Tyche's Flight (Tyche's Journey Book 1)

by Richard Parry

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  An Easy Mark

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Glossary

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  Also by Richard Parry

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  EXCERPT: TYCHE’S DECEIT

  One Good Lead

  CHAPTER ONE

  TYCHE'S FLIGHT

  Richard Parry

  TYCHE'S FLIGHT copyright © 2017 Richard Parry.

  Cover design copyright © 2017 Mondegreen.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9951041-1-2

  First edition.

  No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. Piracy, much as it sounds like a cool thing done at sea with a lot of, “Me hearties!” commentary, is a dick move. It gives nothing back to the people who made this book, so don’t do it. Support original works: purchase only authorized editions.

  While we’re here, what you’re holding is a work of fiction created by a professional liar. It is not done in an edgy documentary style with recovered footage. Pretty much everything in here was made up by the author so you could enjoy a story about the world being saved through action scenes and witty dialog. No people were used as templates, serial numbers filed off for anonymity: let’s be honest, October Kohl couldn’t be based on anyone real. Any resemblance to humans you know (alive) or have known (dead) is coincidental.

  Details on how to get your FREE STARTER LIBRARY can be found at the end of this book.

  Find out more about Richard Parry at mondegreen.co

  Published by Mondegreen, New Zealand.

  For my Rae, because you asked for it.

  An Easy Mark

  Grace had a day to live.

  Oh, sure. She might stretch it to a day and a half. But what’s twelve hours against your lifetime?

  Not a lot. Her room at the hotel was burned. The only thing she had left was her stash with her sword and a few Republic coins for emergencies. She hadn’t expected to be on this particular crust for this long. She hadn’t expected to be here at all. When Grace got caught, she’d die. Simple as that. Not getting caught? Harder by the minute.

  The Republic were getting close to her now. She could almost smell their hounds on her heels.

  Grace could certainly feel them. The excitement/chase/hunger of their pursuit; it was all around her. She stood in the warm air of Enia Alpha, a yellow star overhead, an easy 0.9Gs under her feet, and felt the coarseness of the silk material under her fingers. The holo said Genuine Earth Silk! This, like much of life, was a lie. Grace was used to lying, except she liked to think she was better at it than the merchant. To make a lie believable, there needed to be at least a hint of truth. The silks cost nowhere near enough good Republic coin to be from Earth; the price was low enough it called into question whether it was silk at all. A bigger price and the lie of the silks would, almost naturally, become truth. It didn’t have to be true; it needed to feel true.

  The only good thing about the bad lie in front of her was that it was like a disguise. The Republic guard behind her were hunting an esper, not a shopper of silks. An esper would run, not bargain for material by the meter. The Republic soldiers would have been told about the devils they hunted. Espers, they’ll take your kids in the night. Or, espers, they can make you do things. The first was an exaggeration, because espers only took other espers, but the second? That was truth. And because it sounded horrible, they expected the people doing it to look horrible. With a peg leg, or a scar across the face. They didn’t expect them to look … ordinary.

  The problem with the Republic — one of them anyway, right Grace? — was that they were used to being on top. A good ten years had passed since the Old Empire had fallen. Ten years was a long time for people to forget about the good, holding on to the bad. Folk remembered the Intelligencers as the first of these devils to walk among them. They wanted them to be the last, so — almost naturally, like the changing of seasons — came the witch hunts, where anyone with the smell of the gift was fair game. Cheat at cards? An esper. Lucky break in the markets? Esper. Your kid fall in with a bad crowd? Espers, all of ’em. The reach of the Republic was far, and their boot — made from fear and strength — was heavy. Fear and strength was why she’d chosen the mark she had.

  Her mark knew the feel of that boot on his neck. Nathan Chevell, captain of the free trader Tyche. If captain was even the right word for the owner of an aging rust-bucket. He hadn’t been on the winning side of the war. Not to say he was on the losing, either; her research said he was out the door before the real fighting started. Maybe a coward. Even if he wasn’t, he’d be easy to play; either the hero card or the guilt card would work. The important part was that this Nathan Chevell was good at his job; he ran a free starship outside of Guild constraints. She needed to sign on as crew. Find an empty spot to fill, or make a spot empty if all berths were full. He didn’t have an Assessor, and that was her path in. Assessors lied about little things like they mattered, and Grace had been lying for more than the ten years the Old Empire had been rubble.

  She knew — courtesy of last night’s tryst with a talkative Navy officer, proud of his rank, uniform, and alcohol choices in equal measure — that Nathan Chevell would be sent out to the back of the hard black by the Republic themselves. Because this Nathan Chevell didn’t like the press of the boot on his neck, he would argue about it, so she needed to give him a nudge. Make sure he took the job, and her with it. Then she could enjoy the trip, and the irony of being sent away by the very Republic that hunted her.

  Grace Gushiken let the silks fall. She needed her sword. It was time to get to work.

  CHAPTER ONE

  He would always remember the first time she lied to him.

  Nate was sitting in a spacer bar — not that it had signs saying Spacer Bar or Drunk Crew Welcome. It was the way it smelled more than anything, old engine oil overlaid with the unmistakable tang of ozone that came from working heavy machines or plasma cannons. Beer, vat-grown because out here that was the best way to get consistent results. Still, you never knew if some strain of modified soy was being used on-planet for your drink. There was also the smell of sweat, and sometimes, of anger.

  That last was typical. Drunk Crew Welcome wasn’t always a good thing.

  “Captain Chevell,” said the man across from him, R
epublic uniform starched so crisp you could shave yourself with the collar. It was a dress uniform, lieutenant’s insignia on the shoulders, wings on the breast, a bunch of other medals Nate was too bored to take in. The ID tag said Evans, which might even be his name. Nate didn’t care about that either, because this man was a piece of a great machine, and the machine didn’t care about names, only results. The uniform went nicely with dress hands, folded in front of the lieutenant. Fingers that hadn’t seen a blaster since basic training, not a callus anywhere. This man was content behind a desk, and probably good at it too. The Navy hat was on the table to the man’s right, almost like a barrier. Possibly a necessary barrier — the other man seated across from Nate with Evans wasn’t an officer. Not even close. He had scars, and muscles, and was wearing dress fatigues that said I’m always on duty, even in your Spacer Bar. He wouldn’t have finished that with asshole because Republic Marines were always polite, but he would have meant it. So yeah, that hat was a good barrier between the two: on the same side, but different points of view. “Are you the captain of the Tyche?” Evans said it like Teach.

  “Certainly not,” said Nate.

  “You’re … not?”

  “No,” said Nate. “I’m the captain of the starship Tyche.” He pronounced it like Lady Luck intended: Tie-Key. “Say it with me. Tyche.”

  “Tie. Key,” said Evans, face blank.

  “Good work,” said Nate. “You were going somewhere with that, right?”

  “Captain Chevell,” Lieutenant Evans said again, “it would be nice to hear your perspective.”

  “My perspective?” said Nate. “I’m not sure it needs a perspective. You’re talking cash money for a milk run.”

  “Exactly the kind of perspective I was hoping for,” said Evans. He brightened. “Are you willing to take on the job?”

  “Hold up,” said Nate.

  Evans looked a little lost. “You said ’cash money for a milk run.’ I’m not sure—”

  “Where there is milk, and it’s cash money, there’s always a fly in it,” said Nate. “Always.”

  “A fly?” said Evans. The Marine next to him hadn’t even looked sideways at Nate, not once, eyes straight ahead, jaw clenched. Or, Nate thought, perhaps it wasn’t clenched — the man might have had a jaw made of rocks and rubble. It would be nice if Kohl was here, because Kohl spoke that kind of language. But Kohl was off getting drunk or laid or a hundred other things he wasn’t being paid for, which left Nate here, alone, in a Spacer Bar that smelled of anger and Drunk Crew, ass hanging out, trying to negotiate with the Republic. A Republic who didn’t negotiate, which made it fun, and crazy at the same time, and if Nate was being his honest authentic self, like that holo kept telling him he should be, it was why he was pulling the tiger’s tail.

  Time to pull harder. “You’ve listed a fee, payable on delivery of an unspecified object, that is frankly astonishing,” said Nate.

  “Yes,” said Evans, “that’s—”

  “Hold on to your drink,” said Nate, watching as Evans’ eyes went to the empty space in front of him. No drink, because a man like that didn’t drink on duty. “Or, hell, watch me hold mine.” Nate took an exploratory sip of his beer, which the bartender — a cute young thing with braids that glowed green in the dark interior of the bar — had assured him was vat-grown as he’d dropped Republic coins in front of her. It didn’t taste half bad, but the other half wasn’t great. Whatever. At least it didn’t taste like soy beer. Evans was watching him drink, or was watching Nate’s hand holding the beer. One of Nate’s hands, like one of his legs, was metal: all shiny gold and precision metal and gleaming gears. It was that metal hand, or rather how Nate had … acquired it, that made him cautious when dealing with the Republic. “An astonishing fee means astonishing danger,” he said, “or it means you’ll fuck me. And I don’t mean a nice, cozy fuck, full of gentle whispers and soft kisses. I mean a—”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” said Evans, his lips pulling tighter.

  Good Goddamn, but is that Marine smiling? There was something in the way the mound of muscle’s face had twitched that made Nate proud. “An astonishing fee means you don’t mean to pay it. And getting paid is of high importance to me and mine, if you know what I mean. So here’s what’ll happen. We’ll talk terms.”

  “The terms are clear,” said Evans. “Five hundred thousand Republic credits, payable on delivery.”

  “Do I,” said Nate, “look like a stupid man to you, Lieutenant?”

  Evans paused. “Not … particularly, Captain.”

  “Perhaps green, young, unused to the rigors of command?” Nate raised his eyebrows.

  “No. I would say not.”

  “Then why are you treating me like a gullible child?” said Nate. “I need three things from you.”

  “Three?”

  “Three,” said Nate, giving the Marine a glance. Nope, the man still wasn’t moving. Like a sphinx, that one, about as readable as a rock. Nate hoped they wouldn’t get into any trouble, because without Kohl, it would not be fun business, not for Nate. The Marine would have fun. He held up his gold hand, digits clicking as he extended his fingers. “First, you’ll pay me twenty percent up front. This isn’t a number that horrifies you. It’s a rounding error in your budgets. Not enough for me and mine to run, but enough for us to know there’s a higher chance of you paying the rest rather than spacing us all. Two,” and a second metal digit clicked up, “you’ll tell us what the cargo is. You’ll tell us because of what happened two years ago, when I took Republic cargo, and then was raided by the Republic, and your clowns tried to charge me for hauling contraband. Took months to work through that, you assholes tried to stiff me on my completion bonus, and I was in jail. A jail, Lieutenant. Third, you’ll hand over a load of torpedoes. Nothing fancy, no crust-crackers, just some simple ship to ship nukes, because I’m fresh out, and the only place to get nukes is from the Republic Navy. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?” said Evans.

  “Sort of,” agreed Nate. “The thing we’re dealing with here is trust, Lieutenant. Trust can be bought. I’m offering to sell you mine, for a twenty percent advance, knowledge of the cargo, and thirty-six ship to ship nukes. How’s that sound?”

  The lieutenant thought about it. Nate watched the man’s eyes scan the room, the rough crowd giving them a circle of calm because nothing said stupid like picking a fight with the Republic Navy. “You’re aware,” he said, after a suitable period of reflection, “that we could seize your ship, kill your crew, and do the job ourselves?”

  “Sure,” said Nate, “you could try doing that.”

  “We are the Republic Navy,” said Evans.

  “Like I said,” said Nate, “you could try. There’s a couple of problems. First, you’ll have to scare up someone who knows how to fly my baby. Not a common ship, not anymore. Those Endless Drives are a thing of wonder and beauty, and the flight systems behind them take a loving touch, Lieutenant. My crew has a loving touch. The Tyche, she’s our home, our palace, our playground, and our friend. She’ll fly true for us, and she’ll crash and burn for you and yours.”

  Evans was watching him. “You said two reasons.”

  “I did,” said Nate. “The second reason is because you’re the good guys, Lieutenant. You don’t raid a peaceful freighter, kill the entire crew, and then steal their ship. No. In this instance, you’re trying to pay top dollar because you don’t have an Endless ship on hand, you want a dedicated crew, and you want a package delivered. I’m your man. But with those three stipulations.”

  “Also,” said a woman, slipping into the booth next to Nate, “you’ll surrender right of salvage. Fourth condition. Or stipulation. Call it something that makes you happy, like ’finder’s fee.’”

  Evans, Nate, and even the Marine turned to look at the woman. Casual clothes, lots of black, except for her shirt, which was white. Ruffled collar, making Nate think pirate before he almost laughed at himself — if there was a pirate here, it was
him, with his modern version of a hook hand and peg leg. Her arm, from exposed elbow to wrist, was etched in an ancient-style black tattoo, no dynamic colors switching with her mood. Not this one, no sir. She tabled a sword in a scabbard in front of them all with a casual toss, a similar casual toss of her hair — short-cropped, dead straight, black, just long enough to touch her chin, not long enough to get her into trouble — following. White teeth in a smile that made Nate take immediate interest, despite his better judgement, because nothing said trouble in quite the same way as a smile like that — Nate had a similar smile of his own. And nothing said run in quite the same way as a stranger knowing your business.

  Because she was a stranger. He’d never seen this woman before in his life, and that made him uncomfortable. “Hi,” said Nate.

  “Hi,” said the woman, a flash of that smile again peeking out from around her hair. “Been looking for you. For hours.”

  “Captain,” said Evans, “who is this—”

  “Grace Gushiken,” said the woman, “and I’m the Tyche’s Assessor.”

  “You are?” said Nate. “I mean, yes, you are.”

  This wasn’t when she lied to him. She was lying to them, and Nate could get behind lying to the Republic Navy. It was just more pulling of the tiger’s tail, and that lent a certain air of charm to her right away.

  “And,” said Grace, “the captain shouldn’t have been talking to you without me.”

  “He shouldn’t?” said Evans.

  “I shouldn’t?” said Nate, but he wasn’t sure if he was asking a question or not.

  “Because the captain,” said Grace, “is not an Assessor. He knows ships, and he knows people, and he knows bars,” and here, a chuckle, too natural to not be rehearsed, “just fine. What he doesn’t know is the value of good salvage. You’re sending him out to a place where there’s a downed transmitter.”