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

by Richard Parry

  • • •

  The Guild’s Bridge hadn’t been visible from the cockpit because of their deceleration burn. El had left the rear of the dropship angled towards the Bridge to make access easier for Grace. Maybe she doesn’t want to win the bet either. Grace opened the back of the dropship to space, and stood in awe.

  Never been this close before.

  The Bridge was a massive ring, metal and ceramicrete stretching away, a hula-hoop that would be at home around the girth of the Gladiator. The Guild builds these things. Humans built this. It wasn’t strictly true: they sent robots out here to construct the Bridges. Automated factories at a larger scale than the Gladiator had constructing wormhole gates. Bolt a big enough reactor to it and you could move any mass instantaneously through space. The Guild made cash based on the mass they shifted — and no one lied about the mass they carried, because the Guild powered the gate for that specific load. If you tried to cheat them, they’d shut the gate down as your ship was half-way through. A ship shorn in two by a collapsed wormhole wasn’t something Grace had seen first-hand, but it didn’t sound like a great time.

  She clicked the controls on her suit’s arm, instructing the autoloader carrying the transmitter to follow her. Her suit knew where to go, setting her on a course for the transmitter mount on the side of the Bridge. While she took the two-minute journey through the hard black, she looked around her. Absalom Delta, blue-green beauty hanging in the sky. The Gladiator, an almost invisible spec. The asteroid, still visible to the naked eye. That rock was huge. How in all hell had it got there? Rocks didn’t just orbit planets. The ones that did were called moons, and didn’t arrive unannounced.

  Her suit chimed, and she turned back to the Bridge. This close, it was a massive slab of metal she could get her mag boots on, a thing so big that her mind said it’s just a different kind of ground rather than it’s a huge ring in space. The boots clumped onto the metal, the autoloader following behind her like an obedient hound. The arrived at the installation point for the transmitter. Grace looked at it, then clicked her comm. “El, you there?”

  “No, I left you out here to die alone. I’m already on my way back to the Tyche.” Not the Gladiator, because that wouldn’t be home. Not for any of them, because you didn’t make your home in graveyards or murder scenes or whatever it was.

  “Okay great. Look, while you’re flying away, can you point your nose at me and tell me what you see?”

  “Sec.” Humming, then, “Huh. Yeah, that’s what we saw before. Transmitter’s there.”

  “I know, right?” Grace looked up at the transmitter already installed in the Bridge and let her breath out. “We came all this way for nothing.”

  “Well, cool,” said El. “I mean, you win the bet, so beer’s on me.”

  “That sounds like half a job,” said Grace. “We don’t know why the Bridge isn’t working.”

  “Probably won’t, without Hope,” said El. “Also, we don’t get paid for why. We get paid for what and how.”

  “Uh huh,” said Grace. She told the autoloader to hold steady and moved around the transmitter, boots clumping with each step. Like walking in treacle, these were. She’d hate to have a fight in zero G. No way to dance with her sword, just a lot of ugly brute movements. Kohl would be right at home. Okay, there. A console was set into the side of the Bridge’s transmitter. She pulled a powered multitool from her belt, ready to work on the console’s protective housing. Before she could begin, the housing drifted open.

  “Uh,” said Grace, looking at the console within.

  “The suspense is killing me,” said El.

  “I thought you didn’t want to know why,” said Grace. Her fingers traced a set of cables clipped from the transmitter computer back to a small device.

  “I said we didn’t get paid for it. By proxy, it means I don’t want to work for it. But if you’ve done the work already, it would seem insensitive of me not to share in your victory. Go on. Tell me what you found.”

  “Looks like a bypass,” said Grace.

  “A what?”

  “Bypass,” said Grace. “Someone’s subverted the transmitter’s controller.”

  “Why would someone do that?” said El. “Out here, the Bridge is everything. It’s how they get food. Meds. Holo shows. It’s how they get home.”

  “Yeah,” said Grace. “It’s how they get home.” She swallowed. And they don’t want to get home. She didn’t know why she thought it, but she knew it was true. These people had broken their own Bridge.

  “Well, just yank the bypass,” said El. “Job done. And maybe we can sell this other one for salvage.”

  “Won’t help,” said Grace. “Not anymore. These things run on a schedule. A probe comes through to get the Guild’s roster for the next world-to-world Bridge schedule. No probe through, no roster. This whole thing is just dead metal without one.” She toed the ring beneath her.

  “What about the new transmitter? Yank the schedule from that. Put it in here?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to know why?” Grace started back towards the autoloader.

  “We’re still on what and how,” said El. “What is the roster. How is a download.”

  “One thing,” said Grace. She paused in front of the autoloader. “Anyone could have done what we’re doing. The Ravana. The Gladiator. Anyone. And no one did. Why?”

  “Not the why we’re being paid for,” said El.

  “I suppose not,” said Grace. She pried open the console on the transmitter held by the autoloader. Ran a finger over the components within, cards slotted in for swappable replacement. Central control, no, Bridge dynamics, no, Guild protocols, no — ah. Bridge roster. She pulled the card, shut the transmitter’s console, and moved back to the already-installed transmitter.

  “Here goes nothing.” She yanked the bypass, tossing the components into the void behind her. Pulled the installed roster, tossed that aside as well, then slapped the replacement roster home. Lights blinked, reds turning to green, and she smiled. “And there’s a tidy completion bonus.”

  The Bridge thrummed under her feet, the systems doing automated checks. Nothing else happened — it’d be too coincidental for words for this Bridge to have a rostered jump the moment they enlivened it again. The computer would try to talk to the planet, automated systems trying to handshake with other automated systems. Shame there was nothing but dead air. The computer wouldn’t care, going through its paces just like its designers had intended.

  “Grace,” said El. “Grace, I think you need to get back here.”

  “I was coming anyway—”

  “No, like, now,” said El. “The Gladiator’s fired ordnance our way.”

  “What?”

  “Hold on. I’ll swing by. Catch you.” Grace saw the dropship’s engine’s flare, the ship spin in space, headed her way. “There’s not a lot of time. Don’t ask questions, just jump, okay. I got you.”

  Grace’s mind tried to work the options. There must have been some kind of automated protocol. Something the command crew of the Gladiator set up. Or had they missed someone onboard? Someone hiding out? Someone who’d snuck into fire control? Grace crouched, kicked off the surface of the ring, casting herself free. Trust, trust. She made them trust her, not the other way around.

  She turned through space, saw the space inside the ring below her flicker, the starscape beyond changing to a different starscape. The Bridge was open. A flash of movement caught her eye, a port on the surface of the Bridge yawning wide. A small probe shot out, dived through the Bridge, and was … still visible to her, but somewhere else. The last communications from this system, queued for delivery. Now sent.

  Nothing unusual about that, but it didn’t stop Grace feeling a touch of dread. They didn’t want to go home … what could they have wanted to say to the people they never wanted to see again?

  She stopped thinking about that as the dropship slewed into her view. Grace glimpsed El through the cockpit, the Helm working the ship like a d
ervish. The dropship looked like it would hit her before it spun in space, the back hold open, a yawning mouth. Grace wanted to scream, because this wasn’t how trust worked, and then a flare of thrusters cut the dropship’s speed and she was inside, helmet clanging against the interior wall of the hold, the doors already closing against the hard black. Safe bright lights were around her as she panted, gasping for breath, clawing at the wall, trying to convince herself she was alive.

  “Hold on,” came El’s voice, and the dropship pushed hard. Grace tumbled in the bay, sliding across the floor. Her trailing hand caught a strap. Safe. You’re safe.

  “You’re fucking crazy!” yelled Grace.

  “Yell at me later,” said El’s voice, tense, hard. Grace caught fear and then excitement and then fear/fear/fear.

  Grace hung onto the strap, the dropship’s drives working hard. They’d be pulling 3Gs at least. It’d be close all this thing had to give, but it was enough to make her sixty kilo frame feel like a hundred and eighty. She wound the strap around her wrist, crying out with the pain of it. She stabbed her boot against a wall for more purchase, anything, just a toehold to stop her from yanking her arm out of its socket. Grace couldn’t see her hand through the suit’s glove, but knew the straps would dig into her skin, leaving red welts, cutting off blood flow.

  The chatter of comms. Nate’s voice. “El? El, the ship … the Gladiator’s fired on the Bridge. Get out!”

  “On it,” said El. “Cap, what did you fire?”

  “Working on it,” he said.

  Kohl’s voice: “Straight up nuke, looks like. Not a crustbuster.”

  “More than one,” said Nate. “Five torpedoes in the wind. Haul ass.”

  “Targeting me?” said El.

  “Maybe,” said Kohl. “We’re just watching the show here. There’s no … hell. I reckon not, but it’s not going to matter if you don’t get clear.”

  “Did you get Grace?” said Nate. “Is Grace okay?”

  Grace felt something in her shoulder give, and she bit down on the pain. He hadn’t asked did you get the job done or what happened out there. He’d asked about her. Like she was one of his crew.

  She wasn’t. She wasn’t. They would hate her if they knew what she was. Focus on the pain. It’s all you’ve got. It’s all you’ve ever had.

  “Grace is here,” said El. “Now let me fly.” Then, on the local comm channel she said, “Grace?”

  Grace reached her free arm up to the strap, grabbed it to let some of the load off her tortured hand. She hissed through her teeth. “Not. In. A … Couch.”

  “I know. You heard what’s coming?”

  “Heard.” Grace flailed her other leg around, caught the edge of a floor mount. Braced herself. She was panting, the effort of not falling at 3 gravities into the back of the dropship taking its toll. “Torpedoes.”

  “That’s right,” said El. “We’ve got five. Just passing … now. They’ll hit the Bridge in seconds. Moving a lot faster than we are.”

  No time for too many words. Hard to talk, anyway. Grace coughed at the pressure against her — no acceleration couch, Goddamn it — and said. “Thanks. For. Not leaving me. To die.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” said El. Then she said, “Impact.”

  A second passed, then another, before the wave of the explosion hit the dropship, the little craft shaking and rattling around them. The explosion wave grew in force, the dropship bucking and shaking like a bottle in stormy seas. What are the odds of being near two nuclear events in the same week? This has got to be some kind of record. The shaking of the dropship grew, and there was a groaning from the substructure around them. El was still pouring on thrust, encouraging the little ship to fly, fly, fly before the maw of the hurricane of fire and radiation behind them.

  The bucking dropped to shaking, the shaking to a rattle, then the ship was still. Thrust cut, and Grace almost cried with relief. She gasped inside her helmet, then unwound the strap from her arm. The pain as circulation returned made her grit her teeth. It felt like her arm had been mauled by wild dogs, and she would need to get that checked out.

  “You okay?” El’s voice was softer now. Tired.

  No. “Yes,” said Grace. “I’m okay.” She was alive, and these people had kept her that way.

  Maybe she was okay for the first time in a long while.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nate shifted from foot to foot, the anxiety building in him. He’d sent El and Grace off on a simple task. They were supposed to have the easy job. Grace was new crew, and El — well, she was always a bit gun-shy. When the bridge of the Gladiator had lit up like Christmas morning, target locks showing across the central holo, targeting where he’d sent his crew — where he had sent his crew — he’d almost had a heart attack. Even Kohl had trouble with it, mashing consoles and trying to get the ship to respond.

  Nada.

  He’d been on the comm to El. She’d said they were fine, and when he’d asked what that meant, she said it meant that they were alive but Grace had dislocated her shoulder. And then she’d asked him to stop bugging her and do something useful like making sure the Gladiator won’t blow us out of the sky.

  Like he could. The ship was on auto, a series of commands embedded before they’d arrived doing whatever they were told to.

  Yellow warning lights strobed. The dropship was docking at an external airlock, puffs of the thrusters visible through the viewports as El guided it in. Automated clamps reached out, gripped the craft, and held it close … held it safe. The airlock sealed against the hard black, the interior pressurizing. He waited on the gangway, hand on the railing.

  The dropship opened, El walking out with a pissed-off expression and anger in her stride. Nate was about to say something, but she spoke first. “What the fuck was that about, Cap?” She jerked her arm back at the dropship. “We almost died, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I—”

  “We need to get this ship under control,” she said. “We need to be in control of all the guns that can kill us.”

  “I—”

  “Hell,” she said, sighing. “I’m not angry at you. I’m just angry.”

  “Good,” said Nate. “I’m pretty angry too.”

  “You’re frightened,” said Grace, from behind El. She was cradling her arm, face pale. “We’re all frightened.”

  “I’m—”

  “Because,” said Grace, “nothing here is as it should be. We’re on a ghost ship. The planet is silent. The Bridge has been destroyed by plans laid in place before we arrived. My usual gigs aren’t this … exciting. Hell,” she said, looking at her boots, “our reactor blew. What are the odds of that?”

  What are the odds of that. “That’s … an interesting question,” said Nate.

  “It feels to me like someone doesn’t want us here,” said Grace. “If not someone, then something.”

  “Something?” said Nate. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” said Grace, pushing past him. “Everything hurts. I’ll be in the sickbay.” She paused, then looked at El. “Not bad, Stick, not bad. For a rookie, I mean.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” said El. “You’re delirious. You’ve never seen flying that good.”

  “Maybe,” said Grace with a tired smile. “You’ll get out of flight school one day.” And then she was gone in a clang of boots on the walkway.

  Nate looked after her, then back at El. “You seem to be bonding well.”

  “We almost died,” said El. “It’ll do that to you.”

  Nate winced. “You up to a bit of investigation?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “What kind?”

  “The kind where we try and get this ship to stop shooting at us at random, inopportune times. The kind where we feel like we can fly the Tyche out of here without her being turned into a ball of expanding dust.” Nate shrugged. “You used to fly these things, El. You’ve got to know a few secrets.”

  “I know a few secrets, sure
,” she said. “We need something. Anything. If we don’t have someone’s sub-dermal implant, we need an ID. Hell, even their underwear with the right bar code.”

  “Underwear we can do,” said Nate. “We’ve got all the underwear we’ll ever need.”

  • • •

  Kohl was standing outside the commander’s cabin, the plasma cutter resting on the deck beside him. He looked bored as Nate approach through the haze of smoke. “Hey,” said Kohl.

  “Hey,” said Nate. He looked at the hole Kohl had cut in the wall of the ship, conduit and pipework and insulation all sliced through. Inside, the commander’s private space. A table, made of wood, dark and polished like a mirror. A cabinet that looked like it held liquor, which would be against regs, but what could you do to the commander? Ports showing a view of space. The commander’s room was under the bridge on the Gladiator just like Nate’s cabin was under the flight deck on the Tyche. “Nice cabin.”

  “I haven’t been inside,” said Kohl. “Don’t even know why we’re here.”

  “Underwear,” said Nate.

  “The fuck?” said Kohl.

  El sauntered up, clapped the big man on the arm. “Don’t sweat it,” she said. “It’ll all become clear soon.”

  Nate pushed himself through the hole in the wall. The door wouldn’t open to him because he wasn’t the commander. He didn’t even know who the commander was. What kind of face they wore, what kind of career they’d had. How their crew had viewed them. They had an empty room with a few nice things to gauge the kind of person the commander of the Gladiator had been. In here, hopefully, was underwear.

  Strictly speaking it wasn’t underwear they were after, but underclothes. Flight suits were worn over the top of an insulating layer. They’d keep you cool in the heat, or warm enough in the cold. The latter was very important if you were found floating without a suit in the hard black. They were supposed to stop your blood boiling out of your eye sockets, staying off the flash-freezing of your body a few more precious seconds. Underclothes had other benefits like being flame retardant, and could duct electricity around the fabric rather than through the wearer — the biggest threats aboard a ship were fire and electrocution, next to dying while trying to scream in vacuum. Trying to scream was good though, because holding your breath wasn’t great. Nate’s training back when he wore the Emperor’s Black was to hyperventilate. Something about aspiration slowing the blood boiling in your veins.