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

by Richard Parry

  He scrabbled over broken pieces of veneer and ceramicrete and melted plastic, crawling behind the bar. Joni helped him through, then tried to hit him in the face. She made a poor job with the first swing, because of the angle, and a better job with the second swing. Joni was looking like she wanted to go for a third, so Kohl held up a hand, wincing. “Two seems fair.”

  “God dammit Kohl,” said Joni. “I said no.”

  “How was I supposed to know they were some kind of secret black ops assholes with secret black ops backup?” he said, then ducked as plasma fire burned a hole through the shutters above them and incinerated top-shelf liquor in a haze of steam.

  “I knew,” she said. “I knew, Kohl.”

  “Yeah,” said Kohl, after a moment. “Sorry. Captain’s orders.”

  “Fuck Nate,” said Joni, but with no real urgency.

  “Back door,” he said, pleased he wasn’t slurring so much. It could also have been the sharp sound of plasma weapons being discharged that covered it up; either way was fine. “Back door.”

  She nodded, moving on all fours through broken pieces of the bar, her glowing green hair lighting the way. Kohl got a view of her rear, which was a nice rear as these things went, which made him wonder if he was sobering up like he thought. He followed her as she pushed through a door, into a kitchen area, empty of people. Kohl got himself up into a low crouch and pointed at a door on the far side of the room. “That it?”

  “That’s it,” said Joni. She moved towards it.

  Kohl grabbed her arm. “Not so fast,” he said.

  She shook him off. “October Kohl, if you touch me again—”

  “There will be five guys out there wanting to kill you,” he said, hoping that would explain things enough in the heat of the moment.

  Kohl lead the way across the kitchen, still keeping low. The crackle of plasma discharge was becoming intermittent from behind them, which meant someone was winning, or both sides were just running out of people to keep pulling triggers. Kohl readied his blaster, got to the door, stood up, kicked it open, and shot the man standing there in the middle of the chest. The man spun back, smoke pouring from the hole in his chest, and Kohl turned to the left and shot the man standing there too. He spun to the right, and fired twice more into the woman standing there.

  They all hit the ground in the little alley out the back in a clatter of rifles.

  Kohl looked over his shoulder at Joni. “Wait here a second,” he said. He slipped out into the alley. No one else here, which wasn’t what he expected. Five was a better number for this, and for there to be only three spoke of budget cuts or incompetence. He bent over, checking bodies. No ID, no insignia, no tags of any kind. Not even a fashion label on their underwear. Huh. Well, that didn’t matter much; the captain didn’t want intel, he wanted a quick getaway. He hefted the bodies out of sight behind a dumpster, the side of it sporting a bright Thank you for being a tidy citizen! He yanked the door to the bar back open. Joni was still there.

  “Kohl,” said Joni. “Kohl? I’ll be going now.”

  “Okay,” said Kohl. “Maybe don’t come to work for a couple of days.”

  “What work?” she said, head jerking behind her.

  “Right,” said Kohl. He cocked his head, looking up. No drones, which was odd in itself. No sirens, which was odder still. He palmed his communicator, tapping the screen. No signal. Huh, again. “Maybe you want to let me go first.”

  “Maybe I do,” said Joni, her own communicator slipping back into a pocket of her pants. “What’s going on, October?”

  “Above my pay grade,” said Kohl. “I’m a deck hand.”

  She laughed at him, all jangled nervousness. “You are not a deck hand.”

  He shrugged, holstered the blaster, and walked to the end of the alley. To the left, the main entrance to the bar. Smoke, a few bodies. Holo stage was out, leaving just a blank hole. Not many folk milling around, because smart money said run when people started firing. He crouched low, shuffled to the entrance to the bar, and took a look inside. Just a couple of soldiers or whatever they were walking around inside the charred wreckage. The coins he’d counted on the bar wouldn’t cover this, but to be fair, this wasn’t a typical event at a bar. This was what happened when black ops wanted something, and wanted it bad. That Navy lieutenant had been hiring Nate for a job, and it looked to Kohl like that contract was one that black ops didn’t want fulfilled.

  He’d have to tell the captain about this.

  As October Kohl left the smoking bar, Joni hurrying in the opposite direction, he was left with a perplexing thought. He rarely spent a lot of time thinking about things, because why bother, the universe kept on turning about the core no matter what you did, but in this case it seemed worthwhile. The thought he couldn’t shake was that if black ops didn’t want the job fulfilled, there were better paths. They could send someone with a fruit salad on their chest right into the Naval office here on Enia Alpha, knock on a couple of doors, and say: Yo. We are all on the same side and this is bad. And then the Navy would get upset, but they’d stop, because Republic black ops were not people with whom you wanted to fuck.

  Yeah. He’d have to tell the captain about this.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nate and Grace were walking along one of the beautiful tree-lined avenues of Arlington. Nate was aiming for a stride with a little more speed, a little less rush. You didn’t want to look like you were trying to get away when you were … trying to get away. It took practice, but he’d had a lot of that.

  Arlington was the spaceport on Enia Alpha that Nate had docked the Tyche at two days ago to deliver cargo, refuel, and get another job. He had the feeling he’d got the job just fine, but it came with strings. The damn Republic never let things happen easy. They always wanted an upper hand, a control in something, and that’s why he liked pulling the tiger’s tail so much.

  That, and they’d destroyed the Empire. That was a thing that would never sit well with him.

  He had his thumbs tucked into his belt — one gold-plated, the other flesh — as a bunch of soldiers ran past him, back towards the bar. At that point, his feeling about strings solidified. The feeling became uncomfortable, because he was certain one string was walking at his side with an athletic stride he couldn’t hope to match with his metal leg. Sure, the prosthetic was fine, it had good feeling and range. The Empire had paid top credits to put him back on his feet, but it always felt to Nate like something was missing. Which was true: he was missing his left arm below the elbow and left leg below the knee. Top credits meant top work, but top work didn’t mean just like you were born with. They were good enough, just no longer good enough for government work, which was why he was here, and not dead along with most of the other people he’d known. Since the Mercury Accords there was no AI left around to give a helping hand to the movement of his limbs. Which was a blessing; without the Guild’s intercession, the AI would have killed them all. You didn’t want a computer devil living in your arm or leg.

  “A coin,” said Grace, “for your thoughts.”

  “Republic?” said Nate.

  “Of course,” said Grace. “Be worthless otherwise.”

  Nate paused as a hovercar roared over the top of them, and he turned to watch it slew to a stop close to the bar they’d just come out of. Holo signage was still promising cheapest drinks in Arlington and Spacers Welcome! as men and women holding rifles poured from the car and stormed the bar. Now there is something you do not see every day. “Uh,” he said, and turned back to see Grace already sprinting away, a hand steadying her scabbard as she ran.

  Now there’s a good plan.

  First things first. He flipped out his communicator. “El?”

  There was a moment of silence from the communicator before his Helm answered. “What’s up, Cap? You get yourself in trouble again?”

  Nate looked at the men and women storming the bar, listened to the sound of blasters, and then looked down at the communicator. “What would make
you ask that?”

  “No reason,” said El, her voice coming through crystal clear on the comm. The good part about the damn Republic? Everything worked, even comm links on ass-end edge worlds like Enia Alpha. They probably figured that it was difficult to suck all the hope, joy, and free will out of people if you couldn’t shout at them first. Although that might have just been the phantom ache in his leg talking for him.

  “Here’s the thing,” said Nate. He paused. “We need to be ready to dust off in, I don’t know, let’s call it an hour.”

  There was a pause from the comm, and then — again, crystal clear — El’s voice came through, this time with a tone that could only be called a shriek. “An hour? Have you lost your fucking mind?” And then, when he didn’t answer, she finished it with, “Captain.”

  “Still got that,” said Nate. “I’ll need you to get in touch with the Republic. They’ve got a crate for us, and that crate needs to be on my ship in less than one hour. Did Hope get those repairs done?”

  “You say that,” said El, “like fixing the cascade generator on an Endless Drive is an easy thing to do.”

  “I say that,” said Nate, “like a Captain who doesn’t want his entire ship’s crew to be in jail in one hour and ten minutes.”

  The communicator clicked, then Hope’s voice: “She’ll fly true, Captain.”

  “Were you listening in?” said Nate.

  “No,” said Hope.

  “Good,” said Nate.

  “Just the last bit,” said Hope. “And maybe the first bit too. But not everything.”

  Nate sighed, pocketed the communicator, and walked in the direction Grace had run. The thing about firefights, and not getting shot, was to be good at not drawing attention to yourself. There were some good ways to do that. Just off the top of his head, do not point a blaster at anyone. Don’t shoot a blaster. Do not shout. And never, no matter what, should you run. That kind of thing just drew the eye, caused all manner of mischief to rain down on wherever you were, wherever you’d been, and wherever you were going. This worked well for him as a general rule because he didn’t like running on his leg, and he figured he’d mastered a good saunter.

  The streets of Arlington were emptying, water down a drain, and it gave him a few moments to admire the layout of the place. Tall, thin residences stretched up out of smaller, squat businesses around them, relishing the freedom that 0.9G gave them. Trees. Everywhere, trees, growing taller, leaner than a standard Earth gravity would allow. He’d hoped they’d be able to stay on this crust a while longer; a lighter step meant a lighter heart, even if the Republic were stuck in here like a bunch of ticks. He had no quarrel with them, not anymore, but that didn’t mean their boot stepped light when it found itself accidentally on your neck.

  Like that bar behind him. That was the tread of a heavy boot, make no mistake. If it wasn’t the Republic, they’d sanctioned it, that’s just the way it was. Didn’t make it right — in Nate’s view, it made it far from right, and that’s why he kept grabbing at the tiger’s tail. Speaking of, he spied a flash of straight black hair from a doorway ahead, Grace’s face ducking out for a quick glance back his way. Or back at the firefight in the bar. She waved a come here at him, movements short with anger or fear or both.

  He kept up his saunter. No need to spoil the effect as he approached the finish line. He ducked into the doorway next to her. “Hi.”

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Let’s not,” he said. He leaned into the alcove, a nook that felt like it was tailor-made for just this kind of conversation. “We haven’t discussed terms. We haven’t discussed where we’re going. The most important thing we haven’t discussed is,” and here he paused as a particularly loud fusillade of plasma fire from down the street cut him off, “how on Earth, her mighty heavens, the stars we travel across, and the Senate of our true and beloved Republic, you knew me, those Navy boys, or where they want us go. And all of those things are of interest to me before we keep walking down this fine, tree-lined boulevard.”

  He was watching her face as he spoke, looking for tells. She was good, maybe even great at hiding them, but this wasn’t his first rodeo. Nate saw the emotions chase each other in quick succession. First there was irritation, then there was anger, and that was followed by something he’d call incredulousness for want of a better stake in the quicksand. Finally, a kind of astonishment mixed with something that might become, in just a few moments, acceptance. She pursed her lips, pushed her scabbard behind her on its shoulder strap, and said, “I need a ride.”

  Probably not a lie. “Okay,” he said.

  “And,” she said, “there are people after me.” She touched his arm, just a gentle touch, but he knew the drill and ignored it.

  Still. What she’d said probably wasn’t a lie either, hand on his arm or not. “Okay,” he said again.

  “I can help you,” she said.

  That there was one motherfucking lie. It wasn’t that what she said was untrue: it’s that what she said was about two percent of the truth, and that made Nate uncomfortable. He didn’t like people lying to him, but he was used to it. What he couldn’t tolerate was people lying to him about his ship. “Thing is,” said Nate, “we don’t need help. The Tyche, you see, well. We’ve got ourselves a crew, and that there’s—”

  “They’ll kill me,” said Grace, “if I stay here.”

  Nate thought about that. Okay. That didn’t feel like a lie at all. He felt like she’d just pushed his sucker button and fought the urge to white knight this all the way. Because that sword behind her, and the way she walked, said she wasn’t after a white knight, despite pushing the sucker button hard. “You,” he said, “are trying to play me. Find another ride.” And he turned to see a soldier, dressed in black standing in front of them. Blaster pointed at Nate. Faceless black visor. And here he was, flat-footed, his own weapon still in its holster because of his stupid damn rules about not drawing attention.

  Grace moved, steel hissing out of the scabbard. Her drawing strike brought the blade out from behind her and around, slicing through the side of the soldier’s chest plate. Grace’s second strike left the cold whisper of air next to Nate’s face as her sword reversed direction, moving back up through the other side of the soldier’s armor, the front falling away. Her third stroke cut the soldier’s gun in half, and then she was moving out from the alcove, the blade moving up the man’s chest, cutting through clothing and flesh like neither of them were any bother at all. The sword’s edge made the man’s neck as she made the street, and then she was behind him, spinning in place, her sword an arc of white and red. She stopped, facing away from Nate, back to back with the soldier. The moment held, then the soldier’s head toppled from his body, gun halves clattering to the ground, the body slumping a half second after.

  She spun the sword through the air twice, blood slicking from the blade, before slipping it in the scabbard behind her.

  Nate’s own sword was back on the Tyche, but he hadn’t drawn a blade in the ten years since the Empire fell, and doubted he’d be able to swing it like that even if it was resting comfortable by his side. “That,” he said, “was some impressive shit.”

  She turned and looked at the fallen soldier, then at Nate. “I still need that ride, flyboy.” Her look said and you owe me one.

  “You,” he said, “are fucking hired. But from here on out? It’s Captain.”

  “Copy that, Captain,” said Grace Gushiken, reaching her hand out.

  He shook it, then opened his communicator again. “El?”

  “There’s a city-wide state of emergency,” said his Helm’s voice from the comm. “What did you do?” Then, “Captain.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” said Nate. “Clean out the spare room. We’re taking on one more.”

  There was a pause, before El said, “Okay. What did she do?”

  “Nothing,” said Nate before pocketing the comm. He wished he’d known he was lying to himself.

  CHAPTER FOUR
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  Elspeth Roussel sat in the Helm’s chair — her chair — on the Tyche’s bridge. It wasn’t much of a bridge, not like what she was used to from her days flying frigates for the Empire, but the captain had given her a paying job and didn’t mind she’d flown for the losing side. And she was still Helm of something.

  Even a small lifter like the Tyche. The ship was a single wing design, like an A or V when viewed from above depending on whether you were a glass-half-full kind of woman. The Tyche had three decks and weighed a paltry 150 tonnes, but El liked to think she flew like a much lighter ship. Under her fingers, the Tyche was a nimble fighter. El reached out a hand to the console in front of her, kept clean despite the age of it. “My good girl,” she said.

  “What was that?” Hope’s voice came from behind and below, where the Engineer was working on something below the deck grating. There was a shower of sparks, the crack of electricity, and the Tyche’s console went dark.

  “What,” said El, “did you do?”

  “I thought you said something.” Hope’s head came up from where she was crouched, the rig strapped to her making her look like an insect. Articulator arms reached out from behind her back, smoke still trailing from the end a plasma torch. Her face was hidden behind the blank metal of the rig’s faceplate before it flipped up, revealing a face El had always thought far too young to be the Engineer of a ship, even like their little Tyche. Still, you couldn’t argue with results, and Hope got those results, pink hair and youthful looks aside. The captain seemed to have a way with picking up strays that were useful. It was hard to admit: strays like El herself.

  “I thought you were fixing the ship,” said El.