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

by Richard Parry

  The first was a massive asteroid. The thing was the size of a moon, call it 150 klicks wide. It’d be having some tidal impacts. A thing like that might be why the transmitter was down. It could block line of sight at critical times between the Bridge and the planet. Not likely, but possible, sure. It could also have knocked out a couple of satellites. That was not only possible, but likely; the thing looked to be in some kind of stable — stable! — orbit around the planet’s meridian.

  The second thing was far, far more interesting though. It was a warship, a full scale, not-fuck-around destroyer, with a not-fuck-around name. The Gladiator. Her fingers itched with memories, because she’d jockeyed something a lot like it when she’d flown for the Empire. Those things were big guns, nightmares deployed for an opposing threat. Capable of a bunch of different mission types — guns aplenty, drop ships for surface deployment, Marines with attitude on board and good to go. It was a similar size and tonnage to the Torrington if she was any judge. Ten or so decks. Maybe 6,500,000 tonnes, over two klicks nose to tail. Long, and black, and deadly.

  “Okay,” said El. “Okay. Did they fire on you?” She didn’t expect a confirmation from the logs, and didn’t get one. Ravana had jumped into this system. Orbited Absalom Delta for a time, doing not much of anything for a couple of days. Probably talking to the surface, waiting for a ride. Then, before any shuttle departed the planet — and a couple of days’ wait on an edge world wasn’t unusual, resources spread a little too thin out here — the Ravana hit hard burn, breaking orbit. As their fusion drives were pouring thrust out the back, the Gladiator had jumped in. They passed each other, spat comms across space — all gone, nothing left of what was said in the recorder — and then the Ravana had jumped. One jump, buffers broken, to here.

  The Gladiator hadn’t fired on the Ravana. It was like the Gladiator was some kind of primed response, the end of a fuse of time that ticked over when the Ravana didn’t report in. When the Bridge didn’t fire up on schedule. Because the Ravana hadn’t deployed her transmitter.

  Grace was right. This didn’t get them options. But she was wrong, too. It didn’t tell them what they already knew. It gave them a whole bunch of nothing. And that nothing left uncomfortable questions, like why would you jump your crew to your death or what was that destroyer doing in your wake?

  One thing was clear: Ravana hadn’t been running from the Gladiator.

  So what had she been running from?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Grace shivered in the Ravana’s cargo bay. The bay was large, like a space warehouse, and was empty except for one thing. She figured the Navy paid the Ravana well to fly with an otherwise empty hold. Grace’s breath misted in the air; the ship was getting colder as Hope prepped the ship, shutting down systems so they could take the reactor.

  Stealing it, from a dead crew who had no further use for life support.

  The work would take a few days. A rush job, Hope had called it, and impossible, but the impossible was possible if the alternative was death in a fiery explosion. Grace had waiting for one of them to ask the obvious question. Why didn’t they take the Ravana and call it a day?

  It was the obvious question, but so was the answer: the Tyche was home. It came off all of them in varying degrees, even the thug. The captain, most of all. It was something she could use. It made them easier marks. And easier to leave, when the time came, because the Tyche wasn’t Grace’s home. Never would be. A temporary ride, to get her somewhere she could lie low for a spell.

  She and Nate were standing in front of the one thing in the bay: a large piece of machinery, transparent plastic covering it.

  “Assess that,” said Nate.

  She looked at him, picking up concern/worry. “It’s a transmitter.”

  “You wonder why we’ve got the same thing in our hold?” Nate walked around the transmitter. “You know, you knew a lot more about our mission than I did. You seemed to know more about our mission than those Navy boys did.”

  “Yes,” said Grace, picking up suspicion/concern. “I like to know where I’m going and why.”

  “So, Grace Gushiken. Where are we going? And why?” Nate completed the circuit of the transmitter. “Why does an edge world need two transmitters?”

  “Usual reasons,” said Grace. “I think you’re approaching this from the wrong angle.”

  “Break it down for me,” said Nate. Arms crossed. Face closed.

  “An edge world needs just one transmitter,” said Grace. “A working one. The Navy knows this, you know this. We all know this.”

  “We all know this,” agreed Nate.

  “Thing is, the Navy is … a big organization. Full of factions.” She held up a hand, because he looked like he would say something unhelpful like no it’s not or how do you know that. “They send crew pants in the wrong size, and then send a second pair in another, different, yet still wrong size. They order too much hash cake for the galley. Coffee comes in decaf, not espresso. You see where I’m going?”

  “You’re saying they booked two crews to complete the same job. Clerical error.”

  “Clerical error,” said Grace, “seems the most obvious reason.”

  “Okay,” said Nate. “Clerical error doesn’t explain how you knew about it.”

  “I talk to people,” said Grace.

  “That’s not it,” said Nate. “No one talks that well to people.”

  “No, I guess not,” said Grace. “How’s Hope, since we’re talking?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” said Nate. “And if you’re going to, be … smooth.”

  “Captain, I’ll change your definition of ’smooth.’” Grace let a little anger into her voice. Not a lot, but enough, just enough to salt the water, let a little flavor in. “This is about trust.”

  “You’re right—”

  “I haven’t finished,” she said. “Trust, it’s a two-way street. Where have I given you cause to think I can’t be trusted?”

  “There’s—”

  “That’s right,” she said, walking closer to him. Face to face. “Never. Here’s the thing. I’ve saved your ass twice now. Once, when a soldier was about to turn you into a smoking ruin, and the second when I dragged your crew’s ass out of a Republic fire. Look. I don’t know what Hope’s problems are, and I don’t care. When she trusts me, she’ll tell me. That’ll be enough. Not the point. The point? Two for two, Captain. And you haven’t even given me an advance. Two good reasons to trust me, and nothing coming back the other way. I’ve got to ask, why should I keep sticking my neck out for you?”

  She didn’t say, that soldier wasn’t going to kill you, he was going to kill me. She didn’t say, if the Navy had looked too closely at me, I’d be dead. Those were both true, and truth wouldn’t help her here. What would help was this man getting over this whole situation. And if he was too blind to see what was true, that was on him. Grace only told people what they wanted to hear.

  It wasn’t really lying.

  “I guess,” said Nate, then stopped. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

  “And why’s that?” said Grace.

  “Because,” said Nate. “I thought you were too good to be true.”

  Too good to be true. She felt sick and wanted to pull back, but held herself still through force of will born of long practice. It didn’t matter what she felt. It mattered that she got to where she was going. And then the next place after that. And the next. She wanted to say, maybe I’m just what you need. Because she wanted it to be true.

  And she wasn’t sure why.

  Instead, she said, “Sometimes, good things happen to good people.”

  “No,” said Nate. “I’ve never known that to be true.” She saw his metal hand flex and felt something like remembered anger come off him. “But you, Grace? You’re right. And I’m sorry.” He held out his hand — the flesh and blood one. She grasped it, finding his hand warm as they shook. “Welcome to the Tyche. Welcome to our family.”

  Perfect.

 
; She watched as he left the cargo bay, and shivered again. The Tyche was breathing for both ships for the moment, but the air still felt stale, false, canned. Just like her. She put a hand on her stomach, willing that sick feeling away. It had to be this way. Had to be.

  Didn’t it?

  Of course it did. She couldn’t trust these people. Not really. Because of what she was. And she couldn’t change that. In a couple more jumps she’d be off the Tyche and free on a new world where no-one knew her. That was the best thing for everybody.

  • • •

  Walking the Ravana felt right. It was empty of souls who cared. It — still — had bodies, empty of all concern, but placed in an airlock away from the rest of them. Nate had said to them all he’d decide what to do when the time came. She didn’t know what that meant, and she didn’t care.

  I don’t care. She repeated it to herself. I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care.

  Walking a drifting hulk, tiny bright sparks of consciousness scattered through it like failing beacons of hope, kept her grounded. Kept her running towards her north star, kept her aware of what she needed to do. It was about survival.

  Grace let a hand touch the metal walls of the ship, fingertips trailing. How many other people had walked through here? How many crew had the Ravana seen before this last, inglorious end? Stripped of her drive, left to rot in a system that held nothing for any humans, not even a scrap of metal worth sending a run-down mining crew to gather.

  Maybe Grace should stay. It’d be a good place to hide.

  Her comm clicked in her helmet. They all wore full suits now that the drive was cold. Tyche’s life support was still trickling air and heat into the empty shell of Ravana, a tiny sprite trying to keep a dying elder sister alive. It was enough to not flash-freeze like she’d seen before; the man who’d been hunting her had looked so surprised, right before the external lock had blown him into the hard black. No suit. He’d looked like he’d been trying to scream, and then he’d turned into a hunk of slowly turning ice and meat. The yellow hate of his mind had snapped out faster than she’d expected, but it still took a long time. Fear and desperation/conviction screaming into the void along with all of his air.

  So yeah. She wore her helmet. People had told her she had trust issues. Her comm chirped and she keyed the receive controls. “Grace here.”

  “Um,” said Hope. “Grace.”

  “I know, the name sounds cool to say,” said Grace. Then she caught herself. Don’t engage. She couldn’t get … attached. Not to any of them, and especially not to a needy on-the-run person trying to stay out from under the Republic’s boot. “Sorry. What’s up, Hope?”

  “I was wondering,” said Hope, “if you could give me a hand.”

  Grace paused. She’d walked the long length of the ship, or near enough. Her feet had led her to the ready room, with its empty acceleration couches and forgotten horrors. Her hand still touched the wall, because she wanted to feel something. This ship shouldn’t be so empty. It was too big, too proud. Her traitorous feet had wanted to show her the ready room again. To remind her of what it meant to be a part of something.

  Yeah. A part of something where everyone dies, together. No thanks. “Sure,” she said. “I can give you a hand.”

  “Great,” said Hope. “I’m in Engineering. On Ravana.”

  I know, Grace almost said. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

  • • •

  Grace didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Something orderly, something regular, something like the Tyche’s engine room. An acceleration couch like Hope’s in a corner, tools racked and stacked. This might have started that way, but there was a huge crater in the floor, metal plates of the Ravana’s structure lifted, sheared, cut, torn. The reactor swayed in the air above the hole, pieces of decking still stuck to it. Chains anchored it to the ceiling.

  “You’ve been busy,” said Grace.

  “Oh, hi,” said Hope, emerging from the crater in the floor. The mask of her rig slicked back, revealing a face smudged with grease and dirt and exhaustion. “Hey. Give me a sec.” The mask slid back down over her face, her youth hidden by the hard metal and glass of the suit. The actuators on her back whirred into action as she slipped back below Grace’s line of sight, bright stars of burning metal born by a welding tool flung out. A pause, a silence, smoke drifting from the crater, then Hope re-emerged, visor pulling back. “That should just about do it.”

  “Hm,” said Grace. “If it’s just about done, what am I here for?”

  “Right,” said Hope. “Well, two things.” She clambered out of the hole. Grace took a couple quick steps forward, offering the Engineer her hand. Hope looked confused — she’s so tired, when did she last sleep? — then a ghost of a smile hit her face. She grabbed Grace’s hand, grip still strong despite the hours without sleep, and let herself be pulled out of the hole in the deck. “The first is the hardest for you. The second is the hardest for me.” Uncertainty/caution/tired-tired-tired came off her.

  Grace doffed her own helmet, a loaner from the crew’s stash. Before this was over she might go through Ravana, find something more to her style. And by style she was thinking easy to move in. Tyche’s stash was full of straight spacer gear, nothing fancy. Everyone else had their own kit, personal, appropriate for their jobs. To fit in, Grace would need the same. It’d be best if a new suit didn’t smell like the last person who’d worn it, but looks were better than anything else. Especially now, while everyone else still seemed to have trust issues.

  Everyone except for Hope. Too young for rough business like this. Don’t get involved. Don’t get attached. Grace almost growled at herself. “Let’s start with what’s hardest for me,” she said, offering a smile.

  “Okay, okay,” said Hope. “I need to turn off the Ravana. I mean, the reactor,” and here, she jerked a thumb at the machinery hanging behind her, “is already out. We’re using Tyche for everything else. Lights, heating—”

  “It’s not very warm,” said Grace, her breath misting out in front of her.

  “What? Oh, sure, right. Yeah. Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” said Grace. “Don’t apologize. I mean, if we all die in a fiery explosion, you and I can talk about the right level of apology. Until then, do your thing.”

  Hope was nodding, not really following along. She’d been awake for, as near as Grace could tell, at least three days without a break. The day they’d jumped, then two days of hard labour here, stripping the Ravana. “Okay, cool, right. Sorry.” She winced. “Sorry. Dammit. I mean. Hell.” She ran a hand through already dirty pink hair, and it was hard to tell whether she was making it dirtier or cleaner. “So the thing. I need to turn everything off.”

  “Makes sense,” said Grace. “Because you’re pulling the Tyche’s reactor.”

  “Tyche is about to pull her own reactor in a great big ball of fire,” said Hope. “I’m trying to race her to it.”

  “Okay,” said Grace. “How long do we have?”

  Hope looked at Grace, and Grace felt fear/desperation. “Long enough. It’s not important. What is important is that I need to be doing this, and I need … well. Since you … I remember the Navy,” she said.

  “You want me,” said Grace, “to go tell everyone what is happening. And you want me to tell everyone, but especially October Kohl, to leave you alone.”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Hope, eyes darting about. Fear/fear.

  “It’s okay,” said Grace. Be the calm. Be the center of the storm. This young woman’s fear would drown her in a tide if she didn’t hold herself steady. “I can do that. I think October Kohl and I need to have a talk anyway.”

  “He’s not much for talking,” said Hope. “Not about things that matter.”

  “That’s fine,” said Grace. “I can talk for both of us.”

  “Well,” said Hope. “It’s a little more … okay, okay. I’ve got a plan. Because we don’t have much time.”

  “How much time,”
said Grace, “do we have, Hope?” She took a step forward, put a hand on the other woman’s arm. “How much time?”

  Grace saw the point there where Hope almost cracked, but instead of shattering like stressed ceramic she swallowed. “About forty-five minutes,” she said. “About forty-five minutes before the Tyche turns into a small sun. We had three days, but she’s been breathing for Ravana, and Ravana, well she’s so big, and…”

  “Forty five minutes,” said Grace. “What’s the plan?”

  “In a minute,” said Hope. “The second thing.”

  “Later,” said Grace.

  “Now,” said Hope. “Because we might not have a later.”

  “Later,” said Grace, “because it won’t matter either way. What’s the plan?”

  • • •

  Grace ran. She ran out of Ravana’s Engineering bay, bounced off the wall outside, used the ricochet to clang down the empty gangway. She keyed her comm as she ran. “Tyche, this is Grace. All hands, ready room.”

  Nate’s voice. “Grace, this is Tyche. What’s—”

  “Ready room,” said Grace, bouncing off another corner. The walls of Ravana whipped past, her breath rasping in her throat. She had a moment where she thought more cardio and then almost laughed at the absurdity of it. She hit the airlock between the ships, Ravana’s clean giving way to Tyche’s home—

  It’s not home. It’s a ship. And it’s got to keep you alive.

  —the air feeling warmer already. Through the cargo bay. A glance at the transmitter, a promise for a colony that wouldn’t even know they’d existed if she didn’t get this right. Past Kohl coming from his cabin as she hit the main deck.

  “What’s the rush?” he said to her back.

  “Ready room!” she said. “Bring your gear.”

  And then, the ready room. Nate, standing against a wall. His stance said calm, confident but worry/worry was coming off him in waves. El, halfway through the door to the flight deck. Kohl bringing up the rear, the big man moving with some speed. She’d need to remember that, if it ever came down to it. Grace had always prized her speed, working at it, but he looked to be quick enough and twice as strong.