Tyche's Demons_A Space Opera Military Science Fiction Epic

by Richard Parry

  The robot twitched in the cables holding it up, arms moving a little as data overlaid the crystal. Saveria cleared her throat. “Is it meant to do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hope. She looked at the Shingle on the wall. DO GREAT THINGS. Was Hope doing great things? It felt so hard to know. All she knew was the pain of her broken heart made it so hard to do anything else.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EXPECTING THE ELEVATOR to make it up a handful of decks without stopping was a little much under the circumstances. When it jarred, stopping between two floors, the lights inside the car flickered. Will grabbed on to El’s leg like a docking bay clamp, eyes wide one instant, then scrunched shut as if it’d make the monsters go away.

  The elevator’s panel flickered, chimed, buzzed an error, then replaced the soothing green display with an angry red warning: ELEVATOR RAILS OCCLUDED. CONNECTING YOU TO STATION ASSISTANCE. A woman’s recorded voice, soothing in all the right ways, came over the car’s speakers. “An unexpected error in the elevator system has been detected. There is no cause for alarm. Please remain calm.”

  “Fuck you,” said El. It came as a reflex, the same wiring in her brain that controlled her hands on the sticks making her lips move. She looked down at Will. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Are there monsters outside?”

  Truth or dare, huh? “A million,” said El. “But that’s okay. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got a gun,” said El, with more of a feral grin than she felt in her core. It was what Kohl might have been able to pass off without breaking a sweat. But El also figured Kohl on being the kind of guy to not get stuck in an elevator car. He’d say something like, I’m not stuck in here with you. You’re stuck in here with me! And then he’d laugh, and kill Ezeroc, because the universe had made him in a particular way. El frowned, pulled out her sidearm, and held it out. “See?”

  “It looks weird,” said Will. But he relaxed his grip on her, so he could take a closer look.

  “It’s a shotgun,” said El, turning it this way and that to allow him to see it. The metal still felt as perfect in her hand as it had the day the old man had given it to her. Traded, he’d said, but it still felt like a gift. The gunsmith had, by extension, saved the universe a couple times over by giving the weapon to El.

  “Cool,” said Will. After a pause, both looking at the stubby length of El’s sidearm, he said, “What’s a shotgun?”

  El considered the question for a moment. It didn’t feel right to say, a weapon for blowing grapefruit-sized holes in assholes in front of a kid. Nothing else came to mind, and she was saved — if that was the right term — by the car dropping like a stone for a split second. It caught almost immediately, not even enough time in free-fall for her to scream, and she was pleased she hadn’t squeezed the trigger of the shotgun, spraying the interior of the car with metal pellets. “We can talk about the gun later,” said El. “How about we get out of this car?”

  “How?”

  “Not sure,” said El. She looked around the car when the elevator’s panel chimed.

  A man’s voice came over the comm, “Hello?”

  “Yo,” said El, jumping to the panel. “Got a situation.”

  “So I see,” said the man. “Elevator car seems stuck. Wait there. We’ll send a crew.” His voice was lacking inflection.

  El backed away from the panel. She felt her lips tighten. “What kind of crew?” she said.

  “A collection crew,” said the man.

  El hammered on the panel with the butt of her gun, shattering the glass, plastic, and electronics inside. It sparked and fizzed, fragments of busted car controls raining to the floor. She stood back, breathing hard, and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. As El straightened, the car doors chimed, sliding open on their runners. Her gun was up, pointing at the aperture without conscious thought. There was no one there, just a section of station flooring and half a closed door. “Huh,” she said. “Must have jimmied it with the panel.”

  Will, now free orbiting the interior of the car, frowned. “That only happens on holos,” he said. “Dad says they’re all lies. He twitches when we watch ‘em.”

  “Huh,” said El, thinking, kid’s raining on my parade. “Well, it’ll let us get out anyway.” She clawed fingers into the gaps between the doors above her, sliding them open with relative ease. El might have thought that serendipitous, except for the tiny fact that station elevator shafts should be studded with airlocks. Will was right. El’s hitting the panel probably hadn’t done shit. Whoever was sending their collection crew was making a nice, convenient route towards her and Will. The roaches seemed to get smarter, by her reckoning, and that wasn’t a good sign.

  Still, sitting in the car was just waiting inside a trap already sprung. Out of the car, they’d have a little more mobility. Lift and thrust vectors to get them moving. El looked outside the open door into what might have been a habitation deck. A small foyer with two chairs was outside the door, and from El’s floor-height view, the two dead people on them weren’t welcoming. No Ezeroc, though, so she shimmied out, then spun around, holding a hand out for Will. She helped the kid out, careful to turn him away from the corpses. Without thought, El realized she’d walked them left, doors stretching out ahead of them.

  The sensible plan would be to get to a hard line, try and contact someone. Anyone. The Cantor had been a bridgeliner, and if this was a habitation deck, it’d have a klick or more of rooms, all with personal consoles. El rapped knuckles on a door, and hearing no response, she palmed the entry panel. It didn’t let her in, so she tried the next one. Same result. Next one, also not letting them in. “Fuck,” El said, head leaning against the metal of the door.

  “You say that a bunch,” said Will.

  “I only say it when it’s needed, Will,” said El. “And I figure it’s needed a lot.”

  “Are we going to get eaten?” said Will.

  “No,” said El.

  “Why not?”

  “Not how I figure on going out,” said El. “I’ll die on a starship, Will. I’ll be at the Helm, out in the hard black. Might be fighting enemies of the Empire. Might be someone else. But I’ll not go down on a, what, a station.” She spat the last word out.

  “How do you know?” said Will. He looked doubtful, lips pulled sideways as he thought about it. “Like, people can die anytime.”

  “You’re a ray of sunshine,” said El. “Anyone ever told you that?”

  “No.”

  “Let me be the first,” said El. She stood up straight. “Let’s get on, then. Must be a ladder or access hatch up a deck.”

  “Would a cargo elevator work?” said Will.

  “Probably would,” admitted El. A cargo elevator had a bunch of advantages. No immediate warnings blooming on a command deck console, saying tasty morsels here. Just a box on rails, going up and down the station. “Why?”

  “There’s one on this deck,” said Will. “Down there.” He pointed the way they were headed.

  “Let’s go then,” said El. They set off, the corridor lights flickering a little as they walked. It wasn’t soothing. The Cantor wasn’t a shiny new hull by the time she’d made it out here, and being busted down to station status hadn’t made the ship happy. It direly needed an Engineer or two, but a Guild Engineer out here would be rarer than unicorn blood. Few Engineers wanted to live in a terrorist anarchy.

  A hiss came from back the way they’d come. El paused, turning, then spun back around, grabbing Will’s arm. She jogged. Ahead, she could see the outline of the freight elevator’s handle. The sound of insectile legs clicking against the decking made her break into a run, fair hauling Will along.

  They made the elevator. El wrenched the door open, sparing a glance the way they’d come. She could see an Ezeroc drone bearing down on them, looking like its drives were on full thrust. El grabbed the back of Will’s pants, hoisting him into the freight elevator. She slammed her
hand onto the panel, then rolled in beside the boy. The car door was closing as the Ezeroc made it to them, claws reaching. El pulled the trigger on her sidearm. The BOOM! of the weapon was loud inside the tiny car of the freight elevator, but she hit the Ezeroc.

  The door sealed on them, and the car jerked into motion. Where it was taking them, El didn’t know, but anywhere had to be better than here. The only problem was the Tyche was up decks, and the small elevator was taking them down into the belly of the station.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  RUNNING AROUND ON a station in the dark was a bad idea. A terrible idea. And here Nate was, up to his eyes in roaches, just trying to get back in the fight. It’s not like the future of humanity was at stake or anything.

  The corridor stretched ahead of them, ending at a sealed bulkhead about fifteen meters ahead. Above the doorway, well-lit considering the state of the rest of the station, was a holo that read COMMAND CENTER. In the middle of the door was a small bulge, like something huge and angry on the other side had tried to come through. Or, maybe it threw something at the door. Nate didn’t know how Ezeroc thought, but if he was laying out what-if scenarios, he figured on a fight beyond that point. A fight humans had lost, on account of the hissing susurration in his mind from all the Ezeroc.

  He tightened his flesh and blood hand around the hilt of his black blade. The golden circuitry seemed to glow in the low light, and it lent him strength. Grace was at his side, and if he was being honest, those were his two crutches. A sword handed down to him through time by a dead man, and a woman too good for a pirate like him.

  Still. You can do right by both. Get into the command deck. Kill the roaches. Flick a switch. Easy.

  “I’ve been wondering,” he said.

  “Hmm?” said Grace, eyes front, as she considered the door.

  “I reckon your dad is serious,” said Nate. “Here’s the thing. We know he’s ornery on account of exile, and being on the losing side, right?”

  “Hmm,” she said, not paying attention.

  “And I think we know this is all about you.”

  “Hmm.”

  “But I don’t think we’ve considered just how far he’ll go,” said Nate. “The way I see it? He’s the kind of man willing to burn the entire universe just to rule the ashes. This co-op he’s jerry-rigged between the locusts and the appliances can’t last. Can’t. They’ve got nothing in common aside from us. And once we’re done, so are they. Question is, do they launch nukes at each other, or cohabitate?”

  Grace turned to face him, her sword reflecting the light ahead, a sliver in the gloom. “You think he’ll stop?” She shook her head. “I’m not disagreeing on your general train of thought, Nate. But once we’re gone?” She sighed. “He’ll have something up his sleeve. He’ll want to rule both. Not sure how an esper rules machines, and I don’t think Kazuo Gushiken is strong enough to solo a Queen or two. But, you know. He’s always been three steps ahead.”

  Nate frowned. “There’s a disconcerting thought. Here we are, getting our asses made into tight-fitting hats, and he’s already planned the sequence of events?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, that’s great,” said Nate, feeling a warm glow start in his chest. “That is the first good news we’ve had all day.”

  “What?” said Grace. She rounded on him. “Nathan Chevell, this isn’t the time. No jokes. There are dying people through there!” Grace stabbed her hand in the general direction of the command center airlock.

  “Hey, now,” said Nate. “This isn’t a joke. Do you think for a moment Kazuo Gushiken thought we’d come out here? To a terrorist anarchy, seeking succor? No. Sure, there are roaches down below, but this is off the edge of the map, Grace. What I’m saying is, he’s blind to us. Doesn’t know where we’ve gone, or why. He’ll have his eyes out, looking for traces. But we jumped, no transponder. To a system off Empire charts. He’ll be clawing at jump signatures from Sol, trying to run us to ground. The roaches here aren’t looking for us. They’re looking for food.”

  She nodded. “So.”

  “So,” he agreed.

  “And then?”

  “Exactly,” said Nate.

  Grace grinned. “I’m glad we’ve got a plan.”

  “Me too,” said Nate. He looked at the door. “Which plan do you have?”

  “Get through the door,” said Grace. “Kill the Ezeroc. Liberate the station. Fix our ship. After that? Get our Empire back.”

  “Close to my plan,” said Nate. “I’ve got a few more details, I guess.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You? Details?”

  “Yep,” said Nate. “Let’s break that door down.”

  • • •

  Breaking the door down wouldn’t be easy. Standard interior airlock, a complex sandwich of metal, polymers, and a little ceramicrete for luck. They could have at it with blasters for minutes before getting through. Nate considered his sidearm. Not even then, with this. Explosives might do it, but explosives on a station were a bad idea.

  It was lucky Grace was here.

  “You good for this?” said Nate. Even amid the tension thrumming through him, he could feel the closeness of her. The smell of her hair, and the subtle fragrance of her skin. Don’t get distracted, Chevell. Distracted is dead.

  “Just a door,” said Grace, tossing her head to get hair out of her face. She narrowed her eyes, stretching a hand towards the airlock.

  Nate could feel the force of her mind. It was hard to describe what being around an esper was like, because there were no analogs. But if someone put a blaster to his temple and screamed describe it! he’d have said it was like standing in the ocean near a beach. Water going out, ready to pull into big breakers to wash over the top of you. You could feel the water running past your legs, the weight of it, trying to drag you in. Hell, a man could see the majesty of the waves forming right in front of you. The sheer potential of what was to come.

  That’s what being near Grace was like when she used her gifts.

  The airlock door creeeeaked. After a moment, the metal trembled. That was a strange thing, as the seals were tight, the frames strong. The metal dent on this side popped, deforming the other way. The entire surface of the metal flexed away from Grace, then in a shrieking boom, the entire door tore free, taking half the airlock frame with it, to tumble into the command center.

  Nate was moving before she was, onto the command deck, blaster ready, sword held low. On the command deck, there was a confusion of things that shouldn’t go together. Nate saw Ezeroc drones, already pointing his blaster before his brain had finished the computation. Mixed among them, humans, or at least, human bodies. He got nothing but Ezeroc hissing in his mind, so everyone here was compromised. Likely the Ezeroc were keeping the human bodies to better work the equipment. If he had more time to brood on that particular point, he’d be concerned that the Ezeroc were using people as tools in ways they’d never done before. Previously, they’d made human-Ezeroc amalgams, men in black that looked like people but were twisted on the inside. They hadn’t kept their human conquests around, preferring to use them as food. This new restraint couldn’t be a good thing.

  Speaking of human-Ezeroc amalgams, there were a couple of men here who had the long, lean look of the man in black they’d met on Earth in Harlow’s bar. These ones also wore black. Why break a winning formula? Which was worrying as it suggested the roaches had been on the crust below for a long time. They’d been working their way up out of the gravity well to what, capture a station?

  Not a station, Nate. This is a bridgeliner. It’s only playing at being a station.

  The only reason Ezeroc could want a bridgeliner was to infiltrate human space undetected. Nate looked down the sights of his blaster, lining up an Ezeroc drone, and said, “You fuckers have got to die.” He squeezed the trigger, blue-white plasma ffffzzzt-cracking across the command deck. The Ezeroc drone blew into fragments.

  Then it was on.

  Grace sprinted past him, a flash
of lean, lithe movement, black hair flowing. She went straight towards the two men in black at the far end of the command deck. Her direction of travel took her past an Ezeroc-piloted human, her sword slicing as she went past, a spray of red in her wake.

  Score: humans two, Ezeroc zero.

  A piloted human came for Nate, all janky movements and open-mouthed groaning. She wore a flight suit with Cantor on the breast, but the material was faded into hand-me-down status. On her heels, a drone, all chittering mandibles and reaching claws. Nate sidestepped the human, spinning into her wake, slicing an overhand blow at the Ezeroc drone. The black blade bit deep, ichor spraying. The creature jerked back, taking his sword with it. Easy come, easy go. When his hand lost contact with the sword, he could hear them louder, clamoring at the walls of his mind.

  Come on, you assholes.

  Nate turned back to the woman and shot her twice, spraying her along with fragments of faded flight suit against the wall. The Ezeroc with the sword embedded in it was keening, turning in quick circles as it tried to claw the sword from its exoskeleton. It was all flailing limbs and destruction. Getting in there wouldn’t be a good time, so Nate shot it twice. He was about to make a move for his blade when a human knocked into him from the side. This one was male, about forty by Earth reckoning, stubble below gray skin that spent too much time in a bottle. The bottle might have hurt the man, but it saved Nate, the guy’s nervous system already shot by the time the Ezeroc moved into his skull. He’d attacked Nate with a piece of pipe, collecting Nate against his left arm rather than his head. There was a clang as metal met metal, the man’s eyes widening a touch. Nate reached out, tearing the pipe away with gold fingers. He hit the man with the pipe once, twice, and then shot the body as it fell to the floor.

  Score: humans four, Ezeroc zero.

  Nate turned to get his sword again and saw Grace in a furious battle with the two men in black. They used their signature twin swords, and Nate wondered for the first time if it was an extension of the Ezeroc drone’s slashing limbs. Humans sucked at two weapon fighting as a general rule, but the roaches had two stabbing claws and six legs on the basic models, so it made a sick kind of sense. Grace pivoted, her star-bright sword flashing as it caught the edge of a nanoblade held by one of her attackers. Her sword cut through her opponent’s blade with a tiny metal chime, then she spun and ran the man through, pivoting away, her sword trailing blood, only to return like a dervish, taking the man’s head from his shoulders. Those three movements had taken her maybe a half second.