Tyche's First

by Richard Parry

  • • •

  Julie and Boye were waiting in the mess with Filipe Fall. Jules and Boye were both in dress uniforms, black material with black shoes. Black sabers, black blasters. The theme was black. Not Filipe, who grinned as Nate entered. “Captain!”

  “What the fuck are you wearing?” said Nate, clasping the other man’s hand.

  Filipe gave a look of mock astonishment. “This?” He gestured at himself: purple suit, inlaid with gold. “Just a little something I had lying around.”

  “It’s not a dress uniform,” said Nate. He looked at Filipe’s hat: also purple, with a feather stuck in the brim.

  “I’m not on duty,” said Filipe. “Or am I?”

  “Eh,” said Nate. He was about to lean in on the conversation with something like we’re always on duty or lose the hat at least when the sound of blaster fire came to them. Nate froze, mouth open, then closed it with a snap. “Let’s go, team.”

  “Ready to rock,” said Boye.

  “I was hoping for at least one glass of champagne,” said Julie.

  “I came to kill rebels,” said Filipe, teeth showing in a hard smile.

  “Well let’s get on it then,” said Nate. He drew his blaster, the weapon coming alive with a whine. “Time to save the world. Oh, and the Emperor. Let’s not forget the boss.”

  • • •

  Nate ran. The soles of his dress shoes didn’t have the right kind of grip, slipping on the smooth marble floors of the palace. Servants and courtiers were running towards him, getting underfoot and being more of a problem than they usually would be. It was a good sign though: Nate and his team were running towards something bad. Check your math, Chevell: that’s not a good sign. You are actively seeking to enter a situation where people will shoot at you.

  They approached the main ballroom at speed. Nate knew it well. There were seven entrances on this level alone. Five on the next level up. The thing was sized like a stadium. The doors they approached were a smoking ruin, wood and metal gone. Outside the door, five of the Emperor’s Black — good men and women — dead. At least, it looked like five, but it was hard to tell. Blaster fire had ripped through them, blowing bodies apart, charring the remains. Outside the door, a tall woman dressed in the black-and-white of the Intelligencers was stationed, but she was looking in the other direction. There’s some luck. “Hey,” said Nate. “What can we do to—”

  The Intelligencer spun, raising a blaster, and fired. Intelligencers might have been able to read minds, but this one couldn’t shoot for shit. A bolt spat past Nate. He didn’t think — if he was being honest his brain had checked out at the moment a supposed ally had drawn down on him. He raised his own blaster and fired. Three shots, one center mass, then the other two more for show than anything else because the Intelligencer’s body exploded in a shower of steam and charred meat. Nate stopped, looking at his blaster, then at the remains of the Intelligencer. “Uh,” he said.

  Julie looked down towards the remains of the Emperor’s Black mixed with Intelligencer and said, “Are they staging a coup?”

  “It has that ring to it,” said Boye.

  “Well, hey now,” said Nate. “I’ll admit, being fired on lends this situation an air of confusion. But what if she’d come out here, assumed we were insurgents, and opened up? Heat of the moment.”

  Filipe strolled past Nate — he’s wearing a fucking cape with his suit — and examined the remains. “I don’t know how you’d draw that conclusion, Captain,” he said. “They can read minds. Right?”

  “Right,” said Nate. “Which is going to make this difficult. Fighting them may be hard.”

  “That one went down pretty easy,” said Julie.

  “There’s always a B team,” said Nate. “You send the A team to do the hard job.”

  “What’s the hard job?” said Boye.

  “I figure the throne,” said Nate. He felt sick. Dom was in danger, and Nate should have been by his side. “Let’s go get the boss. We get the Emperor clear, then we can work out what went wrong.” He eyed them each in turn. “There’s an APC on the east side of the grounds. Can’t miss it. Giant one-one-two painted on any side you want to look at. The mission is to evac Dom in that. We’ll meet up at the Autumn Chateau.”

  “Copy,” said Julie.

  “Got it,” said Boye.

  “The Autumn Chateau?” said Filipe. “That place is prehistoric.”

  “It’s off the grid,” said Nate, “and that’s what we need until we get our bearings. There’s blood in the waters. Sharks are circling. Be careful. Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Inside the ballroom: chaos, interspersed around pillars that reached the roof high above. Charred remains of Emperor’s Black. The black and white uniforms of fallen Intelligencers. Palace guests, dead. Smoke and fire. Nate stepped over a fallen chandelier, blaster ready. Up ahead — 500 meters, tops — was a makeshift barricade. Around it were Intelligencers, weapons ready. Nate counted five of them he could see, and put even money on four or five more on the other side. He unsheathed his sword, fingers closing around the hilt, and gestured ahead with his blaster. He got a nod from Julie, a pair of knives falling into her waiting hands. Boye wasn’t anywhere to be seen, which meant he was going high for a vantage point. Filipe sauntered ahead, cape swirling in his wake.

  What the sweet Christ is he doing? Nate ducked out behind a pillar, cracked marble around its base. He kept low, blaster and sword both ready, as Filipe walked towards the Intelligencers.

  “Excuse me,” called Filipe. The Intelligencers turned, weapons ready. Filipe held his hands up. “I was hoping we could talk.”

  An Intelligencer with a wicked scar running from his forehead to his chin looked at Filipe, then closed his eyes. His head tilted to the side slightly, like he was concentrating. “Ah,” he said, then shot Filipe in the chest. Nate’s friend turned into a shower of charred purple and smoking limbs as the plasma round tore him apart. Nate wanted to run forward, throwing himself at them, but five — or more — on one was suicide. Five that could read your mind? Even worse. Scar turned to his companions. “There are three more. Although…” His voice trailed away for a moment. “I can only sense two.”

  A plasma bolt spat down from the upper balcony. Boye. The intended target — a woman with close-cropped hair — tried to dodge, but with only partial success. Plasma tore her arm off at the elbow and she went down, screaming. The Intelligencers raised weapons, firing on Boye’s position. Nate held still behind his column. They can’t sense one of us. And even when they can sense us, it’s not perfect. It doesn’t let them dodge plasma fire. Good to know.

  He ducked out from behind his column for a second, firing twice. Two Intelligencers turned into human pyres, smoking limbs pinwheeling as they spun to the floor. Nate ducked back into cover. They didn’t see that. Not in their minds. Not even the tiniest hint of a dodge. He considered the sword in his hand. What had the note said?

  Don’t lose it, or all our dreams will be ash.

  Well, shit. The implication was clear. Nate would need some processing time when there wasn’t threat of immediate death, but it seemed like Dom had given Nate a sword that could stop someone reading his mind.

  His train of thought was derailed by a scream as Julie ran at the Intelligencers. Four more had joined the initial five from the other side of the barricade. Three were down courtesy of Boye and Nate, which left six in total. Poor odds drunk or sober. Julie barreled into the midst of the Intelligencers, blades dancing.

  She hit nothing but air. Every time it looked like she might land a strike, her target was miraculously not there. Blaster fire might be too fast to dodge, but knives were more personal. Maybe easier to avoid. Or the person using them easier to read. Nate wasn’t sure; he’d never fought a mind reader before.

  The good news was that with Jules in the middle of the group, they weren’t firing for fear of hitting each other. Nate raised his blaster again, firing three more shots. The Intelligencers,
realizing the threat was not just the insane woman with knives but in fact a man with a blaster at their backs, scattered. Two went down to Nate’s shots, and Boye took out another on the hoof. Three left, including Scar.

  “Hey, Dom,” called Nate. “You still alive?”

  Dom’s voice came from behind the barricade. “Still here.”

  “I figure on getting you out,” said Nate. “How’s that sit with you, your worship?”

  “I hate when you call me that,” said Dom.

  “Good enough for me,” said Nate.

  Scar joined their conversation, his voice coming from behind a pillar not dissimilar to Nate’s cover. “You’ll never make it out alive, Fergelic. We own the palace.”

  There was a whine, then a crump as a rocket hit the pillar Scar was behind, raining fragments of marble and Intelligencer across the room. Nate hunched down until pieces of meat and stone had stopped skipping past his column. “Jesus, Boye. What was that?”

  “Found a launcher up here,” Boye called back. “Seemed a shame to waste it.”

  Nate stood, walked around the pillar, and fired at an Intelligencer trying to come to her feet. There was one left unaccounted for, but hopefully they’d been atomized in the rocket blast. He nodded to Julie. “Nice work, Roper.”

  She was frowning, holding up her knives. “I hit nothing but air, Cap. I figure that as bad luck, or something else.”

  “Something else,” said Nate. He approached the barricade. “Coming through. Don’t shoot.” He peered over the top of the raggedy-ass pile of furniture, taking in three of the Black, down or dead, Yvette Gutierrez, and — thank God — Dominic Fergelic, Emperor of humanity. Annemarie would never forgive Nate if he let something happen to her brother. Yvette’s face was still impassive, like she’d forgotten how to show fear along with losing her ability to smile. Nate held a hand out to his Emperor. “C’mon, Dom.”

  Dom took his hand, clambering over the barricade. “Where are we going?”

  “Got us a car,” said Nate. “On the way, you can tell me again what a good idea it was to have mind readers running your security.”

  “Fuck you,” said Dom, but without any real enthusiasm. He snared a blaster from a fallen Intelligencer. “Where, specifically?”

  Nate gave Yvette a look. “I’d rather not say.”

  “You can trust her,” said Dom.

  “I can,” said Nate, “but I’m not going to. No offense.”

  Yvette followed her Emperor over the balcony. “None taken, Captain Chevell. Anything to keep the Emperor safe. Secrets I don’t know can’t be taken from me.”

  “Also, you’re an asshole,” said Nate. “While we’re sharing, you know? Let’s go.”

  • • •

  The palace corridors were emptying fast. News of a coup had hit most everywhere. Evidence of fighting was all around: charred bodies. Broken down doors. Ordinary soldiers, armor melted or shattered. It was precise, clean, almost orderly. They’d known how to come in here, take over the palace, and kill the Emperor.

  Time to delete that last step from their game plan.

  They made the exterior of the building without incident. Boye was taking point, plasma carbine nosing the air. The launcher hung at his back. Julie had the rear, a plasma pistol in each hand. Nate played the slack man in the middle, Dom at his side, Yvette slightly behind. The APC sat on its skids where Nate had left it, the blue 112 on the side the most welcoming three numbers he could remember seeing.

  The group jogged to the APC, sliding the door open. Dom in first, then Yvette. Nate turned to his team. “Jules?”

  “Cap.”

  “You’re on the sticks. Boye?”

  “You better tell me I’m on the gun.”

  “You know it,” said Nate, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Boots in and on the deck. Door sliding closed, cool dark of the inside a welcome balm. The APC had seats arrayed around its hull, viewports allowing tiny sips of daylight in. Nate wiped sweat from his face. A holo stage lit in the middle of the APC, the palace grounds marked in glowing light. Red blips lit in the virtual air. “What’ve we got, Jules?”

  “Bogeys. Coming in hot.” Her voice from up front was calm, like this was any other day at the office.

  “Get us in the air.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap.” The APC’s drives rumbled, the machine shuddering around them. It clambered for the sky, Gs pressing a firm hand on them.

  Boye slung himself into the Tactical chair at the front, grabbing the weapons controls. “Fish in a barrel,” he said.

  “Big barrel,” said Yvette. “It’s the whole sky.”

  “Yvette?” said Nate. “Let him work.”

  “I was just—”

  “Not helping?” finished Nate.

  The APC shook as rounds peppered the hull, then stopped at a rumble from outside. Boye whooped. “One down.”

  Nate checked the holo. They were picking up speed, 300 klicks an hour and climbing. If they had a little luck, they’d make it out of this okay.

  There was a massive shudder as the APC was hit. “Rocket!” yelled Julie. “Port drive’s down. We’re losing sky.” Okay, no luck then.

  There was a hard, continuous hammer of sound as the APC fired across the air at their remaining pursuer. The holo sparkled, then cleared as the enemy disappeared. Nate moved to Dom, snapping the straps around his friend. Wouldn’t do for the Emperor to make it out of the palace alive only to be killed in an air accident, now, would it? Another shudder shook the APC, and Nate stumbled back. There was a moment’s silence, then the floor of the car slammed his feet out from underneath him. The next ten seconds felt like ten minutes, the APC spinning and turning around, and around, and around.

  They came to rest, the descending whine of a stressed engine the only sound. Nate scrambled to his feet. “Dom?”

  “You still got the sword?”

  “That’s the question you want to ask?” said Nate. He coughed. “Yeah, I’ve still got the sword.”

  “Got hostiles on foot,” said Julie. “My harness is jammed. I’ll need a second.”

  Nate checked the holo. Twenty markers the APC identified as possible hostiles. “I see ‘em. Jesus, are the entire palace grounds infested?” He took position to the left of the APC’s door, nodding to Boye who took the opposite side. “Ready?”

  “To rock?” Boye’s smile was hard and tight. “We’ve got ten each.”

  “Just try to take care of your share.” Nate grabbed the emergency release on the door, yanking it hard. The metal of the door groaned, then shook as it opened. Sunlight streamed in, along with a fusillade of plasma. Nate hunkered down, Boye doing the same. Something hard thunked into the back wall of the APC, sparking and hissing. “Incendiary round!” There was a flash and the round caught, blowing a hole in the side of the APC. Nate lifted his blaster, firing wild through the open door.

  The APC’s automated defenses kicked in, the turret on the roof swiveling to face the attacks. With a sound like the coming of Judgment Day, it sprayed bright actinic flashes of plasma at the approaching rebels. The holo stuttered behind Nate, numbers of rebels dwindling, until the fshoomp of a rocket sounded. The explosion rocked the APC, the machine listing. The turret was gone, destroyed, bright red error messages lighting on the holo.

  Could be worse, Chevell. It could have been damaged in the crash. There were still five rebels left. “You don’t get to claim credit for those fifteen,” said Nate. “The APC did all the hard work.” He raised his blaster, firing at a rebel. The man went down in a shower of burning limbs and melted armor plates. Nate drew his sword. It wouldn’t be long before the close work started. Another shot, another rebel down. You might not die today, Nate. Another shot. Miss. Another shot. Miss.

  Blinding pain in his arm and his leg. Nate looked down, saw the hissing, charing flames of the incendiary rounds embedded in his flesh. Boye threw himself on top of Nate. Then the rounds exploded in Nate’s limbs. Fire. Fire, and pain, and
pain. Someone was screaming. Boye’s body shook, more rounds hitting home. There was a fisssh a moment before the incendiary rounds blew, and then Boye was gone, pieces of him raining around the inside of the APC. Fire retardant foam billowed down. Smoke, and screaming.

  Nate still had one hand left, fingers clawing for his blaster. A face appeared at the door of the APC, and Nate raised his weapon. He fired, the shot blazing wide. The rebel raised a carbine towards Nate, then jerked, blood fountaining from his lips. The body fell, Julie Roper standing in silhouette.

  Dom was above him, face drawn. “Get up, Nate. We’ll get you out.” Yvette’s face came into Nate’s field of view.

  Nate tried to grab onto Dom, but he couldn’t. His eyes told him why, but his brain refused to believe. His arm, gone. A smoking stump. Nate tried to get up, but one of his legs wasn’t working right. Yvette put a hand on his chest, pushing him back down. Her eyes met Dom’s. “We’ve got to split up. We can’t—”

  “I understand,” said Dom. “You know what to do?”

  “I do,” said Yvette. She stood, lifting Nate’s sword. “Go on.”

  “I’ll see you in the next life,” said Dom, then hugged her. “Take care of him.” Then the Emperor of humanity left the APC, to take his chances in the wide world beyond.

  Nate’s vision clouded over, the blackness threatening to drag him down. He raised his remaining hand to Yvette, clawing at her legs. “Go. After. Him,” he croaked.

  Yvette brushed Nate’s hand away. “I might be an asshole,” she allowed, “but I’m not that kind of asshole.” She turned away, and Nate was falling, falling, falling into the dark.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SMOKE. THE SMELL of burnt meat. Pain.

  • • •

  White light. A surgeon’s visor. Robotic limbs of a medical rig reaching for him. Fire in his veins. More pain, then darkness, deeper than the hard black.

  • • •

  Nate sat up with a gasp, hands clawing at the air. That alone caused him to stop.

  Hands.

  Two of.