyche’s crew deck stretched left and right. She headed right toward Engineering, at the aft of the ship. El needed to speak with Hope, and if her Ass Meter™ was right, pull the Engineer out of a fire of her own making. El’s boots banged a hard rhythm against the decking as she walked the short distance to Engineering, passing her own quarters. She fought the urge to delay, to stop, to wait.
To run.
Fucking hell.
El was almost at Engineering, glimpsing movement from within as a shadow appeared against the back wall. She was about to call out to Hope when she heard the young Engineer’s laugh behind and below her, coming from the cargo bay. If Hope’s below, who’s in Engineering? El paused, listening. Hope spoke to Kohl, something about an armature, and a trigger, and other stuff that made little sense right now.
If the two of them were in the cargo bay working on a project, and Saveria, Ebony, Nate, and Grace were at the front of the ship, that left zero people who could be in Engineering. The Tyche hadn’t shown any stowaways, all sensors inside clean and green.
And yet, something had moved in Engineering.
Her hands shook harder, a tremble that felt like it would reach her teeth and rattle them free. El should just turn around and get help. But if she did that, she knew — fucking knew — the trembling would get worse. It’d never get better if she kept running.
El had forced them to run from Earth’s desperate battle. Right call at the time but running was running. She’d run from the fight prior, Baggs at her side, and the Emperor’s Black officer had died. Every time she ran, folk died. The only people left were the ones El gave a damn about, and here she was, her hands shaking.
No more running.
El walked forward, nice and slow, like she imagined people might if they were approaching an angry bear. Her feet ascended the small flight of steps to Engineering, her hand on the sill of the airlock. Engineering looked as she’d expect. Reactor at the back, humming away. The drives roared right outside. Hope’s acceleration couch was empty, the holo glowing a blank display. The killer death robot hung in its chains, swaying slightly.
Swaying slightly. Thrust was regular, a relaxed G, nothing too bad. El looked at the killer death robot. Chains around its arms, holding it upright. Eyes closed. A diagnostic cable ran along the floor to Hope’s console. Under regular thrust, swaying should be at a minimum.
El took a step into Engineering. A step closer to the killer death robot, designed by Hope, but based on a woman who’d attacked El from behind. This isn’t a good place to be. You should go. El was about to take her own advice, the shaking in her hands be damned, when the robot’s eyes snapped open. El’s sidearm was in her hand before her brain issued orders. She pulled the trigger, the BOOM of the weapon loud within Engineering’s confines.
She missed. Robo Reiko twisted in its chains, the back wall of Engineering peppered with buckshot. El snapped the breach of her weapon open, the spent casing falling to the deck with a clatter. Robo Reiko swung out of her chains like a gymnast, landing on both feet at the back of Engineering.
El slipped a round into her weapon, snapping it closed. She raised it, pointed it at Reiko. The machine turned, tearing a piece of drive cowling away, the noise of thrust growing thunderous. It seemed to watch El, eyes wide, as it stood. No more swaying, no sir. It was fixed, still, like a store mannequin.
You don’t want to run? No problem. El fired again. As her finger tightened on the trigger, the robot shifted, the cowling held at an angle. Buckshot hit the cowling, reflected into Engineering, and one pellet embedded itself in El’s side. “Motherfucker!”
El ejected the spent casing from her sidearm. Not looking down, her fingers fished another round from her belt, sliding it into the weapon. As she slapped the weapon closed, Robo Reiko moved toward her.
The machine stooped low, snaring a discarded plasma cutter from the deck. It ran at El, faster than thought. Faster than human flesh and blood could match. The plasma torch lit. El’s hand was up, sidearm out, weapon pointed at the machine.
She tried to squeeze the trigger, but something wasn’t right. Her gun fell to the ground. As it hit, her hand still around the handle, it discharged, more pellets hitting the back of Engineering. El swayed, turning her face toward her shoulder.
Her entire arm was missing, sheared off by the plasma cutter. It was on the deck, fingers twitching around her sidearm. El’s breath came panting gasps, huh-huh-huh, smoke and the smell of burnt meat floating around her. The pain hit her then, and she would have hit the deck beside her arm, except Robo Reiko grabbed her by the throat. It used just one arm to hoist her off the deck, holding her up like a
specimen to be examined.
This is the end. El wanted to throw up. The pain from where her arm had been sheared away, the flesh blistered and bubbling, was exquisite. She choked as the robot squeezed her air supply.
At least the shaking in her hands had stopped.
CHAPTER FIVE
KOHL WRESTLED THE railgun onto his power armor’s rear slider. Hope was with him, her rig’s actuators cutting and splicing where required. The plasma cannon he’d been so fond of sat on the deck next to them. It had seen enough action, and now it was time to get an upgrade. Something a little more forceful. Something that would punch right through these robot motherfuckers, leaving nothing but glowing, shredded metal.
Problem was, the damn railguns didn’t have a trigger. Kohl was working, with Hope’s help, to attach the railgun to his armor, then jerry-rig a firing mechanism. Probably be good enough for government work.
He glimpsed El sauntering by above and paid her no mind. Kohl grunted, straining to force the railgun’s ghetto mount into the armor’s slot. “What a piece of fucking shit,” he said.
“That’s right.” Hope laughed. “Maybe swearing will help.”
“Can’t think of a situation when it hasn’t, Hope,” said Kohl. “These fucking machines, designing everything custom like. Can’t they use standard fucking mounts like everyone else?”
“Well, they do,” said Hope. “On most stuff. Like, they’ve taken what we’ve done but made it better.”
“This look better to you?” Kohl held up the railgun. The armor’s mount fell of the bottom, clattering to the deck.
“It looks like it needs more work,” said Hope.
The Tyche’s drives grew louder, then the boom of El’s sidearm echoed through the ship. A single shot, up above, the sound unmistakable. Kohl had been in a lot of fights. Some of ‘em used plasma weapons. Others relied on lasers. One or two, fists and harsh language. But precious few used kinetic weapons, and El’s sidearm was one of a kind.
No mistaking that noise.
Kohl ran before a confused expression had time to arrive on Hope’s face. She’d work it out, and he figured he didn’t have much time to explain. Kohl hit the ladder to the crew deck at what he thought might have been an appreciable fraction of the speed of light, shimmying up like a monkey. One-handed, sure, because he carried a weapon in the other.
Tyche's Ghosts: A Space Opera Military Science Fiction Epic (Ezeroc Wars Book 5) Page 7