Tyche's Deceit

by Richard Parry

  Skipped, and then turned angry eyes on those missiles as they overshot. They’d swing back around, but there was a high risk of them impacting against a civilian structure in a city’s tight corridors. Masers mounted at the front of the Tyche — sharp, invisible teeth — reached out, tearing at the missiles. The ship pulled them from the sky in a hail of deconstructed molten metal.

  That job done, the Tyche kept her course. They were on the clock. Being lucky was one thing, but Chronos didn’t wait on luck. He kept his own counsel, kept his own pace. It wouldn’t do to play dice with him.

  The choice was clear at this point: destroy the yapping dogs, or use them.

  Destroy them: they’d stop being a nuisance, and let Tyche get to where she was going before Chronos deemed it no longer important.

  Use them: because part of being lucky was to have more friends than enemies. It was always good to have friends.

  Use them it was. Ahead of the Tyche, a tall spire reached up. The tallest building in the city, it was the Republic Command Center, full of busy and important people. And a full roster of Republic military, troops designed to keep order should disorder come knocking at their door. The Republic Command Center was on the way, and knocking was the order of the day. The Tyche herself wouldn’t have known this was in the flight plan, but it was possible her Helm had this crazy idea all along.

  Two more missiles launched at the Tyche, bright spears thrown at her heart. This was a music she knew, dance steps that were pure muscle memory. And now she knew the trick of rolling out of harm’s way, the goal of firing those missiles was questionable. What wasn’t questionable was the timing, which was fortuitous. Lucky.

  The spire ahead, the Tyche’s Helm pushed the drives a little harder. The ship needed forward momentum, easy to buy at the cost of more joules, the joy of the Ravana’s beating heart urging her on. She came at the Republic tower, her vector tight and close. Inside the tower, alarms would have been sounding, a call to general quarters issued to those troops. Flight crews would scramble for their ships, not mere policing vessels this time but the hardened edge of the Republic’s military. Because you didn’t keep police to guard your secrets. You kept the hounds of war, borrowed Cerberus’s leash, and made a deal with the devil to keep everything quiet.

  As the Tyche neared the tower, she cut her drive burn. Out like a snuffed candle, the roar going silent, the wash vanishing. The drives still glowed with remembered heat as the Tyche sailed, silent as a thrown stone, past the windows of the tower. Faces stared out, fear, terror, anger, and indignation shining out from them. Those faces would have seen the Tyche’s turning thrusters fire, bringing the heavy lifter around, keeping the Tyche’s nose pointed at the tower as she passed. A few would have seen the Tyche’s Helm in her acceleration couch, lights of the flight deck illuminating her. The perceptive would have seen the Helm raise a hand in passing. A wave. A cheery grin. Then those big fusion drives, designed for breaking gravity’s mighty grip, fired bright and loud. Forward momentum turned into a slew around the building, turning thrusters still firing. Keeping the Tyche’s eyes and ears — and the visage of the Helm, having the time of her life — pointed in at the Republic tower. Those sharp fangs of energy — masers and lasers both — that lived in the Tyche’s nose silent, not stabbing ruin and death into the tower.

  It was a curious point that a terrorist could get this close to the heart of the Republic and not rain death on those inside. Afterwards, reports would be mixed. Did they misfire? But the intent was crystal, holos of the Helm clear. A wave. A cheery grin. And those silent weapons, military might unused. Not a terrorist then. But what? Not a friend of the Republic. Friends didn’t try and scare you.

  Not unless there wasn’t any other option. And it was always better to have friends than enemies.

  The two missiles overshot the Republic building too, not following the Tyche in her tight turn around the building. PDCs mounted on the side of the Tyche reached out to those missiles, turned them into flying scrap. Another curious point the Republic would note: their own police misusing weapons in the heart of a city, but a supposed terrorist working to protect the citizens. If the Tyche survived what was coming, these details would be put on the scales of justice. If her crew were lucky, they wouldn’t be found wanting.

  The Tyche had all the attention in the world, the eyes of the Republic focused on her hull. She did another circuit of the building, fusion drives burning away from the tower, thrusters keeping her in a slow slide around the circumference of the tower. And then, because Chronos wouldn’t wait longer, her turning thrusters lined her up for the south and west of the city. The ship tipped, nose to the dirt, Endless Drive creating negative space energy, pushing against gravity. Thrusters pushing from the other side, building thrust, a roar of light and sound.

  Then she flattened out, Endless Drive off, drives hot, and she shot off across the city. Fighters scrambled from the tower, the Republic military giving chase. The policing vessels were sidelined. Orders given, this no longer a policing matter, those services no longer required. Yes, the Tyche would be brought to justice. And this time, the dogs of war followed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “SERIOUSLY, NATE. HOW would I know what’s in there?” Grace gave him a hard stare, but she couldn’t keep it up. Not because he didn’t deserve it, but because he deserved better. “I’m sorry.”

  “I figured because,” said Nate, wiggling his metal fingers in the air, “you know. Sorcery.”

  “It’s science,” said Grace. “It came out of a test tube. Genetic manipulation of a recessive gene set.”

  “Like I said. Sorcery.” He seemed to notice his own hand, pulled it back into a fist, and coughed. “Look, it’s just … impressive, is all.”

  “Well,” said Grace. Impressive. Captain Chevell, no longer scourge of the espers. Maybe he understands, at least a little. “I just got here. Like you. I can tell you a couple things.”

  “Shoot.”

  “There are Ezeroc in there. I guess more than one or two. Looking at the human batteries embedded in the walls—”

  “We’ll need to fix that,” said Nate.

  “Later. Human batteries in the walls, well, it means we’ve got another Queen.” Grace frowned. “Nate, you don’t know what it’s like. In your mind? Hard like rain, soft like fire.”

  “That makes zero sense.”

  “It’s not meant to make sense, Nate. They’re aliens.” Grace frowned. “There’s no words, okay? Just, if I go all crazy, knock me out.”

  “You seem fine.” He checked his blaster, not meeting her eyes. She picked up denial/no/no. “Like you’ve learned tricks since last time.”

  “I’m a quick study, but I’m not my father,” said Grace. “He was a master. Telepathy was his strong ally. Power walked at his side. He was—”

  “Grace.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Grace,” said Nate. He put a hand on her arm, and she realized the fist of that arm was clenched tight around the hilt of her sword. The blade raised, stabbing the air. He spoke, soft and gentle, as he leaned close to her. “He was an asshole.”

  She laughed. Oh God, how she needed that, the release shaking her shoulders. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah. Okay, so there’s bugs in there. How you figure you’ll go with that sword?” He let her arm go, fingers lingering for a second. A promise of what could be, if only they could survive the next ten minutes. Or hour. Or day.

  She turned the sword in her hand. “I have to fight closer than I’d like. I don’t know. The drones? I’m guessing that’ll be a challenge, but possible.”

  “What about the crabs?”

  “Crabs?”

  “Big fuckers. Armored.”

  “Those guys,” said Grace. “Hmm. Could cut off a leg or two with a longer sword, but…”

  “Yeah. Go low,” said Nate. “The top’s harder than the hull of a starship. Belly’s a little softer.” He gestured with his blaster. “One of these is
good enough from underneath. On top? Ship weapons, maybe, but a blaster…” His voice trailed off. “Still. What are the odds of them having one of the crabs?”

  “High,” said Grace. She pointed at the door. “You ready?”

  “Born ready,” said Nate. He paused, looked at his metal hand. “Well. There was that one time—”

  “Close enough,” said Grace, and kicked the door open.

  • • •

  Inside was a larger room than she’d been expecting. She’d been expecting another corridor, another man in black, and more human batteries. The organic tendrils were here, conduits from the Ezeroc’s food leading across the floor and through another wall. In the middle of the room was a chair. There were lights set about it, but far from being helpful at illuminating the room they seemed only to serve the purpose of isolating the chair’s occupant from the rest of the area. They presented a deeper contrast from an island of illumination to the gloom.

  The chair’s occupant? Amedea. She was beaten bloody, bruised, head lolling to one side. Organic material tethered her to the chair like ropes, binding her arms behind her and keeping her immobile. The leader of the Resistance had been in the enemy’s custody, and they had not been gentle with her.

  This raised interesting questions for another time, the prime of which was: if the Republic had raided the Resistance base, and Amedea was here in an Ezeroc outpost, did that mean the Republic was riddled with Ezeroc agents? Men in black, controlling the minds of the humans around them? Slipping cockroaches into the bloodstream of influential people, eating at their brains, and becoming heads of state?

  An interesting question, but one for another time, because of the four other occupants of the room. Ezeroc drones stood, one in each corner. They were like statues as Grace burst into the room, Nate on her heels. Like statues, until one of Amedea’s eyes opened. It wasn’t a good eye, blood dripping into it, but it was an eye that would open. Amedea spoke one word: “Run.”

  And that was when the Ezeroc drones stopped being immobile, an audible hiss sounding from them. The menace of that sound made Grace feel like they were surrounded, the door behind them slipping closed. Sure, they could go back out that way, but that’s not why they were here. They were here to find the center of this corruption. Cut it out by plasma or steel or both.

  She felt fear’s cold kiss. A righteous fear, because last time she’d come to the Ezeroc, they had pushed her mind low and taken her body over. They wanted her. Nate’s voice came to her, and it was like feeling warm on a beach, waves lapping at her toes. “Grace? Remember, we’re not outnumbered.”

  “Nate, there are four of them.”

  He laughed. “We’re not outnumbered, Grace. We’ve just got a wider selection of targets.” She stole a look at him, wanting to keep eyes on the four Ezeroc but unable to help herself. He stood tall, blaster out, gold fingers clenched around the grip of the weapon. Standing like he owned the room, like he was comfortable here. Captain Nathan Chevell, of the Emperor’s Black. She could see it now, the man behind the mask.

  Her shoulders relaxed. If he was comfortable here, and he was comfortable with her — the nasty inside of her, the esper that everyone else feared — then she was comfortable too. “More targets,” she said.

  Grace! Grace! Grace! Grace!

  “Don’t listen to them, Grace,” rasped Amedea.

  Nate looked sideways at Amedea, then to Grace. “What’s she talking about?” One of the Ezeroc peeled itself away from the wall, scuttling towards them, and Nate pointed his blaster at it. He squeezed the trigger, blowing it into a shower of burning meat. “I can’t hear a thing.”

  “They’re in my mind,” said Grace. “Under my skin.”

  “So, Grace Gushiken.” He pointed his blaster at one of the remaining Ezeroc drones. “Go get under their skin.”

  She felt the blade in her hand, short but still sharp. Okay, then. Under the skin it is. She ran towards Amedea, because if she was Ezeroc with bait in a trap she’d want to nip off any problems from said bait in the bud. It was wise she’d chosen that direction because one of the Ezeroc was speeding towards Amedea, claws stretched out. Those long limbs, with their sharp serrated edge and stabbing points. Grace kept running, right past Amedea, and towards the Ezeroc. She ducked under its slicing arms, dropping to her knees and sliding on the smooth floor of the warehouse. Her sword held up, she pulled it in a sharp arc, the length of the blade not the elegant length she was used to. But long enough, a limb sliced free from the Ezeroc to clatter against the floor next to her. She heard a hiss from the thing, the odor of it all around her, a kind of rotten cinnamon, unlike any Earth scent. The Ezeroc didn’t pause, just swinging those claws at her, and she rolled sideways. Grace turned the roll into a rise, coming to her feet a couple meters away from the thing. It opened its mandibles at her, then came for her on the remaining five legs.

  Perfect. Just what she was waiting for.

  Rather than trying for distance — her sword wouldn’t allow it — she came in close. Like a dance partner. Like a lover. Her sword started low and finished high, the Ezeroc coming to a stumbling halt, those mandibles clacking above her once, twice, then no more. Her sword had scribed through the front of the Ezeroc’s exoskeleton, opening the shell. Steaming insides pushed through the breach, then fell out in a rush. The Ezeroc clattered to the floor, back two legs kicking the air.

  Grace turned back to Amedea. She hadn’t noticed it while she was fighting the Ezeroc, but Nate had blown the other two Ezeroc into smoking fragments, still standing where she’d left his side. He was turning in a slow circle, checking the room for hostiles. Not like there was anywhere to hide, but she liked that about him. Thorough. Professional. A protector.

  You’ve never had someone have your back before, Grace. It feels good.

  She turned the sword’s edge against Amedea’s bonds, severing the organic substance. It parted like hemp, the material warm to the touch. Now that’s disturbing. She came around to face Amedea. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

  “You,” said Amedea. She licked her lips, tried again. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “Hey, you wanted us to come save your friends, remember?” said Nate.

  “That was before.” Amedea was trying to stand. “Before I knew.”

  Grace was checking out Amedea, patting down her body and her clothes. She was looking for punctures, because that’s how they got into you. She found nothing.

  “Knew what?” said Nate.

  “Everything,” said Amedea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  NATE LOOKED AT the piles of Ezeroc remains — some on fire, courtesy of his blaster, and one just plain ol’ steaming, courtesy of Grace. He cocked his head at Amedea. “What do you mean by, ‘everything?’”

  “Captain,” said Amedea, looking away from Grace, but not to Nate. She was staring at the door they hadn’t opened yet. “You have to realize. We thought … I thought we were dealing with subversives at the top.”

  “We’re not?” said Nate. “What the fuck are we doing then?”

  “The subversives are at the top,” said Amedea, “but they invited something else in. It didn’t even have to knock. They went looking. And now we’re all damned.”

  “The Ezeroc,” said Grace, her gaze turning towards the door as well.

  “Hey,” said Nate. He pointed his blaster at the door. “Is something going to come through that door and try and eat our faces?” He caught the looks Amedea and Grace gave him. “What?”

  “You don’t hear them?” said Grace. “Not at all?”

  “Hear what?” said Nate. “I mean, you’re freaking me out here.” He tried to make a joke of it, then realized it was true. Shit. “I’ll go open the door. It’ll be, I don’t know, a broom closet or something.” He stamped over to the door — leg still step-squeeeeaking as he went. He grabbed the handle and gave it a yank. The door opened, and behind it was an Ezeroc drone, hissing and lunging at him. Bright plasma impacted against it,
tearing it in half, pieces falling into the room beyond. Nate looked down at his metal hand holding his blaster, and thought, Man, I don’t remember pulling the trigger. In the brief silence that followed, he checked the room out. Similar size to the one they found Amedea in. Otherwise empty, if you didn’t count the tendrils leading down through a trapdoor set in the floor. The trapdoor wasn’t tiny; it was huge, and it was open, and it was dark inside. Nate turned back to Grace and Amedea. “Okay, so it’s not a broom closet.” They were staring at him. “What?”

  “They don’t … effect your mind?” said Amedea. “Make you want to do things?”