Tyche's Crown

by Richard Parry

  Nate brought up the external cameras, magnifying the view. He zoomed on the station’s windows. Yep, looked like the inside of a station: metal corridors visible through long windows. “Notice anything weird?”

  “Aside from the deathly silence?”

  “No one in there,” said Nate. “Not a soul is looking out those viewports. Station’s still got power, but I’m not seeing evidence of anyone else on there.”

  “You think Harlow’s already dead?”

  “I hadn’t gone there just yet,” said Nate. “Just, signs point to this being another clusterfuck like Absalom. There should be people here, but there aren’t.”

  “That we can see.”

  “That we can see,” he agreed. “Take us in.”

  “You’re the boss,” said El. She keyed her comm. “Tyche, this is the Helm. Prepare for docking, and possible explosive decompression as we open our airlock into a space station that’s got an empty void on the inside.”

  Grace’s voice came from the ready room behind them. “I’m right here. I can hear everything you’re saying.”

  “What about the others?” said El.

  “Kohl’s in a coma, and Hope’s asleep,” said Grace.

  “Hope doesn’t sleep,” said El. “Kid’s addicted to stims.”

  “She does now,” said Grace.

  “Right you are,” said El. “Anyway, we’ll be docking soon.”

  “What about there?” said Nate, pointing out the windscreen. “Look. Painted on the outside. ‘Control Hub.’ Got to be a good place to dock. Welcome wagon. Drinks, a few canapés. Right?”

  “I thought you said I could choose,” said El.

  “That was before I saw the Control Hub,” said Nate. “Get to it, Helm.”

  “Aye, Captain,” said El, but he heard the smile in her voice. She piloted the ship with ease — the station wasn’t moving, the easiest docking she’d ever done — giving the Tyche a quick turn towards the end to put her rear against the station. There was the rumble of an automated docking clamp, and … done. “We’re locked in place. How about we go ask the nice folks what the fuck they’ve done with our friends?”

  “You got it,” said Nate. “Do you mind staying back to guard the ship?”

  “I wasn’t planning on going on that station,” said El. “You kids have fun though.”

  • • •

  Nate stood next to Grace in the cargo bay airlock. “You ready?” They had their suits on, helmets sealed; Nate in his Emperor’s Black, Grace in her Tyche gear. It looked right on her, like it hadn’t looked on anyone else. She’d found her home, and he liked to think he’d played no small part in that. It made him happy. It might also make him sloppy, and he needed to focus for the next while. So they both didn’t die.

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re here, by the way.”

  “Harlow? Amedea?”

  “Yes, but the Ezeroc as well,” she said. She laid fingertips against the airlock door. “A lot of them.”

  “I’d have been surprised if they weren’t,” said Nate. “Status on Harlow?”

  “‘Oh God, oh God, I’m going to die,’ or something like it,” said Grace. “He’s not feeling tip-top.”

  “Copy that,” said Nate, checking his blaster then re-holstering it. He drew his sword from over his shoulder, the movement much smoother than it had been a couple weeks ago. It turns out being beaten half to death by Chad was a great motivator for improvement. The black blade now felt … right, somehow. Or, he was just getting used to acting like one of the Emperor’s Black again. He gave the blade a flourish then sheathed it again.

  “Nice moves, sailor,” said Grace, her own sword sheathed behind her.

  “Thanks,” said Nate. “Okay, we’ve got an atmosphere on the other side, but all we’ve got from the Tyche is that there’s pressure. It could be a complex mix of poisons.”

  “I know how to read an airlock display,” said Grace. “I’m not an idiot. Nate? My nose stopped bleeding. I’m fine.”

  “Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Here we go then.” He keyed the airlock control, and the Tyche’s door slid open.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE WELCOME AIRLOCK wasn’t welcoming.

  No guns, laser turrets, plasma cannons, or giant insects were waiting to kill her and Nate. Nothing like that. Just a total lack of anything that would indicate life. Hell, even a couple of station heavies with armor and rifles would be better than this absence.

  In Grace’s experience, absences were a sign of shit having gone way south, a long time back. You didn’t have your main entrance to your super-secret space station, full of horrible black ops activities — assumed, but let’s say it’s a fair assumption — empty. It spoke volumes.

  “This isn’t great,” she said over the comm.

  “It’s fantastic,” said Nate. His blaster was out though, and she was getting nervous/uncertain from him. “There’s no one here shooting at us. Based on our track record, this is a definite trend in the right direction.”

  “Do you remember the last time you went into a secret base where they were Ezeroc holding prisoners?”

  “The warehouse?”

  “The warehouse,” agreed Grace. “There was no one there shooting at us. It turned out to be bad.”

  “Fair point,” said Nate. He walked ahead of her to the bulkhead door. “I figure we’ll only find out what’s going on through here.”

  “I figure you’re right,” said Grace, sealing the Tyche’s airlock behind her. She joined Nate at the bulkhead. It was covered in the usual markings, warnings about explosive decompression, emergency opening procedures, that sort of thing. It didn’t matter if you were in the super-secret military; you still had to assume there’d be some idiot who would blow the station if you didn’t put a sign up. “Through here, there are answers.” She keyed the open sequence on the console.

  The door slid open with a soft hiss, equalizing the minor pressure differentials between the airlock and the station. Inside was what Grace assumed to be a normal-looking Control Hub. A bunch of consoles were arrayed towards the back, a glass-like material shielding them from the entrance lobby they stood in. There were no people. No Ezeroc either, not that she had expected any. She’d have heard them in her mind. Oh, they were here all right, just not right here. The Control Hub had sealed locks exiting from four locations; to the left, a door with yellow banding suggested a cargo elevator. To the right, another airlock door, leading to another docking collar on the outside of the station. Behind the glass shielding, two doors. The first led left, the second back into the station proper. A standard airlock was set into the glass, allowing egress into the area holding the consoles.

  About the only thing of particular note was a red stain in the middle of the lobby. Grace knelt next to it, running a gloved hand over it. The stain flaked away at her touch. “Blood,” she said. “A little old. We missed some action here.”

  “I am not missing it,” said Nate. “You’re sure Harlow and Amedea are still here?”

  “I’m sure,” said Grace. She could feel them, somewhere below them, on the second disc. “We’ll need to go down.”

  “Take the elevator then?” said Nate.

  “Not yet,” said Grace. “I think we should find out what happened here first. Could be something nasty waiting for us. Remember the Ezeroc on that death planet? The Queen was in stasis. I couldn’t detect her. I’d hate for us to go down there and have our one escape route cut off.”

  “You should be a starship captain with thinking like that,” said Nate. “Hell, you want my job?”

  “Not really,” she said, flashing him a smile through her visor. “The pay is lousy and the hours are for shit. Which door?”

  “I say we go back into the station itself,” said Nate, pointing towards the back door. “We might find something.”

  Grace stood and moved to the egress door. She swiped the console to open, and it slid wide. No lock. No security. A nice, warm welcome. She c
hecked the consoles in the Control Hub; they had power, but were locked down. Okay, a little security. If Hope were here… Grace moved to the door leading further into the station, Nate on her heels. The door opened ahead of her, automated systems still working fine. Which was weird; what with the blood in the lobby, she’d expect the place to be on lockdown. Whatever had happened here, it had happened quick and hard. No one had a chance to call for help.

  The door opened into an area that looked like a dual-purpose room; food dispensers lined a wall, a holo stage central to the area. “Mess hall and briefing room,” she said. The room was configured for mess hall status, the tables set with chairs, food trays still on them. Grace poked at a nearby tray with her hand. It held a desiccated sandwich, a bite sheared out of one corner. A cup sat beside it, the interior stained brown. Coffee, dried by the station’s air cyclers. “They were caught mid-meal.” There were two further exits from this room; one leading to another external airlock, and one leading to a sealed door that could — if her mental map was correct — be a passage around the exterior of the station’s disc.

  Nate had walked over to stand by the holo stage, the system dark. “No active briefing. No alarms, no emergency.” He did a slow turn to take in the room. “I count about thirty meals unfinished. Thirty souls were sitting down for chow when something took them away.”

  “But what?” she said.

  “Fucking bugs,” said Nate. “Bet my ship on it.”

  “I’m not taking that bet,” said Grace. She moved towards the door leading around the disc. It didn’t open automatically like the last one, so she keyed the open controls. Light lazed out from the door control, mapping her body, then with a beep the door slid open. She took an involuntary step back. On the floor on the other side of the door was a torso, sheared by the door. “There … is half a person here, Nate.”

  Nate joined her, taking in the body. The corpse looked desiccated, dried out by the station, the skin on the face pulled back over the cheekbones. The uniform looked like Republic officer style, but done in black rather than blue. No rank logos or insignia. No medals. Which tallied with the concept of a black ops facility. Everyone here would know who this officer was — rather, who they’d been. No point in leaving other useful information just lying around for the enemy to find. “Looks like he died running. Door closed on him.”

  “You ever see someone run through an airlock sideways?” said Grace. “I think he was running, but tripped up. Fell over, and then some helpful soul sealed the door.”

  “Makes sense,” said Nate, “if you assume there’s some cold motherfuckers who don’t mind shutting this door on their comrades.”

  “What if this door was sealed on purpose, Nate? What if there’s something back here that they were keeping from the bugs?” Because they were both thinking it: bug uprising. “The door scanned me, Nate. I don’t work here. They don’t know me. So, I’m thinking basic auth only. The door is wanting to know if I’m human, or … something else.”

  “That’s an unpleasant thought,” said Nate. He walked on through, stepping over the body. “Come on.”

  Grace followed, then as an afterthought, shut the door behind her. She didn’t know what was going on here, but in space it was good practice to leave things as you found them until you did know. The rumble and clank of the door behind her was comforting and ominous in equal measure; comforting, because humans had built that, and it still worked. Ominous, because this station was dead, and it felt like she was locking herself in with something that wanted to eat her mind.

  Both things could be true. It didn’t have to be one or the other.

  As predicted, the door led to a corridor extending around the outside of the disc. Long windows were set in the exterior hull, allowing a view of the stars. There was a lot of black out there for very little light. The Tyche wasn’t visible, being on the other side of the disc. If Grace’s mental map was right, the next docking ring would have the Gemini clamped to it.

  The corridor itself was wide, and she and Nate could walk side by side with plenty of room. So, she did, because being at his side felt good. It felt right to have someone she could rely on, and she’d been without that her whole life. Grace paused, a hand on Nate’s arm. Her suit’s external mic had picked up the sound of a machine from ahead, she was sure of it. “Did you hear that?”

  “Sounds like a drone,” he said, pointing his blaster. They edged further around the disc until they could see what was making the noise. Suspended from the ceiling was a turret, the barrel dangling down towards the deck. It appeared lifeless, which put Grace’s nerves on edge: if the turret wasn’t making the noise, what was?

  A clattering of metal on metal sounded from farther ahead, and scuttling towards them came a drone. Low-slung, about the size of a small dog, an insectile collection of limbs helping it move across the deck, then up the wall beside the windows. Now that was clever: if Nate fired — and missed — he’d stand a good chance of blowing out the window in a shower of plasma and fire. When you didn’t have cover, put yourself against something that would kill your target if they hit it instead.

  At the same time as the drone scuttled up the wall, the turret came to life, the barrel spinning up as it swiveled towards them. Grace didn’t have to talk to Nate; she knew he’d know where to shoot and why. She boosted off from a crouch, her sword whispering from its sheath. Her feet walked up the wall, her sword swinging around as the drone leapt off from the wall at her. Her nanoblade met the exterior of the drone with a chime that was soft, almost delicate, and two halves of the drone clattered past her, those insectile legs twitching and clawing. Grace saw Nate fire plasma into the turret, hot blue-white fire melting the housing. The turret got off a shot, plasma connecting with the window where Grace had just been. Nate’s shots did their work and the turret slumped, pieces of slag dripping to the decking.

  Grace turned to the window. Long, spidery cracks were spreading across the glass, a cracking sound coming through her suit’s mic. She looked at Nate, saw the we’re fucked in his eyes, then they both turned and ran down the corridor. A sealed door appeared around the station’s curve ahead of them, Grace reaching the controls as a crackaboom came from behind them, then the howl of decompression as the window blew out. She’d already slammed her fist on the door’s open control, and it was half open before it detected the decompression.

  Half open was open enough, and she’d already ducked through, against the strong arms of leaving air trying to pull her back. She turned, braced against the door, and stuck her sword through the controls of the door on this side. The door stopped trying to close, air howling through the breach. Grace sheathed her sword, then reached a hand through. Nate grasped her hand, and she pulled. A loose crate from the room she’d just come into hit her on the back and she almost let Nate go, the air knocked out of her in a huff. But she wasn’t letting Nate go. Not now, not ever, and not for the stupid reason of decompression.

  Grace leaned back into the pull, Nate hauling himself through with his free hand as well. The air wasn’t as strong now, but they waited on either side of the half-open airlock until the pressure equalized to nothing. She looked around the room they were in. It was a cargo bay of sorts, crates stacked and secured — excepting the one that had hit her. An airlock was set in the far wall, external windows showing the Gemini docked there. The deep throat of the airlock led to the interior of the Gemini — bad practice in space to leave your airlocks open like that. If there was anyone in the Gemini not in a suit, they’d be having a terrible day. Grace could feel the door at her back shift, and saw that Nate had popped the emergency panel next to it, working a manual winch to close it. The door sealed against the vacuum. The cargo bay would — assuming the station was still working as most of them did — fill this cargo bay with air. That would take a little time.

  “Tyche to ground team,” said El’s voice over the comm. “I’m reading an … incident. What did you do?” Not are you okay or hey is everything alright
? Grace almost laughed.

  “Tyche, this is the captain,” said Nate. “We’re fine, thanks.”

  “Didn’t ask if you were fine. The Tyche’s telling me there’s glass and a crate of, hang on, it looks like a crate of alcoholic beverages. Did you throw all the station’s booze outside?”

  “No,” said Grace. “We had a … security system malfunction.”

  “The booze is fine?”

  “Far as we know,” said Grace.

  “If we get bored we’ll go get it later,” said El. “Tagging it for recovery. Tyche out.” The comm to the ship clicked off.

  “Priorities are important,” said Nate.

  “They are,” said Grace. Her suit was already reading a minor pressure increase in the cargo bay. “We’ve found the Gemini.”

  “We have,” said Nate. “What I’m a bit concerned about is with a decompression event like that, we didn’t see anything come out of the Gemini.” By anything Grace knew he meant people with guns or bodies of dead people. “Just, nothing.”

  “Keep going?” she said.

  “I reckon so.” He pointed to the other door leading from the cargo bay, a big affair sized right for moving big cargo through. “Feels like the last stop.”

  “Right,” said Grace. She set off across the cargo bay, reaching the big doors. She swiped the locking mechanism, the airlock opening with a rumble. Inside was a storage bay, large crates stacked against the floor. They were about two meters long, with glass set against their tops. She walked over, looking through the glass. “Well, that’s not good.”

  Nate had joined her. “No. It is not good.”

  The boxes were full of people. Crates and crates of people, sealed inside these … coffins. Grace knelt down, checking a console set into the side of the box. She wasn’t a medtech, no expert at all on keeping people alive, but the console’s display was clear enough. It had a readout that displayed: