It looked like Hope.
She broke into a run. El got to the structure, tearing huge hunks of it away. Hope was unconscious, suspended in the material. Locked against the Tyche’s hull, like a spider’s snack kept for later. El pulled hunks of it away. It felt porous and light, like stale bread.
Something hissed behind her, and she froze. Very slowly, she turned around.
Penn. The man was in shadow. To be fair, the whole room was in shadow, but whatever the cause she couldn’t see his face, his expression, at all. What she could see was a big Penn-sized target, so she shot it.
The handgun roared, the flash bright in the room, and Penn’s shoulder and arm turned into chunks as the shotgun shell tore them right off.
He didn’t move. Just a little sway from the impact of the shot, then he stood there, the dripping of fluid from his missing shoulder hitting the deck with wet splatters. “Queen,” he said, “together.” That’s what it sounded like; it was hard to tell, because he was speaking with what sounded like a bunch of marbles in his mouth.
El had already ejected the shell from her gun and was feeding it another. “Whatever, asshole—”
That’s as far as she got before Penn was on her. He didn’t roar, didn’t scream, just moved like liquid smoke. His remaining arm collected her like a ram, and she tumbled across the cargo bay. Her gun was lost, clattering across the decking in the darkness. She could find it, given enough time, and enough light. She could make a million credits also, if given enough time.
Penn found her, though. He found her fine in the dark. That hand grabbed her from the floor, lifting her up. El’s training kicked in — basic had included endless drills for combat, both armed and unarmed — and she grabbed at Penn’s wrist. Her fingers remembered the movements her brain was too terrified to cope with, a hold here, a pinch there, and twist. The move would have tumbled Penn like a toy, crashing him to the deck, so she could get away, get her gun, and get some fucking distance.
Would? Should. The move should have tumbled Penn.
What happened instead was that the skin and flesh of his arm moved around something hard inside, the meat sloughing off in her hands. She caught sight of something inside that didn’t look like the bones of a human arm. It didn’t look human at all. It looked like a thick, chitinous structure. El held up her hands, then looked at Penn. Glimpsed his face, or what was left of it.
His eyes were missing — just gone. His skull was distorted outward, and his jaw was distended. It looked like he was trying to speak again, and El could see his jaw wasn’t meeting in the middle. The bone was … moving inside his skin, but like two separate pieces of bone. Like mandibles, trying to break free.
Then Penn stopped moving. His body froze, then jerked in a spasm. Blood and gore fountained from his chest, covering El, and she screamed, closing her eyes. She fell to the deck, hand up above her head, tasting blood — Penn’s blood — in her mouth. She wiped her eyes clear, looking up. Penn was jerking and spasming, but it didn’t look like a thing he wanted to do. With a sound like a claw popping under a lobster cracker, his ribcage opened, a heavy piece of metal pushing through. The body kept jerking, until it split up the middle as the metal dragged through.
Penn’s body fell in two pieces. There was a massive silhouette behind him. The silhouette reached a hand toward El.
“You have got to tell me what I missed,” said October Kohl, dropping the metal bar to the deck as he lifted her up. He looked at Penn’s body. “Been wanting to do that since I met that asshole.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When the bugs came for Nate, he wanted to panic.
Like, panicking would be a good thing that would free him from the rational part of his mind that was saying shoot low, less armor there or don’t hit Grace. It’d release him from those sorts of concerns. He’d be able to spray plasma everywhere, go down in a hail of fire, or maybe just a frenzy of torn limbs.
The problem was, Nate was sure that these Ezeroc assholes didn’t kill you. They plugged you into a wall, stuffed tentacles down your throat, and fed on you. Fed on your body, and your mind. That experience sure as shit would alter his perception of reality.
To be fair, he also wanted to panic because one of these crabs — just one — had almost turned him inside out. His shoulder was a wreck, his ribs hurt, and he was still dizzy. The good news, as near as there could be any good news in a situation like this, was that his plasma rifle was charged, and already pointed in the room. There was Grace, right of center. Two bugs, giant Ezeroc crab things, flanking her. And the … locust? … left of center. He had a full battery, and a clear shot at any of the four. Or three, because despite Grace talking like a crazy person, and possibly being infected by space insects, he liked her. Despite her lying to him, right from the start, he liked the way she lied. She was his kind of pirate.
It’s not being outnumbered. It’s having a wider selection of targets.
Nate followed the line of his rifle’s barrel, still held at his hip. It was pointed at the … locust? Really, what the fuck was that thing? An armored locust? How did it get around with legs that small? Pulsating lines of the tentacles fed into it, anchoring it.
“Queen,” said Grace, “together.”
Queen, huh. Nate pulled the trigger. The weapon cycled, a brief whine and then the harsh snap and crackle of the plasma discharge.
The twin bolts of plasma hit the … locust — just call it a Queen, everyone else seems to — Queen, blowing a chunk out of the thing’s side. A great shower of ichor ruptured forth, and it screamed, and tried to tear itself away from those tentacles anchoring it to the floor.
Grace was knocked sideways, out of Nate’s line of sight. The two massive Ezeroc crabs seemed to stumble, and then one of them turned in a circle like a broken robot, just clattering and skittering in rotation, big claws snicking at the air. The other one rambled sideways, crushing a desk and console under its bulk, then colliding with the wall of the tower. It backed up, then hit the wall sideways again. The wall cracked, opened to the night sky, and the Ezeroc was gone, tumbling down into the dark.
Take a note, Nate: check the door before you exit the ground floor. That might have turned into pulp, or it might have turned angrier or crazier.
He looked at his rifle again. Definitely a better effect than he’d been hoping for. What the hell. He pulled the trigger again. A cycle, whine, and then two more bolts of plasma hit the Queen. The force blew more chunks off it, tearing it free of the tentacles at its base.
Tentacles. Now there’s a word that never comes with happy thoughts. ’Pulsating’ is another word like that.
“How you like them fucking apples?” said Nate, right before he was knocked off his feet. He landed hard, rifle pinned to the ground by his body. He tried to roll, managed to flop onto his back, and saw what had hit him. An Ezeroc warrior drone — smaller than the crab fuckers, but still lots of sharp edges — reared above him. It stabbed down with those fore claws. He rolled, the claws hitting the floor where he’d been, bits of ceramicrete chipping away. It reared, trying to nail him again, and he rolled once more. Bring the rifle up. He hauled the rifle up — a bad, bad weapon at close range, on account of being too big, and thus too slow — and was rewarded for his efforts by the warrior drone knocking it away with one of its legs. The rifle spun into the stairwell. It clattered and skipped as it fell down into the gloom.
The Ezeroc stamped down with a leg, pinning Nate. It didn’t pierce his suit — thank God for good Old Empire weave — but the force of it hurt about the same as being hit with a bat. The Ezeroc probably weighed 300 kilos, and it leaned on him. Holding him still. It bent forward, saliva — sure, let’s call it that, that’s fine — dripping from its maw to spatter against Nate’s visor. Those fore claws clicked and clattered as it brought them back for the killing strike.
There was a snicka-pop, and one of those claws came free, followed by the thing’s head, which bounced on the ground next to Nate. The Ezeroc�
�s body shuddered, then the weight pinning him relaxed as the warrior drone’s body followed his rifle down the stairwell. He looked up at Grace Gushiken, her hair hiding her face, his sword held low in her hands. That sword was held firm and strong; there was a perfect line made by the sword, and her arm, right up to her shoulder. She was ready to strike again. He couldn’t see her face. He couldn’t tell what she wanted to strike.
“Hi,” said Nate. “Uh. What kept you?”
She shook her head, pushing her hair back from her face, and the illusion of the masked assassin fell away to reveal Grace — just Grace. Face grey with exhaustion and fear. She held a hand out to him. He took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “I … went away,” she said.
“Cool story,” said Nate. “Save it for later.” He unholstered his blaster from his hip, pointed it in the room — no sign of the Queen, but let’s not get complacent, hey? — and fired a couple blasts in there. The Ezeroc that was turning in a circle didn’t even notice. It kept on turning. Weird, but okay, sure. “You good to go?”
She looked him in the eye. “Nate, I … they might have—”
“Yeah,” he said. “They might have. But they might not, so let’s worry about that shit at another time.”
There was a popping sound from the room, and both Nate and Grace looked. The queen was rising from behind a bank of crumbling desks towards the back. Some of the eggs looked to have hatched, smaller warrior drones, about the size of a cat, surrounded her.
“Oh, come on!” said Nate. “Fucking Ezeroc. They come in different sizes now?”
One of the smaller insects leapt forward — agile little fuckers. Nate popped a shot into the room, but the newborn Ezeroc skipped sideways, like a toy car with attitude.
“We should go,” said Grace. “Nate, we should go.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice,” said Nate. He heard a pop, and another Ezeroc hatched from an egg. Two of them together darted towards the doorway. Nate got three shots off, three shots that missed, plasma splashing against the walls and back window of the room, this last shot bursting it out in a spray of shards. Then the insects were on them.
There was a blur, almost too fast to register, and the insects fell apart, cut in half. Grace shook Nate’s sword, splatters of insect gore hitting the ceramicrete. “Ah,” said Nate. “Now I remember why I hired you.”
“You didn’t hire me, Nathan Chevell,” said Grace. “You were tricked.”
“I know,” said Nate. “But I was helped, too.” He flashed her a grin, hoping she could see it through the visor, the sealant, and the weld.
She gave him a look, something uncertain in it, then turned on her heel and headed down the stairs.
• • •
Nate felt like he was rushing, flying almost, to keep up with Grace. She was taking the stairs like dancers took to the stage, like movement was something she was born to do. Nate felt like he was struggling to keep up, his metal leg clanking instead of being limber, his metal hand keeping him off balance.
It was all in his mind, of course. The leg was top shelf tech, and so was the hand. Weighted and balanced, the medtechs had told him, to be just like the original. So he wouldn’t know anything bad had happened, tricking his mind into believing he wasn’t missing parts of himself. The only thing, they’d joked, was that he’d need to eat a little less now, because he didn’t need fuel for that excess 5 or 10 kilos he was missing. Fastest way to lose weight, they’d also joked. Like, ha ha, right until Nate had looked like he wanted to kill them.
Because he had.
And no matter what they said, no matter how good the damn tech was, he knew. His arm and leg were gone, and these metal pegs they’d stuck on him weren’t worth half a real man’s hand or leg. They didn’t feel right, and they didn’t feel right when it counted.
Like when you were running after someone like your life depended on it. Now was one of those fucking times, and he wished, just for a second, one of those medtechs was here, with him, so Nate could see the ha ha fade away, replaced with oh shit we’re all going to die.
His metal leg slipped, skidding against the stairs, and because of that he hadn’t noticed that Grace had stopped, like she’d been planted in the ground, roots dug deep, and when he started running again he ran right into the back of her. She stumbled, turned to him, then her eyes went wide at something behind him. He didn’t even bother to turn, because turning got you killed in all the holos he’d ever watched. Instead, he raised his blaster at the warrior drone coming up the steps, sidled past Grace, and pulled the trigger until the Ezeroc stopped moving, burning pieces of it falling into the stairwell.
He turned, saw that one of those fuckers had been about to chew his ass from behind, and that Grace had killed it. A clean slice, top left to bottom right, at least that’s what it looked like. The top piece was gone, down the stairwell — there’d be a decent pile by now at the bottom, insects plus a rifle — and only the body was left to bleed green on the stairs.
“Why’d you stop?” said Nate.
Grace pointed at one human stuck to the wall, tentacles still in the mouth. “They’re … almost dead,” she said. “Inside. Their minds are…”
“Uh,” said Nate. “Queen keeping the bodies alive?”
“I think,” said Grace, “but also feeding on them. Their bodies, and their minds.” She was panting, but her eyes were bright as she looked at him. “It feels good to breathe,” she said. “To not be feeding her mind.”
“Yeah,” said Nate. “That why you took off your helmet?”
“No,” she said. “I had put down the sword. When I put it down, they got … inside.” She held it up. “What is it?”
“Gift from a friend,” he said. “If we get out of this alive, I’ll tell you all about it.” Then he raised his blaster and shot the Ezeroc coming around the bend of stairs above them. “If we get out of this alive.”
“You’re not inspiring confidence,” she said.
“Hey,” he said. “We wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t stolen my damn sword.”
She held it out to him. “Want it back?”
“Later,” he said. “Look, more important stuff is raining down on us.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I think I fucked up. I think I fucked everything up.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But let’s talk about those big fuckers.”
“They’re controlled by the Queen,” said Grace. “The smaller drones have some autonomy. Or … something that keeps them wound up when the Queen’s gone. Instinct, maybe.”
“It’s like a hive?” said Nate.
“Maybe,” said Grace, “but there aren’t any words that can explain it.”
“Got you,” said Nate, then pointed his blaster down the stairwell, unloading plasma into an Ezeroc coming up at them. “Persistent fuckers, aren’t they?”
“You shot their Queen,” said Grace. “They’ll be coming for you.”
“They can take a fucking number,” said Nate. He ejected the battery from his blaster and slipped a new one home. The weapon whined, clicked, and was ready to fire. He looked at it, then back at Grace. “Ready for round two?”
Her eyes searched his face. “Why did you come, Nathan Chevell?”
“You took my sword,” said Nate. “Also, you’re on my crew.”
“But I lied to you,” she said. “You’ve known since before. At the fallen city.”
“I’ll be docking your pay for that,” said Nate. He looked at his feet, that one metal leg hidden in his suit, then his hand. Not even half a real man, unless you look after you and yours. He looked her in the eye, “You've ... helped. Plenty, when you had no cause to. And you’re still on my crew. Don’t … just don’t forget it this time. Hope would miss you.”
“Hope, huh?” she said. Then, “I won’t.” She continued down the stairs ahead of him. Grace moved like he wanted to if it wasn’t for his damn leg.
• • •
Outside the base of the tower, s
hit got real.
Nate had never found his rifle. All the way down those stairs he’d been looking for it, because Kohl would want it back. The man was a, what would you call it, a collector, a connoisseur of firearms, and this was a souvenir of some job or other. Well, nothing for that now. Nate still wished he’d found it, not because of Kohl, but because of the ring of Ezeroc waiting at the base of the tower.
“Could you,” said Grace, “call in the Tyche? Like before.”
“No,” said Nate. “Locked her down. So that fucker Penn doesn’t steal my ship. Also, my comm is down.” He checked his comm just in case. Yep, still down.
“That’ll be the Queen,” said Grace. “Piloting a human somewhere on this planet, just like she did to me. To control the comms.”
“What? Nah, I barbecued her.”
“She’s not dead,” said Grace, tapping her head. “I can still hear her.”
“Oh, come on,” said Nate, for what felt like the hundredth time. “Well, at least those big ones are gone.”
There was a rustling of trees, branches and boughs being pushed aside. An entire tree gave with a crack, and one of the big crabs came forward.
“You,” said Grace, “need to stop talking.”
Nate looked at his blaster, then at the big crab. “Grace,” he said. “The ship. The Tyche? She’s ready. Ready to fly. El will take you anywhere. I’ll draw ’em off.”
She snorted. “You wouldn’t get ten meters,” she said. “They’ll pull you apart.”
“Gives you a running start,” he said. “With this damn leg, I’ll only slow you down.”
“Who said anything about running?” she said. “I’ve been running for as long as I can remember.” She sucked in some air, blew it out. “It feels good to breathe.”
The Ezeroc charged.
• • •
Tyche's Flight (Tyche's Journey Book 1) Page 23