Tyche's Ghosts_A Space Opera Military Science Fiction Epic

by Richard Parry

  “I need you to hit one,” said El. “Just one. But more is better.”

  “Fly straight,” said Nate. A salvo of white-bright railgun fire chattered across space, missing them by mere meters. “Belay that order. Fly like a crazy person.”

  El gave him the eye, but he ignored it. Just one, huh? He brought up the Tyche’s targeting systems. He told the system to ignore the smaller craft. If you’re going to get just one, go large. That was a good rule to live by.

  “What are you doing?” said El, pulling the Tyche through a stomach-lurching pirouette in space, the ship spinning around its axis over and over as torpedoes spilled past them in the hard black. The Tyche’s tungsten PDCs chattered, turning the torpedoes into incandescent hard rain.

  “Just one,” said Nate. “That one.”

  “You’re crazy. I didn’t sign on for crazy.”

  “That one, El. It’s the only one that counts.” He dropped the targeting solution onto her console. All weapons pointed at the triacontahedron.

  “You’re trying to fly like them?” said El. “I’m human.”

  “Never been an excuse you’ve leaned on before, Helm,” said Nate. “It’ll be easy. Just get close.”

  Nate could swear she gritted her teeth at him. “Aye, aye, Cap,” she said. “One vomit rocket coming right up.”

  The triacontahedron was between them and the Memory. The Memory was space junk, ignored by the enemy forces throwing rocks and lances of light at them. Nate’s plan was simple. Run the Tyche at the enemy ship. Drop torpedoes in a spread, but quiet into the still waters of the hard black. No drive flares to give them away, relying on launch velocity only. Spin the Tyche, taking a different trajectory.

  Then dive for the thirty-sided enemy. When they were too close for comfort, fire everything. The trick wasn’t to hit the enemy. Nate already knew that was a big ask. The AI ship would jink out of the way. Nope, nothing easy in this at all.

  The chunk-chunk-chunk of launching torpedoes sounded through the hull, then El pulled the ship away on a new vector. The first round of the targeting solution kicked in, weapons peppering the space near the thirty-sided enemy vessel. It started to jink out of the way. But into the path of the launched torpedoes.

  El brought the Tyche into a spiral loop, the ship rotating faster and faster with each revolution. They corkscrewed on approach to the triacontahedron. Inbound weapons fire traced bright lines across the space between the Tyche and her enemy. The Tyche responded in kind, firing its particle cannons, and lighting up the PDC railguns.

  Phase two of the firing solution kicked in. The Tyche sent tight beam comms at the torpedoes she’d launched. The torpedoes were seconds from target. Too close for something as massive as the AI ship to jink out of the way. The torpedoes, still running dark, primed then detonated their warheads.

  Nate had timed it right. The enemy ship was between them and the torpedoes. Small nuclear suns were born, the enemy ship shuddering and fragmenting under the explosions. The Tyche rattled through the debris, the PDCs working overtime as she tried to peel away the largest pieces of debris. A handful of alarms sprung into life across the holo. RADIATION WARNING was nervous-making, but INBOUND SHOCKWAVE was more material. The hull shook and rattled around them.

  Nate caught sight of El’s golden hand flying over the console, bring the Tyche flat and level. The ship spun, a braking burn hard and bright behind them. The Tyche slowed, the remains of the explosion masking their presence from even machine eyes. They slewed to a relative stop next to the Memory, then El snuggled the Tyche inside the dark hulk.

  El shut the systems down, the Tyche going dark for a spell. Enough to ward off pursuit, buying them a breather. The hull clanked as they settled inside the Memory, dark walls closing in around them. El nudged the steering thrusters to sidle them up, a bump signifying when they touched the inside wall of the Memory’s hold.

  “Nice flying,” said Nate.

  “Piece of cake,” she wheezed.

  • • •

  The good part about being inside a bunch of metal and ceramicrete was, the enemy couldn’t see you. There was the occasional hint of a drive plume visible through a rent in the Memory’s hull. A chatter of backstattered RADAR to keep them company. That’s it. Engineers had said invisibility was impossible, yet here they were.

  The bad part? The Tyche was blind too. There wasn’t an easy way to see whether their attackers were right outside, or a hundred thousand klicks away.

  “This is cozy,” said Nate. The burnt bulkhead of the Memory sat in front of them, a dark slate in a field of black.

  “Like a coffin,” agreed El. “When do you want to initiate burn?”

  “I’d recommend in roughly fourteen minutes,” said Algernon, his voice unfazed by the recent chase through space. Nate allowed he was immune to radiation sickness and more robust of frame than a human, so had less to fear, but a little faked concern would be a great show of solidarity.

  “How you figure?” said El.

  “The orbit of the Memory experiences a subtle rotation along its axis,” said Algernon.

  “What?” said Nate.

  “We spin,” said El. “He means the Memory is turning in space.”

  “Spin,” agreed Algernon. “This will align us with the landing site on the planet below, assuming a hard burn of five gravities for the duration of the descent. Don’t worry, I’ve factored in atmospheric friction on re-entry.” Vectors appeared on the bridge holo. “If we depart in thirteen minutes and forty-six seconds, we will land on the target with a margin of error no greater than five meters.”

  “You’re assuming the planet still has little atmosphere,” said El. “There are giant firestorms on the surface. There is air.”

  “I have already factored the giant infernos into the equation,” said Algernon.

  “What if the enemy ships haven’t left?” said El.

  “Then it will be an exciting ride,” said Algernon. “Hope Baedeker tells me you are the best Helm she has ever seen. Naturally I take this allowance in light of never having seen a crystal-minded pilot.”

  El leaned toward Nate. “Is that a compliment?”

  “I’m not sure we’ll ever know,” said Nate. “Fifteen minutes, huh?”

  “Thirteen minutes and—”

  “I got it,” said El. “It’s on the holo.”

  They waited as the minutes ticked past. At the two-minute mark, El opened the ship-wide comm. “Helm to Tyche. Beginning descent burn. I don’t feel like it’s tempting fate to say this crazy plan is almost certain to kill us, but if it doesn’t, the beers are on me. Oh, and strap in. Forecast is for metal hail, once we hit planetside.” She killed the comm, turning to Nate. “Or is it burning hail? Should I stick with metal rain?”

  “Metal hail’s fine,” said Nate. He closed his eyes, feeling for those elusive strands of the future. “I can’t see whether…” He trailed off, exploring with his thoughts.

  “Can’t see what?” said El. “I don’t like guessing games.”

  “I can’t see whether we’re doing it right,” said Nate. He kept his eyes closed. If we do nothing, we die. Guess it’s down, then. Best not to share too many details, though. “No, we’re fine. Bring us down.”

  The Tyche rumbled in response to El’s hands on the sticks. The ship was enclosed by the husk of the Mercury, but the missing aft of the protective ship let the Tyche’s drive plumes do their work. A grinding, scraping metal-on-metal sound came through the hull, making Nate’s teeth itch. “That doesn’t sound great,” he said. “That sounds bad.”

  “That’s the sound of us swapping paint,” said El. “We’re fine.” The bridge holo lit with a warning: FRAME STRESS DETECTED. “Shush, you. I know. I know! I told him not to, but you know what he’s like.”

  “Who are you talking to?” said Nate.

  El ignored him, keying the comm. “Hope?”

  “You’ve got Hope.”

  “Are we going to break apart?”

  �
�Yes,” said Hope. “But not until we hit the atmosphere. And in this context, ‘we’ means the Memory, which will turn into fiery rain, because it is not an atmosphere-capable vessel.”

  “Great,” said El. The Tyche kept an account of their relative position in space, using thrust, the guessed mass of the Memory, and their previous recorded velocity to track their position in the heavens. The descent started without incident, assuming you didn’t count the continuous scream of tortured metal as an incident.

  A hammer of noise sounded through the hull. “Jesus,” said Nate.

  “Fear not, frail human,” said Algernon. “That was transferred sound from the Memory. I believe our shielding ship is being fired upon.”

  “You think?” said El. To Nate she whispered, “He’s like a bright kid. Knows the answer to a lot of things, but not when to say ‘em.”

  “I heard that,” said Algernon. “My hearing is acute.”

  “See?” said El. “It’s like he doesn’t understand any of the basics, like sarcasm, irony, or comedic timing.”

  Nate snorted. “You fly the ship, I’ll worry about whether his interpersonal skills are up to scratch.” The Tyche continued its descent into low orbit, the hammering against the outside of the Memory getting more persistent. “It’s like they don’t know how to stop it.”

  “They’re shelling the usual locations. Bridge. Reactor room.” El shrugged. “It’s what I’d do. Coming up on three Gs. Thrust is a little compromised by all this dead weight we’re dragging around.”

  “To be fair, I don’t think anyone’s flown a ship from inside a ship,” said Nate.

  “Not many spacefarers are insane,” said El. “Cuts down on survival rates.”

  The Tyche trembled more than before. The holo updated their position. “Estimated encroachment on exosphere is on target,” said Algernon. “Four hundred fifty kilometers.”

  “Why are they putting air here?” said El.

  “I figure because humans need air,” said Nate. “You need an atmosphere if you want to keep your slave race alive.”

  “I would be more interested in their technology for building planets,” said Algernon.

  “The roaches use giant asteroids as starships,” said Nate. “I think they’ve cornered the market on moving rocks through space. I dunno. Bring a lot of rocks here, toss ‘em together. Throw in an ice comet or two.”

  “Toss,” said Algernon.

  “Like a frisbee,” said Nate. The side of the Memory chose that moment to sheer free, the beginning trail of re-entry fire visible from where they sat inside. The Tyche, suddenly able to see out one side, updated the holo with visible targets. A handful of tetrahedral ships were outside, descending into the Ezeroc homeworld’s gravity well with them.

  “I think they can see us,” said El.

  “Let me say hello,” said Nate. He initiated the Tyche’s railgun PDCs, startling the enemy ships to scatter. “We need to get out of here. No maneuverability.”

  “Still can’t break past three Gs,” said El. “We’ll miss the target.”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Nate. “Seriously. Get us out of here.” El tugged the sticks, the Tyche shivering in place, but otherwise unmoving. “Helm?”

  “We’re stuck,” she said, throwing her hands in the air, gold reflecting the orange flames of re-entry. “Look, I’m just going to say it. This one goddamn time, okay? I told you so.”

  “We’re not stuck,” said Grace, hand on the sill of the airlock. No way she should be standing there, not under a burn of three gravities. Nate smiled. Grace is Grace. She makes the impossible look easy. He could feel the ebb and pull of her mental energy, the wash of telekinetic waves around his feet as she kept herself steady despite what Newton would have to say about it. “We’re waiting.”

  “What for?” said El.

  GRACE Can you feel it

  NATE The potential

  GRACE Of everything

  NATE Now

  “That,” said Nate. The bridge holo warned of INBOUND ENEMY FIRE, torpedoes slipped into the burning trail of debris the Memory was leaving across the heavens. Grace reached her free hand out. Nothing happened at first, and Nate felt the pressure build around him. Her will pressing on reality. “Cut thrust, El.” As the Helm pulled the throttles back, Grace pushed the Memory away from them. Metal shrieked and groaned, the hulls of the ships separating, metal fragmenting, lost in their burning wake.

  The Tyche fell in the contrail left by the Memory.

  “Back on, El,” said Nate. “Everything you’ve got.”

  “The ground,” said El.

  “It’s fine,” said Nate. “It’s still,” he checked the holo, “a hundred klicks down. Those torpedoes are making me nervous.”

  “How is this happening?” said Algernon.

  “Class is later this afternoon,” said Nate. He turned, saw the trail of blood from Grace’s nose. Nate wished she wouldn’t push herself so hard. He saw how using their abilities hurt espers. The long-term effects were unknown, but bleeding out your nose, eyes, and ears couldn’t be a good sign. “Strap in, Grace.”

  He expected her to argue, but she’d gone pale. She stumbled back into the ready room, the Tyche unsteady. A hunk of Memory hit the Tyche, causing them to lurch, and Grace fell.

  Right into Algernon’s waiting arms. Nate couldn’t see what happened next as the golden man whisked her back to an acceleration couch, but Nate heard the machine say, “You are secure, Grace Gushiken.”

  Nate owed him one. Maybe everything. He’d settle the account later.

  Focus. Nate looked to El. “Helm? Still waiting on that thrust.”

  “Once we’re clear, we’ll be exposed,” said El.

  “Counting on it,” said Nate.

  “You’re … goddamnit,” she said. “Easily the most frustrating person I’ve ever met in the galaxy. Fires are back alive now.” The Tyche shook more, drives coming online, and El pulled them into the fiery trail blazing behind the Memory. The Tyche shuddered as she struggled through the other ship’s atmospheric wash, then was clear.

  Right into the line of fire of the enemy tetrahedrons.

  There were five and Nate figured on many more joining the party in short order. If they hadn’t confirmed the Tyche’s presence before, they surely would now. What they needed was just a little more luck. Eked out from their diminishing reserves. Just a thimbleful would be enough. They flew with a goddess, and it’d be up to her how this came down.

  El pulled the Tyche into a twirl as they descended, enemy fire rattling around them, bright lances of railgun fire passing by. Nate wondered how she was doing it, then saw her golden hand on the stick. He thought of his own golden hand, the one that seemed to know what he wanted before he knew himself. Neural network, they said. Gift from the gods, more like.

  They had one shot. Nate breathed in and out once, trying to focus. The more he used his future sense, the harder it got. Maybe asking the Fates for favors got them angry. Lachesis was attached to a fixed span of life, and every time Nate looked to the future, he broke her rules. Fair enough. Rules are made to be broken.

  “El,” said Nate, stomach lurching as they fell, “I need to see what’s behind us.”

  “You’ve got a holo,” she said. “I’m flying.”

  “Just for a second,” said Nate.

  “You want me to spin the ship while we’re entering an atmosphere?” said El. “You want me to induce a spin?”

  “If that’s what it takes to see, then yes,” said Nate.

  She gave him a glance, half glare, half fear, then her golden arm yanked on the stick. Nate noticed her eyes went wide in surprise as her arm moved by itself. The Tyche groaned, metal shuddering as they tumbled in the atmosphere.

  Up was down.

  Down was left.

  Right was wrong.

  And there, right fucking there, was the Memory. A split-second glimpse of the burning wreckage as the dead corvette fell, giving her all for a handful of souls trying to
save the universe.

  Nate’s golden hand slammed down on the fire controls, a torpedo spitting out into the thickening atmosphere. Pure instinct, or pure machine learning, it didn’t matter. Just an eyeball and a hand, doing targeting in the barest fraction of time they had. The torpedo spun away, yanked away by the grasping claws of atmosphere. It sailed into the course of the Memory.

  A bright bloom of fire, and all the Memory was turned into splintering wreckage and fire. An old munitions store must have had something left, the explosion blossoming brighter than the sun. The shockwave hammered wreckage out in unpredictable ways.

  Debris flew. The first tetrahedron exploded into fragments, a burst of brilliant white showing its death. Another two tried to dive aside, but rammed each other, seeming to tumble above the Tyche as she fell. The pair’s explosion flung wreckage into a fourth, which spat PDC fire before exploding. The remaining fifth tetrahedron burned harder, trying to overtake the wreckage.

  The Tyche fired a single PDC railgun round, coring the enemy ship. Nate hadn’t realized he’d left the firing systems online. Crazy to leave the weapon mounts out while entering atmosphere.

  All of this in less than two seconds. El grabbed the sticks, wrestling with the Tyche. The ship wanted to spin, sky whirling around them, air shuddering against the frame. El screamed, flesh and blood hand hard on the throttle, metal hand on the flight yoke. Nate wasn’t sure what she was screaming, just a long string of sound, comeonyoumotherfuckerstraightenupgodforallthatisholy. The Tyche shuddered and bucked like a living thing, then the spin eased, their descent flattening out, the ground panning by below them.

  Nate laughed. “We’re alive!”

  The burnt cinder of the Ezeroc world raced by below them, falling wreckage in their wake.

  “You sound surprised,” said El, her voice a whisper. “If you ever want to do something like that again, I quit in advance.”

  “Heads up,” said Nate. “Landing site ahead.”

  “That’s not a landing site,” said El. “It’s a bunch of fucked up rocks.”

  “Skids down, Helm.” Nate paused. “Not bad, El.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”