Tyche's Demons_A Space Opera Military Science Fiction Epic

by Richard Parry

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Story So Far

  Something Wicked

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Enjoy this book? You can change the world!

  About the Author

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  EXCERPT: TYCHE'S GHOSTS

  Providence

  TYCHE'S DEMONS

  Richard Parry

  TYCHE'S DEMONS copyright © 2018 Richard Parry.

  Cover design copyright © 2018 Vivid Covers.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9951090-8-7

  First edition.

  No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. Piracy, much as it sounds like a cool thing done at sea with a lot of, “Me hearties!” commentary, is a dick move. It gives nothing back to the people who made this book, so don’t do it. Support original works: purchase only authorized editions.

  While we’re here, what you’re holding is a work of fiction created by a professional liar. It is not done in an edgy documentary style with recovered footage. Pretty much everything in here was made up by the author so you could enjoy a story about the world being saved through action scenes and witty dialog. No people were used as templates, serial numbers filed off for anonymity: let’s be honest, October Kohl couldn’t be based on anyone real. Any resemblance to humans you know (alive) or have known (dead) is coincidental.

  Details on how to get your FREE STARTER LIBRARY can be found at the end of this book.

  Find out more about Richard Parry at mondegreen.co

  Published by Mondegreen, New Zealand.

  For Shane and Kirsty, Rescue Rangers both.

  THE STORY SO FAR

  FROM: KARKOSKI, ADMIRAL

  TO: “The Reprobate” (FORRADEL, C)

  SUBJECT: The Wedding

  Chad.

  I lost track after you spiked my drink. I think things are out of hand, and while I don’t want to comment on the post-wedding behavior of our Imperial Majesties, what the fuck. Heading the Admiralty is as new to me as heading the Empire’s Bulwark is to you, but what has real shine is how a murderer like October Kohl heads the Emperor’s Black, shielding their Imperial Majesties from harm. The man is a magnet for violence. You and I need to work together if this Empire stands a chance of survival, especially since the Emperor has this crazy scheme to treat with separatists and terrorists. The man will be assassinated before he’s warmed the throne.

  I say this with full knowledge I might have to read this aloud in a deposition one day. While bringing me up to speed on how you acquired the Gravedigger, a corvette you will be returning to my Navy in due course, I think you said:

  Visiting outposts is the basis of a “hearts and minds” campaign you’ve concocted to ensure Emperor Nathan Chevell and Empress Grace Gushiken are seen as more than figureheads.

  You’ve already been to Cantor Station, and found (very) limited support for the Empire. You’ve also told the Emperor and Empress of their tenuous chances of survival, to which the Emperor responded, “It’ll be fine.”

  The basis of his feelings on this matter relate to Saveria Complex, a talented young woman who has managed to escape the kind of justice pirates like her deserve by signing on with your team of spies. I’ll admit, her ability to use telepathic resonance to stun groups of people (I believe a more fitting description than, “she AoEs groups of mobs,” which you provided) is handy, but Saveria is still immature in many ways.

  Emperor Nathan Chevell died, and came back to life. While I knew this, I was hazy on how the second part was accomplished.

  You claim this was made possible because of nanites from Station Echo Nine, a place I only believe exists because I’ve been there. You saying it was “The Mysterious G Spot” was cunning, but insufficient to throw me off. The same technology resides within October Kohl, reversing the damage to his spine. Tiny robots that repair damaged tissue and destroy invading parasites like the Ezeroc larvae is useful, but I’m not comfortable with an army of robots too small to see coursing in the veins of our leadership. More on this below.

  You believe you have identified the different types of Ezeroc. The “roaches” (as you call them) have four distinct forms. Larvae, which are injected by drones into humans, either to control and subjugate them, or to reform our bodies to suit their needs. The drones themselves, which hatch from eggs and grow to over 2 meters in height. The “crab motherfuckers” (again, your words) which are the size of an APC. And finally, the Queens, which serve as a central hive consciousness, and have significant telepathic powers of control and compulsion.

  Our nanites are particularly good at destroying Ezeroc tissue, and you have weaponized this in hypos, conveniently color-coded red.

  Those same nanites were repurposed in a different strain (color-coded green) to replicate the Empress’s surgical modification at the hands of the Ezeroc. You said the surgery granted her “untold powers” like “Merlin resurrected.” And, by proxy, you are now some kind of “space wizard” (your words, although I might have this wrong: you were slurring).

  You’ve used these powers to do cheap party tricks, like moving my chair before I sat down. They serve no practical purpose otherwise.

  Further, you’ve injected the second strain (green) of nanites into every one of the Empire’s Bulwark, creating a small army of Merlins who, near as I can tell, have a reprobate at the top of their chain of command.

  The nanites are technology harvested from the ancient AI-human war. The machines dropped a nanobot swarm on Osaka, killing all human life. While we can only marvel at the stupidity of the ancients arming machines and teaching them how to kill humans, the nanobots serve as a useful reminder to not create alternative sentient life. I refer to my previous comment about nanites in the Emperor.

  I’m only marginally more amazed at the stupidity of the Guild, which still manage an Archeology and Research facility in Osaka. We should destroy the nanobot swarm; it’s an accident waiting to happen.

  Why Chevell made you spymaster, I’ll never know. You make terrible decisions.

  Regards,

  Karkoski.

  • • •

  FROM: The Chadd

  TO: So That’s How You Spell Clown, With a K

  SUBJECT: RE: The Wedding

  Yep, all of that.

  Best,

  C.

  PS: I didn’t spike your drink. You drank from cask thinking it was a big juice box. Not my fault.

  SOMETHING WICKED

  FIVE MINUTES. THAT’S all it took from we’re having a good time to we’re going to die, horribly.

  El entered the bridge, swagger dialed up t
o eleven, and gave her second a practiced glare. “Price. Report.”

  “Captain on the bridge.” Price, for his part no stranger to the Captain of the Skyguard wanting a little bridge time, stood from the command couch and slipped sideways into Tactical. “Captain Roussel, sir. We’re about to jump into Paloma. Still nothing on scan.”

  Not that nothing on scan was a surprise. The Troy floated in the hard black, somewhere between nowhere and haven’t got there yet. They’d jumped into a system with an angry red star, a couple rocks in orbit that had been tagged and bagged by a research team years back, and then forgotten in one regime change or another. El wasn’t sure whether it was the regime change from Empire to Republic, or Republic back to Empire, and her field of fucks was barren on that particular issue. All that mattered from a stars-and-charts perspective was this system was empty and made a convenient jump point to Paloma.

  The bridge’s holo stage lit the center of the room, all calming green as the Troy mapped out in-system bodies, all where they should be. The bridge itself was an Empire design, familiar, the gold falcon on the floor bright and new.

  She slung herself into the captain’s acceleration couch. “Lieutenant, we are a couple light years—”

  “Fifty light years, sir,” said Price.

  El raised an eyebrow. If it wasn’t for his too-damn-pretty-to-die good looks, she might have said something, but the bridge deserved a little cheer for all hands. She suspected Dot Sound — the Comms officer on station to El’s right — had tapped that well at least once. “Fifty,” said El.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know, Lieutenant, that ‘a couple’ is a variable unit of Guild measurement? It’s in the manual.” El kept her face deadpan.

  “The manual, sir?”

  “That’s right, Lieutenant,” said El. “Anyway. We’re a couple light years out. Hell, if we were a single light year out, anything we got here from Paloma would be dead news anyway. But it’s good to know nothing’s out there wanting to eat our faces.” Catching a snort from Helm, El turned to face Leo Shackleton, a man who used the callsign Hot Shot. “Ensign,” said El. “You have something to add?”

  “Coming down with a cold, sir,” said Leo. He wasn’t pretty except the way he flew. El had scooped the kid up from the Skyguard’s flight school and put him on her bridge crew before he’d done three weeks. When she’d asked him where he learned to fly so well, he’d given her a smile — all crooked teeth and acne — and said hell, I used to work in a circus. El didn’t know which circus or where, but she’d go there someday to do a little more recruiting. He hadn’t done his Guild cert for Helm, but El knew a person. Being connected was good. So Leo Shackleton, eighteen-years-old and change, maybe the ugliest damn person she’d ever seen, was now Helm on the destroyer Troy.

  “Very well,” said El. “I figure we go see what’s out there. Comm?”

  “Sir?” said Dot, who looked to be practicing her don’t get involved routine.

  “I want you to broadcast a high-five and a hearty hello when we jump in,” said El. “I want everyone who hears us to know we’re more interested in dancing and a good night out rather than firing up our rails.”

  “Sir,” said Dot. “Pearls, black dress, and a show, on it.”

  “Price,” said El. “Why are we still here?”

  Price cleared his throat. “A good question. Helm, ready for jump?”

  “Helm is ready for jump,” said Leo.

  “Comm, ready for jump,” said Dot.

  “Tactical, ready for jump,” said Price. “Captain?”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “I’ve got a knife in a boot and a gun in a shoulder holster, just in case our dance partner is a mugger,” said Price.

  “Just the way I like it,” said El. She frowned. El didn’t much like flying into dangerous situations, but if she had to, having a hand-picked crew of non-imbeciles was her preferred way of doing it. “Let’s go.”

  “Negative space bow wave forming,” said Leo. “Bridge, bow wave is stable. Route is green. In three.” Accompanying his words, the big number 3 lit the bridge holo stage. “Two.” The number shifted to a big 2, this time flashing. El caught fuck yeah from Dot’s station, and she couldn’t hold back her own smile. “One,” said Leo. “Jumping.”

  Space outside the bridge windows stretched, pulled, and El felt—

  Her skin, warmed from the hearts and minds around her. The remembered taste of coffee, heaven-sent. Her fingers, gripping the arms of the acceleration couch, not in fear, but in joy. The pure thrill of acceleration, impossible, unbelievable acceleration. She couldn’t feel it. She was it. She was everything. She was the universe.

  Stars stretched, made points of light that streaked past the Troy’s bridge.

  They jumped.

  • • •

  Five minutes was a relative measure.

  The Troy shuddered into place in the Paloma system. El ran a hand through her hair, still feeling the post-jump rush, her skin alive with sensation. “Report.”

  Dot shifted on her acceleration couch. “Nothin on comm. Hailing.”

  “Well, that’s unexpected,” said Price. El followed his line of sight, taking in the bridge’s holo. Where there should have been comforting green lines, the Troy painted the system in angry reds.

  “Where’s the damn outpost?” said Leo. “Uh. Sir?”

  “It’s alright, Ensign,” said El. “The same question was on my mind too. Price?”

  The lieutenant worked his console, no doubt looking for answers. While he did his thing, El turned her gaze from the bridge holo to the windows. Out there, in the hard black, was Paloma’s yellow star. The system had four planets, none of them terraformed. That was as expected. When the cap — fucking hell, El, he’s the emperor now — the emperor had said put a Guild outpost about there, pointing at a star chart, finger hovered over the system that would bear the name Paloma, people had scurried. Autofactories had been sent. They'd constructed a Guild Bridge. A station, a big one, not to orbit a planet, but the system’s star. No one asked why, because when Nate had a hunch, it usually proved good.

  The reason the Troy was having a panic attack was because Paloma Station wasn’t there. Gone. A big tub, twenty thousand souls aboard, a thing you couldn’t miss. It shouldn’t be hiding behind the star, unless someone had pulled up a moon-sized tug and given it a nudge. No tugs. No nudging. No Paloma Station, either.

  Get your shit stacked and in order, El. “Lieutenant Price,” she said.

  “Sir.”

  “I want you to find me that station. I don’t care if you need to get out there in a suit and walk between Paloma’s star and Paloma Delta. I want you to get every spare crew member up and looking out portholes. I don’t care if they’re sleeping, Lieutenant. Stations do not disappear.”

  “Comm has … something,” said Dot.

  “Specifics are useful, Comm,” said El. She shifted on her couch, the straps feeling constricting rather than comforting. “‘Something’ isn’t a super good descriptor.”

  “It’s… audio. I think.”

  “On speaker.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Dot. She clicked a button on her console, and the bridge speakers filled with a sound that was too orderly for static. Like, what static would sound like if it found itself in a marching band, a conductor at the front, and a firing squad to shoot any stray piece of disorderly noise. Racked and stacked, but … meaningless.

  “You’re right,” said El. “That is something.” She waited, then got tired of waiting pretty quick. “What is it?”

  “Working on it, sir,” said Dot. Her voice was distracted, attention on her console.

  “Found it,” said Price. “Or, enough stray mass to be a station.” He clicked buttons on his console, the bridge holo clearing, zooming, and reframing a section of the system. Just empty hard black to the naked eye, but to the Troy’s keen gaze, full of what would best be described as space sand. Spread out in an orbit around Paloma’
s star, an ovoid shape of debris, each piece about the size of a marble spread over a Jupiter-sized area of space.

  El leaned forward, staring at the holo. “Lieutenant Price,” she said. “Are you saying that Paloma Station was destroyed? And that what destroyed it was so thorough that they rendered the station down to nothing larger than an after-dinner mint?”

  “Ceramicrete, and, uh…” He licked his lips. “Water, and carbon.” Doubt crept into his voice. “No steel, or tungsten. No metals of any kind. Not even traces, which is … strange. But yes, my best guess is that’s what’s left of Paloma Station.” The holo scrolled with the thousands of material traces in the debris cloud, the major chunks alongside polymers and proteins. All the things busy human hands made, alongside a bunch of what looked like the remains of twenty-thousand Guild Engineers and their support teams. Just, no metal. There were — or had been — Empire Navy crew on that station. Good men and women, out on the edge of space, because the emperor had said, right there.

  Your shit is not stacked and in order, El. “Helm.”

  “Sir,” said Leo, his normal cockiness bridled and tame.

  “Light the fires. Take us closer.”

  “Aye, aye,” he said. El felt the gentle push of the Troy’s fusion drives, the ship seeking through the hard black. “2Gs, holding.”

  “Don’t spare the horses,” said El.

  “Aye, aye. Burn at 4Gs.”

  The gentle push turned into a shove, the rumble of the mighty drives something El felt through her couch. El looked at Price. “Fangs out, Lieutenant.”