The Tyr: Arrival #1 The Tyr Trilogy

by Richard Fox

  “First, someone sends my cipher to a telescope and we learn about the vessel,” Hawn’ru said. “Now a war hero’s put back into play at a critical location.”

  “Someone knows us,” Ciolsi spat. “Someone with access to everything we know. Fastal was officially dead, but they knew exactly where we’d shunted him away for his own protection. The seal. The writing…wait…” He squinted his eyes at Elsime. “But they’re not in this room. They would’ve used her to…give me a minute.”

  “But they must be trying to help us,” Virid said. “If someone could both access the Castle and fake orders from the King…they could be wreaking havoc right now.”

  “The hand of the Hidden?” said one of the worker caste union reps from the back of the room.

  “That…is the best explanation,” Ciolsi said. “We need to end surveillance on all the places we suspect sent that first message to the Castle and raid them all. Figure out who’s behind this.”

  “Do it,” Menicus said.

  “And Fastal?” Hawn’ru asked.

  “If ever we were going to need him again…this is the time. Let the recall order stand. Word gets out that perfect forgeries of my seal and signature are out there and commanders will second-guess everything they’re told,” Menicus said. “I need to prepare a speech to the nation. Tell them about our lost astronauts. The rest of you ready your departments for war.”

  Chapter 21

  “Yes, it has to be all gold. Do you think I was kidding about that?” Hower asked a visibly perturbed Argent. They were in the upper passageways of the Leopold not far from Zike’s quarters and the main boardroom.

  “Our client has particular issues with anyone but her wearing that color,” Argent said, tapping her foot. “The Dauphin could construe that wardrobe choice as a slight, and if that’s the basis for a negative review during her exit interview, Corporate will pin the blame on me.”

  “You’re the one that established Tyr religious iconography?” Hower asked.

  “Well, no. But perhaps if we went with a different angle?” Argent turned a slate around. Zike was on the screen in robes of silver and black.

  “He looks like a cow.” Hower shook his head.

  “Do the Tyr hold bovines in any particular reverence? Because I spent hours on this and the cut on the fabric will accentuate his trapezius muscles, which is the aspect of the director’s physique that he is most proud of,” she said.

  Hower stared at her with a blank face.

  “He told me himself.” She raised her nose slightly.

  “Tyr mythology begins with their gods placing them on the planet at the Obsidian Dolmen. You remember that from my last briefing?”

  Argent rolled her eyes.

  “And their mythology ends when the same gods return to the same Obsidian Dolmen to render final judgment on the Tyr. In both instances, the One Above All is in gold robes. Not chessboard colors, not a tasteful floral pattern. Gold. Robes. The director’s keeping me aboard this ship as a subject-matter expert. There’s my subject-matter expert advice. If he doesn’t want to follow it, then maybe he can send me through the wormhole in a shuttle and I can get on with my life. Hmm?”

  “Back to the client’s reaction to the director crimping on her brand,” Argent said.

  “Change the color of the recording in post? Is the Dauphin going to interrogate Tyr survivors—if there are any by the time she arrives—to make sure that the-the fashion police were enforcing her tastes? Or we…” Hower leaned forward slightly. “…we just tell the client the truth about what we did.”

  “Oh no, the truth is against company policy when it might upset the client,” Argent said.

  “Somehow that doesn’t come as a surprise,” Hower deadpanned.

  “Make way,” came from down the passageway. A pair of Myrmidons had Quboth’s isolation tube on a dolly behind them. The mercenaries cleared a path through the ship’s crew and others waiting for the next board meeting.

  “Where are you taking him?” Hower ran over to the isolation tube and glanced at the one-way view port over the Tyr astronaut’s face. The alien within was awake, shouting, though no sound could escape the tube.

  “Boss wants him.” Solanus sniffed and rubbed her nose.

  “The director never said anything about that to me.” Hower reached for the control bar on the dolly, but Solanus slapped his hand away.

  “I said the boss, not the director,” she said. “Don’t worry. Just a little playtime.”

  “‘Playtime’? This individual has just finished biome acclimatization. Do you know how painful that is?”

  “So long as we don’t have to ash him and he doesn’t get us ashed, who cares?” Solanus led the dolly to the end of the passageways, where the bulkheads were decorated with marketing posters for Myrmidon recruitment and other highly edited images of the mercenaries in action.

  “He is not a toy!” Hower tugged against the back of the dolly as it floated on a low anti-grav cushion through a wide set of doors.

  Inside were training mats and an octagonal fighting ring. Myrmidons with their fatigue tops off, some sweaty and wearing thin fighting gloves, were seated around the ring.

  Hulegu was in the center, his arms in a headlock on another mercenary. The other’s face was beet red, his mouth open and tongue sticking through his teeth as he fought to breathe. The merc tapped Hulegu’s cyborg arm, but Hulegu kept the hold.

  “I catch you pulling punches on your sparring partner again, I’ll do worse than put you to sleep.” Hulegu held on until his opponent’s eyes rolled up and he went limp.

  Hulegu pushed the unconscious man away. His face smacked hard against the mat and a tooth went flying. The crowd laughed.

  Hulegu nudged the prone man’s leg with his foot and leaned over him.

  “He’s breathing. Somebody drag him out and wake him up before even more brain damage sets in.” Hulegu put his hands on his hips. His body was thick with muscle, none of it shaped for the sake of pleasing the eye.

  Pockmarked bullet-wound scars stitched a line across his abdomen. Grafted skin the texture of running wax covered most of one thigh, and one knee creaked from the replacement beneath cheap plastic skin covering the joint. The red lens of his false eye snapped back and forth as he looked over his Myrmidons, searching for his next opponent. Or victim.

  Hower fought down disgust. Cosmetic surgery to repair such damage was pitifully inexpensive on most major worlds, and was even covered by Corporate health insurance. Hulegu chose to wear his wounds like a trophy.

  “Boss, got it for you.” Solanus knocked on the tube’s view port like she was trying to get the attention of an animal in a tank.

  “It’s had its shots?” Hulegu asked her.

  “Leaf-eater says so.” She reached behind the tube and hauled Hower out where Hulegu could get a good look at him. The Myrmidons chuckled at the scientist.

  “We’ve all got the serum, no worries.” Hulegu shuffled from side to side, shadowboxing.

  “Mr. Hulegu, what is the meaning of all this?” Hower asked.

  “You said this one’s a fighter, right?” Hulegu leaned against the fencing on the ring, then crouched and went into a roll. “I want to fight it.”

  “He’s…he’s un-Blooded. Trained but not a combat veteran,” Hower said. “What possible reason could you have for this? He’s weak from all the medical procedures and—”

  “If we’re going to kill them off, I want to know what we’re dealing with. Bad enough one of our leaf-eaters is in the indigs’ ear. Maybe we can get this one working for us too, eh? Let him out.” Hulegu backed up and put his arms out in a T-pose to grip the fence.

  Solanus entered a code into the isolation tube.

  “You’re not going to get his cooperation by-by punching him!” Hower shouted as the Myrmidons chuckled and crept closer to the ring.

  Hulegu picked up a small cylinder on the mat next to a water bottle and flicked the top open. He pressed a small nozzle to his nose and
sniffed hard. Mercenaries around the ring followed suit, most snorting, others putting small ampules to their throat, injecting their drug of choice.

  “Whew, now we’re ready!” Hulegu hopped from side to side, his face going flush, his eyes red.

  The tube opened and the Myrmidons began shouting, shaking the ring’s fencing as antiseptic mist cleared around the alien.

  Quboth shrank back, and Hower felt a moment of pity for the alien. To come out of the tube and be surrounded by shrieking “aliens”…not a moment he would wish on anyone.

  “Come on over!” Hulegu beat his gloved knuckles together and waved to Quboth. “Tell him what’s what, leaf-eater. Hurry before my buzz fades.”

  Quboth tried to press himself deeper into the tube, a look of fear on his face.

  The Myrmidons started hooting, making faces and shaking the fence even harder.

  “You have to fight him,” Hower spoke in Tyr and stepped forward so the astronaut could see him.

  “What’s happening? I don’t—” Quboth relaxed a bit when he recognized Hower.

  “Hurry. Up!” Hulegu began pacing back and forth, hands on his hips.

  “He is a clan lord and he wants to fight you. You want to live? Fight hard. Hurt him. He thinks you’re weak and he’ll kill you out of disappointment. Do you understand?” Hower asked.

  A water bottle flew between them and bounced off the open side of the tube.

  “Fight!” Hower grabbed Quboth by the front of his abused space suit and hauled him out of the tube and into the ring. Solanus shut the cage door and leered at Quboth, whose jaw had dropped open at the sight of her.

  Hower made a mental note that this was the first time Quboth had seen a human female.

  “Get in there, domino!” Solanus shook the fence and snarled at Quboth.

  “What’re we dealing with, huh?” Hulegu kept his fists at waist level as he shuffled around Quboth. “This what most of their fighters look like? Skinny and timid?”

  He feinted a jab at Quboth’s face and the alien flinched back.

  Myrmidons chuckled.

  “Kick the shit out of him, boss!” came from the crowd.

  Hulegu kicked at Quboth’s thigh, but the alien hopped back. The crowed ooed and awed.

  “Fight him, Quboth, please!” Hower shouted.

  Hulegu lunged forward and snapped a punch into Quboth’s mouth that sent him backpedaling into the fence. A Myrmidon kicked him in the back and sent him sprawling onto the mat.

  Hulegu jumped up and made an exaggerated pose as he dropped an elbow toward the back of Quboth’s neck. The Tyr rolled away and Hulegu landed heavily on his side. He propped a knee up and mimed feeding himself grapes, much to the crowd’s amusement.

  Quboth was on one knee, breathing hard. He looked back and saw Hower next to the tube. The scientist’s arms were crossed, his gaze elsewhere.

  “What is this? What is wrong with that one?” Quboth asked.

  “He want mercy already?” Hulegu laughed. “Don’t tell him how to tap out. Won’t do him any good.”

  “He’s…he’s like a Slaver, Quboth. You know the story of Mou’gh after the sack of Vinica? Fight him!”

  Hower hoped the famous Blooded tale of a warrior captured by the Slavers and forced to fight their champions would stir some aggression in the Tyr. He didn’t need Quboth to remember that the tale ended with Mou’gh crucified after killing a Slaver chieftain’s son, but that the famed warrior had survived the slave pits for weeks before being murdered as the Slavers couldn’t kill him in a fair fight.

  Quboth stood and adopted a fighting stance, forward knee bent to the foot barely touching the floor, hands raised slightly over his head with the bottom of his fists facing Hulegu.

  “Now we’re talking,” Hulegu said and threw a jab-cross-hook combination that Quboth sidestepped. The Tyr snapped a kick at Hulegu’s midsection, but the mercenary bent slightly and took the hit on his outer arm.

  “He hits like a kitten,” Hulegu announced and launched himself forward, arms spread, catching Quboth and pummeling him to the mat. Hulegu slammed his hands onto Quboth’s collar and belt, then hurled him into the fence to thunderous applause.

  Quboth groaned and crawled forward.

  “Boring!” Hulegu marched forward and raised a foot, ready to squash the life out of the alien with a single stomp.

  Quboth pushed off the fence and rolled clear of the stomp. He got to his feet, then slapped his palms against the front of his space suit.

  The crowd went nuts, and a few Myrmidons pulled themselves onto the top of the fence, screaming bloody murder.

  “Now we’re talking.” Hulegu threw an overhead punch at Quboth. The Tyr raised an elbow and Hulegu’s knuckles struck the bone. Hulegu snarled and dropped the arm to one side, his hand twitching.

  Quboth punched Hulegu in the jaw then followed with an elbow that slapped into Hulegu’s solar plexus.

  Hulegu took the hits like he didn’t even feel them, then reached back with an open hand and slapped Quboth in the side of the head.

  Hower winced at the sound and Quboth’s knees went rubbery.

  Hulegu hit him with an uppercut to the gut that bent the Tyr at the waist and knocked the air from his lungs. He grabbed Quboth by the front of his suit and held him up as he beat the Tyr’s face with his other hand.

  Quboth fell back, blood dribbling from split lips and a broken nose.

  Hulegu dropped him like a piece of garbage and turned to the crowd, encouraging them to cheer even louder.

  Quboth rolled onto his hands and knees, his violet blood spattering against the mat.

  “Stay down.” Hower went to the floor to look Quboth in the eyes. “He’s had his fun and now all you have to do is—”

  Quboth spat out a tooth and used the fence to pull himself back onto his feet.

  Hulegu turned around, hands on his hips and a wicked smile on his face.

  “He still wants to play!” Hulegu reared back and swung his right hand in a circle, showboating for the crowd. He launched the punch that was so telegraphed that Hower was confident even he could’ve dodged it.

  Quboth stepped forward at an angle and used Hulegu’s own forward momentum to add force to his elbow strike. Hulegu took the hit square between the eyes and his feet and lower body kept moving forward. Hulegu caught himself before he completely lost his balance.

  Quboth landed a flurry of punches onto both of Hulegu’s floating ribs, earning a grunt of pain from the Myrmidon. The Tyr swept a kick into the back of Hulegu’s knee and sent him to the mat.

  Hulegu thrust his hands out to stop his fall.

  The crowd went silent as Quboth launched a kick up at Hulegu’s face.

  Hulegu caught Quboth by the ankle and didn’t let go. He looked up at the Tyr and a single line of blood ran down the side of his nose. Hulegu jerked up and Quboth crashed against the mat. He hauled the Tyr up, dangling him like a caught fish in front of his Myrmidons, who were now screaming for blood, many giving him a thumbs-down gesture.

  Hulegu punched Quboth hard in the stomach, then dumped him on the ground, still keeping a grip on the ankle. Hulegu stepped on Quboth’s throat, testing the pressure until he was sure the alien couldn’t breathe anymore.

  “He’s got spirit.” Hulegu wiped a finger down his nose, then flicked the blood at Quboth’s face.

  The Tyr struggled against the foot on his neck, but he was effectively pinned.

  “Hulegu, he still might be useful!” Hower called out. “Stop, please!”

  “Finish him!” Solanus shook the fence.

  Hulegu looked down at Quboth, watching consciousness seep out of the Tyr’s eyes. He sneered and pressed harder.

  “No!” Hower rushed into the ring and straight at Hulegu.

  The Myrmidon backhanded Hower across the face. The blow spun him around and he crumpled against the mat, the smell of stale sweat and blood all encompassing.

  “Bah.” Hulegu took his foot off Quboth and the crowd booed. Hul
egu snapped his chin up and the disagreement ended. “Director might want a pet,” Hulegu said. “Showers, then to range for weapons qual.”

  He stepped over Hower and left the ring.

  Hower sat up a few seconds later, nursing a hot spot against his cheek and a very sore jaw. A clean towel sailed over the side of the ring and landed next to him. He wasn’t sure which of Hulegu’s men threw it.

  “Quboth, are you OK?” Hower slid over to the Tyr, whose face was slowly expanding into swollen welts. Hower dabbed at the blood coming from Quboth’s nose and mouth.

  “Did I hurt him?” Quboth asked.

  “A little…for sure.” Hower worked his jaw, growing more and more certain that a tooth was loose. “But not too much.”

  “Then I may die well in the gods’ sight.”

  “No, Quboth, that’s not going to happen just yet. I need you to get back in the tube. Can you do that for me?” Hower got up and tried to lift the Tyr by his arm.

  “So this can keep happening?” Quboth looked at him, one eye swollen shut and blood marring his caste markings. He took his arm back and pressed it against his side.

  “Yes…I’m afraid so. Maybe…I’ll try and get you home, Quboth. Don’t give up on that, OK? The kingdom will need you. They need to know what you’ve seen.”

  “You speak with a demon’s tongue and give a demon’s promise.” Quboth gave an old insult to the untrustworthy, then crawled back onto his feet and limped toward the isolation tube, refusing any help from Hower.

  When Quboth was sealed away, Hower sank to the floor against the grav cart. He buried his face into his hands and fought the urge to cry.

  Chapter 22

  “Can you believe this bullshit?” Cisneros ran his thumbs down the inside of the belts securing him to a seat in the back of the cargo shuttle.

  Yenin ran her fingers through her short blond hair. She sighed as drone sabots locked down see-through boxes, squat cylinders of survey drones in each one, like giant coins in a roll.

  “You want to be on the other mission?” she asked. “Thought you didn’t like Myrmidons. Especially after that last one made you clean his boot.”