El clicked the comm. “Tyche to ground crew, yo. How you doing down there?”
Nothing. Not even static. There was no handshake to the signal. Nothing.
“Tyche to ground crew. Hit me back.” El clicked the comm, tried another channel. Still nothing. She leaned forward, wincing again at her back, amped the signal up. “Nate? This is El.” A slight hiss of static, but nothing else. Okay, go specific. “Kohl.” Silence. “Kohl, you asshole. Come in.”
Static surged to a roar through the flight deck’s speakers, and El flinched, covering her ears. The static stopped, followed by silence. El looked at the empty acceleration couch next to her, then switched to an internal channel. “Hope.”
“Engineering here,” said Hope, “high on drugs and rock and roll.”
“You wouldn’t know what rock and roll was,” said El. “No one does, not really. Just words.”
“But what a movement,” said Hope. “What’s up?”
“You tested the Tyche’s systems yet?” El was looking at the air where the holo still displayed SIGNAL LOST. “Anything to do with comms?”
“Nope,” said Hope, “and also, a big thanks-for-the-confidence high five. You know I’d tell you about something like that.”
“Okay,” said El, reaching to turn the comm off.
“Hold up,” said Hope. “Why are you asking?”
“It’s probably nothing,” said El.
“It’s probably something,” said Hope. “What specific form of ’nothing’ are you thinking about?”
“Well,” said El, “the Cap’s bios came through elevated, then snapped out. I can’t get a signal with the planet.”
“Be right there,” said Hope.
“Wait,” said El, and realized the comm was off. She’d wanted to say it’s nothing again or we should wait a little longer, because the alternative was dropping the Tyche into the atmosphere of a planet where there was a bunch of weird shit going on, and that wasn’t in El’s position description. She flew the ship, and she flew it away from random acts of violence. Her whole deal was flying the Tyche away from danger, a ship without which they would all die in a vacuum.
The clank of boots on metal announced Hope’s arrival. Pink hair grungy with grease, Hope’s face wore tired like most people wore underwear. Something that was ordinary and expected. She looked at the SIGNAL LOST for about two seconds, then she said, “We need to go. Down there.”
“Hold up,” said El. “Have you even tested my ship yet?”
“It’ll be fine,” said Hope. “Good Republic fitment. What could go wrong?”
“Everything,” said El. “You’ve still got the Ravana’s reactor coupled to the Tyche. It’s more power than she’s used to. And you’ve replaced the substructure of the Tyche. We don’t even know if the welds will hold.”
“Welds,” said Hope. “You’re so old school.”
“Whatever you’ve done—”
“Because you don’t weld ceramic,” said Hope.
“Glue,” said El. “Unicorn blood, I don’t care. You’ve replaced the thing that makes the Tyche hold a straight line. I’m not flying until we’ve done some tests.”
The holo shimmered, flicked, then displayed COLLISION WARNING. The flight deck’s speakers brayed a klaxon. Hope and El both looked at the ceiling as if there was a higher power they could ask for guidance, then looked at each other.
“We’ve got to go,” said El. The holo winked, displayed the Tyche, then pulled out to a view of the Gladiator. It pulled out again to a planet view, Absalom Delta and the asteroid marked bright and red. There were several solid objects moving at high velocity between the asteroid and the Gladiator. High velocity. “We’ve got to fucking go,” said El. “Buckle up.”
“We’re not … there’s still stuff to do,” said Hope. But she was clambering into the acceleration couch across from El, pulling the straps tight against her small frame. She smelled of oil and ozone and fear.
“Is it stuff that will stop us flying?” said El, clicking switches on the console. The sound of the fusion engines rumbled through the hull, throaty, powerful, ready. Angry, as if they’d been starved of purpose for too long.
“Maybe,” said Hope. “Probably not.”
“I need a yes or no,” said El.
“No,” said Hope, eyes wide. She was watching the markers on the holo, those objects getting closer to the Gladiator. “What are those?”
“Those,” said El, “are rocks.” She told the Gladiator to let them go, then told the destroyer to open the hangar to the hard black. She couldn’t hear the air as atmosphere gusted out, but small objects — a wrench, a work table — whirled past the cockpit and into the void. Another alarm blinked into view on the holo, one of the docking clamps holding the Tyche was stuck fast. The black of space opened before El like a promise of hope, the blue green of Absalom Delta below them. A flash of fire streaked past the hangar doors, torpedoes launched by the Gladiator’s defenses spearing into the void.
The damn clamps. They were moored, stuck fast, so close to freedom. “I’ll get it,” said Hope, starting to leave her chair.
“There’s no time,” said El. She pulled on the sticks, the Tyche thrumming with urgency as she tried for space. Yearned for it, the taste of open water so close. There was a screaming of metal as something — the Gladiator or something on the Tyche, impossible to tell — tore, and then they were moving.
The comm channel chattered, hissed, and then the Gladiator’s automated voice spoke. “Collision imminent. Brace, brace, brace.” El clicked weapons control, warmed up the PDCs, the thrum sounding through the hull as the cannons came out on their mounts, spun through their initial checks. She brought the lasers online — a red warning light blinked on her console, telling her there was an error in the laser firing array. It wouldn’t stop them firing, but they had nothing that would reach across the void. Close range defense. Close range combat.
Well, fuck. That was what untested meant. No lasers? No problem.
“Sorry,” said Hope, “not everything’s ready—”
“It’s fine,” said El, voice clipped. “Let me fly.” She put a hand on the throttle, thought sorry to the Gladiator, and pushed it forward. The Tyche roared, the roar turned to a scream as the ship kicked against the Gladiator for freedom, and they burst from the hangar pulling hard Gs. El spared a glance out towards where the rocks were coming from, that monkey urge to see taking over for a second. She was rewarded with bright bursts of nuclear fire as the torpedoes hit the rocks coming at them, and then they were accelerating towards the planet’s surface. Running and burning hard.
Weapons control spat telemetry on the holo, mapping smaller shards of rock that split away from the big ones, a thousand tiny asteroids of death in space. The PDCs swung towards the incoming rocks, ready to fire at anything larger than a pea. LIDAR and RADAR readied to speak across the void—
Another warning light. No LIDAR.
El slapped a hand against the console. “C’mon!”
No LIDAR.
“Sorry!” said Hope, again. “Not everything’s been tested!”
They were falling into a gravity well with a thousand rocks coming at them with no detailed ranging or targeting. Think. The rocks would expand in a conical cloud from point of impact. Going away would keep them in the line of rocks. Going down would prolong the inevitable, but it would also give them an atmosphere as armor. Going towards would — briefly — increase the chance of impact, and was certain suicide.
Down it was.
Sparks of light off the Tyche’s bow glinted in the void. The Gladiator’s own PDCs were firing, kinetic weapons and lasers alike stabbing across space. The lights converged at a point as a rock missed by torpedoes hit the Gladiator’s hull like a hammer. There was another bright flash of fire. No time to worry about that. If the Gladiator’s reactor blew, the reactor blew. If it didn’t, it was all just more space chaff.
El pushed the throttle harder, feeling her body press against
the acceleration couch. 4Gs, 5. She blinked, the lenses in her eyes flattening, making it hard to see. Her chest felt like a hundred rocks were on it. The holo still blinked COLLISION WARNING, over and over, then, BRACE BRACE BRACE.
“Not today,” she croaked, and pushed the throttle to the stops. The Tyche roared at the night sky, plumes of fusion fire in their wake, the crackle of atmosphere sending fire along the front of their hull. The ship shook and grumbled then roared as atmosphere tied to push her back. Something groaned in the hull, and El thought hold, girl, just a little longer, and felt thrust go past 6 gravities.
Pushing seven hard Gs on re-entry, the ground coming up fast.
El’s head was swimming. Flatten out. You need to pull out, or you’ll turn into a thin layer of burning materials. She clawed at the sticks with arms that felt like they weighed three hundred kilos each. Her fingers tried to work the controls, feeling the sticks move. El felt the Tyche respond, pulling out into a curve.
She could hear a noise and ignored it, figuring it was just Hope trying to scream without a lot of luck.
There was a clang as something in the ready room behind El broke loose, and she could smell burning. But they were still flying, not falling, and the atmosphere was slowing their descent. She pulled the Tyche’s curve flatter, putting the belly of the ship towards the deck. They were coming in to Nate’s last known position fast. The ship dropped from high-hypersonic down through hypersonic and into the merely supersonic. RADAR pinged the ground, mapped the surface. “You good?” said El.
Hope was gasping.
“Scream if you’re stroking out,” said El.
“I’m. Good,” said Hope. “Fly.”
“It’s what I do,” said El. The holo display changed from absolute velocity to airspeed. The Tyche did atmosphere, but not like she was born to it. The fusion drives pushed her along like a couple of angry bulls, and as they reached the thick, breathable parts of Absalom Delta’s atmosphere, she was recording a steady Mach 3.03. Precise. At least something was working.
The RADAR’s ground mapping filled the holo. Tyche came in across the ocean, water raised in their passage, to roar across a forested area. They’d be flattening or uprooting trees as they went.
“What,” said Hope, “are all of those?” She was pointing to the holo, Tyche’s ground map overlaid with many markers. Thousands of them. The Tyche thought for a second or two, then marked them as unidentified ground troops.
“People,” said El.
Hope worked her own console, got one of the external cameras to zoom in. The picture filled the holo between them, and then both stared at it.
El broke the silence first. “That’s not a person.” The urge to pull the sticks back, point the Tyche to the safety of the stars, was strong. But there were a thousand thousand asteroids up there, and moving up top right now would involve a high chance of suicide.
“No,” said Hope. “I don’t know what it is.” It stood at 2M in height, if stood was the right verb here. Lots of legs. A lot like a centaur crossed with an ant. El’s brain worked the problem for a little while, came up empty.
“Neither does the Tyche,” said El. “She’s never anything like that. Not in the databases.”
Hope turned to look at her. “What happened to the captain, El? Where’s Nate? Where’s Grace?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was a hiss, and the sound of something clattering in the gloom.
“What the fuck was that?” said Kohl, swinging the laser around. Grace watched him point it at the darkness, like the darkness would say okay, you got me, this is what that was.
She felt her fingers tighten around the sword. Steel that had been with her for all the time that mattered. “Nothing good,” she said. The static in her mind was … getting worse. Growing stronger, a constant sibilant whisper of a thousand nothings overlaying each other. Then, silence, before:
Grace. Grace Grace Grace. GRACE.
Together.
She wanted to throw up. “We’ve got to go.” She turned to Nate. “Nate? We’ve got to go.”
Penn was already moving, hustling past them, a light rifle in his hands. “She’s right, Captain Chevell. There is really no time like the present.”
The ceiling erupted in a thousand pieces off to Grace’s right. Something massive came down with fragments of tiling, landing hard enough to be felt through the floor at her feet. Steel hissed its reply as she drew her sword, metal held low and ready.
Kohl was looking confused, then he seemed to gain purpose. “You know, I don’t want to even know.” He pointed the laser into the gloom where the thing had landed, and bright red lanced the gloom. Something keened in the dark, and there was a crack-and-pop, a sound like a coconut splitting open.
“We’re leaving,” said Nate, to her left. He moved forward.
The floor beneath his feet burst upwards, something monstrous coming into the lights from his suit. It had a lot of legs like an insect, or maybe arachnid was a better word, but now wasn’t the right time to be worrying about definition. A torso reared upright from its … abdomen? Body? It looked like an insect centaur. Clawed forelimbs reached for Nate.
Nate’s blaster barked at it, plasma blowing chunks off the creature. He fired, and fired again, driving it back, chunks of chitin blasting free to tumble, smoldering, on the floor.
Silence.
Grace looked at Penn. “What were you doing here?”
The Rear Admiral glanced at her, his face blank. Practiced. “Trying not to die,” he said.
They started towards the escalator, Kohl leading the way. One creature came up the escalator, and Kohl pointed his laser at it. Red light lanced out, but the thing jumped up, inverted, clinging to the ceiling. It scuttled towards them, Kohl’s laser fire trailing it as it ran. Kohl tagged it just before it dropped on the big man, stabbing down with those clawed appendages.
Nate fired at it, kept firing as the creature tried to back away. He kept firing until his blaster whined empty, and Nate tossed the spent battery aside, slipping a new one into the weapon. He reached a hand down to Kohl, helping the big man to his feet. Kohl looked stunned, blood trailing from a rent in his armor near the shoulder.
Penn pointed his rifle at Kohl. “Sorry, son,” he said.
Grace. Grace. Grace. Grace. GRACE.
She screamed, more to drive the voices out of her head, steel cutting through the air. Her sword cut through Penn’s rifle, carving a rent through the energy cell powering it. The weapon sparked and crackled, falling from Penn’s hands, trailing smoke. Grace continued her motion, turning around Penn and bringing her sword to the man’s throat. She leaned close, spoke in his ear. “Give me one good reason,” she said. “A good reason.”
“He’s already dead,” said Penn. “It’s how they get you. How they infect you.”
“Bullshit,” said Grace.
“Yeah, bullshit,” said Kohl, but his face was grey, his voice weak. Couldn’t be blood loss, there wasn’t enough coming out of him. More like the shock of being stabbed by an alien.
“Grace,” said Nate. “We need him. The Gladiator’s fire controls.”
“Looks like the captain gave your one good reason,” said Grace. She lowered her sword. “Let’s go.”
“I need a weapon,” said Penn.
“You need to be cut down,” said Grace. “Looks like we’re both going to compromise today.”
Kohl was rifling through a pouch on his belt. He pulled out a syringe and a dermal patch. Kohl stabbed the syringe in between his armor plates, right next to his injured shoulder, winced as he punched it home, and then relaxed. He slapped the patch on his neck, tossed the empty syringe to the ground, and picked up his laser cannon. “Good to go,” he said.
“What was in that?” asked Nate.
“Nothing legal,” said Kohl, “and nothing you need to worry about.” He strode forward, strides sure, armor whining and clanking with his steps. “You know, I wonder what these … hey, Penn.”
“Rear Admiral to you,” said Penn.
“I’m not with the Marines,” said Kohl. “Those assholes couldn’t fight their way out of a cobweb. Anyway. What did you call these fuckers?”
“The Ezeroc,” said Penn.
“I wonder what these Ezeroc taste like,” said Kohl. “They look a little bit like lobsters, you know?”
Grace looked at the fallen syringe, then up at Kohl. Nothing legal. But it turned his day around. “You got another one of those?”
“Maybe,” said Kohl, with a nasty smile. He turned to Penn. “You and me? We’re going to have a conversation when we’re in space.”
“Yes,” said Penn, “we are.”
• • •
Grace made the top of the escalator by the time Kohl was at the bottom and already firing. Red light reflected up the escalator, refracting off glass and metal. The man is actually good at something. That Kohl wasn’t all talk came as a surprise to Grace, like realizing your parents were cool before you were born. That the hip clothes and stylish cuts gave way to looking after your sorry ass. Grace put a hand against the railing, vaulted past Penn and Nate both, landing on the steps heading down. She slipped a leg over the hand rail, sliding the rest of the way. As she descended the railing at speed, she could see Kohl marching forward, the rotary laser firing at something obscured by a wall to her left. He was leaving a trail of smoking insect parts.
Grace hit the ground floor, tumbled from the railing and tucked into a roll. She hit her knee a little too hard — damn the gravity of this planet — but nothing broken, just a little bruised. Grace came up, sword hunting through the air with a soft whisper. She couldn’t hear it, not over the noise Kohl was making, but she knew it, like she knew everything about this blade. Grace knew how much it weighed and how sharp it was. She knew how many lives it had taken.
Nothing. Kohl had already killed everything here.
The man was marching like an automaton towards the main door, laser still on full auto. Sparks and flames licked out from the frame of the door as he cut a hole in the metal, ceramicrete, and substructure, pieces falling away, burning like falling angels. His focus was on the door, and getting out, and Grace could feel urgency/chase/hunt pouring off the man. No fear. Not a lick of it.
Tyche's Flight (Tyche's Journey Book 1) Page 17