His cabin was underneath the flight deck, spacious by the standards of the rest of the ship. It had windows that looked out over the forest they’d landed in. It was the same view they’d have on the flight deck, without the holo in the middle of it all, and without El complaining about one damn thing or another. In his mind’s eye, his bunk was undisturbed — call that a wash, because he’d been thrashing about it in it for a good couple hours. His personal terminal was off. The old sea chest at the end of his bunk was closed, two leather straps fastened and a third just looking like it was clasped, because it was broken. His wardrobe — hah, as if that’s what you’d call a thing with so few clothes and only one pair of boots — stood closed.
Nate opened his eyes. Status.
Holo, still off. Not that it would matter, there were just messages on there, and Nate assumed messages sent over the air were being read by everyone anyway. That kind of thinking had kept him alive more often than not.
Sea chest, still closed. Two clasps, shut, but the third broken one was loose, at an angle from where it should have been. Someone had either opened it and put it back wrong, or been unable to open it. Something to check.
Wardrobe, closed, but the door not lining up right with the frame. That could have been the work of the refit just as much as tampering, but it’d also bear looking in to.
He dropped into a crouch in front of the sea chest, flicking the clasps open. They released with satisfying thunks. The lid yawned with the smell of sandalwood, and inside were some things he expected to see and one he did not. Also, a thing was missing. Some personal effects, a vanishing few for a man who’d served on the Emperor’s Black for more years than most survived. A couple of still holos, one his metal fingers found as if by themselves. A picture of him with a young man — they were both young men when the shot was taken. Dom, what would you have thought of this ship of fools I’ve built? A necklace made for him by a woman who was dead. Annemarie would have laughed at him, shut the lid of the sea chest, and told him to put away his childish things.
She might have remarked on the loss of the sword. That was the thing that was missing.
She might not, just as easily. Annemarie was never much interested in the things the Emperor’s Black kept about their persons. But Dom? He would have remarked on it. He’d given Nate that sword. Dom had told Nate sorry, I know it doesn’t make up for losing a hand or a leg, but it’s the least I can offer. Like Nate hadn’t failed him; it was before both of them knew failure would cost an Empire. Nate wasn’t there at the end. No arm, no leg, a sword he couldn’t swing anymore, and a discharge on top. Honorably, but it never felt that way.
Nate shook his head. Some fucker had taken his sword.
The unexpected thing was a data sliver. He picked it out and slotted it into his console. It hummed to life, and Grace Gushiken burst into life on the holo. She was looking over her shoulder, like she was doing something she shouldn’t, before looking back at the recorder.
Nate sighed. Goddamn it. He stood, shutting the chest, as Grace spoke. “Nate? Nate, we’re missing something here. We’re … I’ve got to find out. They’re speaking to me, Nate. They’re whispering. In my head. I can’t get them out.”
He turned away from the holo, taking the few steps needed to open the wardrobe. Inside, his Emperor’s Black was hung neat and crisp. It was also jumbled about, but any number of things between when he’d last opened this wardrobe and now could have done that. El flying at supersonic speeds while dodging rocks was one. But it meant Grace knew, and that wasn’t helpful, because she was a fucking esper, and some things couldn’t be trusted to people like that. She’d have one over on him now. Something to bargain with. You tell them about me, and I’ll tell them about you. It had happened before.
The holo was still speaking. “I know this doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense to me. I needed a weapon, and so I’ve … I’ve borrowed yours. I’ll bring it back. I promise. And then we can talk. Because we need to talk.” And then the holo went dark, like a memory, gone like the faded tatters of his dream.
In a way, it was good news. She was out there on a planet infested by aliens. As they would have said back in the day, that’s a problem that will solve itself. Nate ran a hand over his face — the hand that was still human, still made of flesh and blood — and sighed. The problem was that Dom would have taken him to task about that. He’d set up the Intelligencers, because he believed they were an asset, not a problem. He’d died for it, of course, but he’d still believed. Annemarie would have touched his chest, where the necklace used to sit, leaned close, and said you need to get the girl, Nathan Chevell. You’ve always needed to get the girl.
• • •
“Captain,” said Penn, “we need to—”
“Sit the fuck down, Penn,” said Nate. “Sit the fuck down, and stop talking for a second.” They were in the ready room. Hope was there, still finishing breakfast or lunch or whatever the hell it was at this time of day. She was eating with gusto, like she hadn’t eaten for about three days, and that could well be true. El was standing against the wall connecting to the flight deck, arms crossed, poker face on — and she could play a mean hand of poker. No Kohl, because a machine was still pumping him full of nutrients and antibiotics. No Grace, because she’d left the Goddamn ship, with his sword, and would get her fool self killed.
With his sword.
The Rear Admiral’s lips went into a tight line, the blood pressed out of them. Nate figured he was building for a powerful rage, and it was best to cut that off. “First, before you say anything, you need to know the situation you’re in here. Number one on the list is that you’re on my ship. If you ever don’t want to be on my ship, you let me know, and you can get off. Hell, we’ll even help you off. Right here. Right now.”
“Your gorilla is in medbay,” said Penn. “You can’t—”
Nate’s laugh cut him off. “Oh, Penn. If you think I need Kohl to throw a little trash off my ship, you’ve been reading the wrong files about me.”
“I didn’t—”
“Second thing, and this is an ordered list, is that we are not leaving this rock until we get my sword back.” Nate caught the glance from Hope, and the glance from El, even through her poker face.
“What sword?” said El.
“What about Grace?” said Hope.
“Captain,” said Penn, “I can buy you another sword.”
“Not like this, Penn. Nothing like this.” Nate cleared his throat. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You can stay here. Hell, all of you will stay here. I will go out, and I’ll get my sword back.” There was a small whine as he unclenched his metal hand. “If I’m not back, Penn, and this is number three on the list, El and Hope will take you out of here.”
“Cap—” started El.
“Hell no—” said Hope.
“That’s reasonable—” said Penn.
“All of you,” said Nate, “need to be quiet. This is not a democracy. This is not a committee. This is my ship. In five hours, Absalom will have turned enough to bring us under the eye of that fucking Ezeroc ship. Therefore, in four hours the Tyche will leave, whether or not I am back on board with my sword. I have already locked Helm control, because I know that Penn will want to use some form of coercion on you all.”
“I wouldn’t—” started Penn.
“It will unlock,” said Nate, “in four hours. In four hours,” and here, he looked at El, “you will take off. El? You hear me good. You get my family out of here.”
She looked down at her crossed arms. “Okay,” she said.
“I can live with these terms,” said Penn.
“You’re still acting like it’s a negotiation,” said Nate. “It’s not. It’s just the way it is.”
Hope was still sitting, mouth half-open, eyes wide. A strand of pink hair had fallen over one of her eyes. “Oh,” she said, after a long moment. “Oh. You’re going to get Grace.”
“If Grace is still attached to my swor
d, sure,” said Nate. “Otherwise, no.”
Hope bounced from her seat, came over to him, and then stopped all in a rush. She leaned forward, and whispered in his ear. “I knew it.”
“It’s not that,” said Nate, but he spoke quietly too, because he wasn’t sure about much right now. He needed more sleep, and all he had was stims. They’d have to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The sword in her hand was foreign, just like this planet.
Breath loud, harsh inside her helmet. Grace was running, her feet trampling through plants that looked like they could be at home on Earth. She’d been to Earth, spent time there, none of it on a nature trail, but she’d seen holos. Ferns whipped past her legs, creepers draped low to touch at her helmet, the noise of them drumming like fingers against her skull. All so similar, but so strange — the plants growing lower than felt right under a little more gravity, a gene splice here or there giving leaves a strange color, or a strange shape.
Now she was moving, she had purpose. Sitting around on the Tyche wasn’t for her. They’d been waiting to die, huddled against the ground. A prize for the Ezeroc to snatch at a time of their choosing. Grace knew they were coming, because the voices in her head wouldn’t stop. They got louder, and louder, and more insistent.
When she was younger, Grace had been taught how to be still. How to quiet her mind, so her feelings wouldn’t brim over to the people around her. They called her esper, but they also called her mongrel. Her father’s eyes had turned hard and cold when she had shown her gifts to be less than his. He had been twisted into something beautiful by science, and she was an apple fallen too far from the tree. Grace couldn’t argue with his reasoning, because she was always buffeted by the feelings of the people who walked next to her, each alone in their own heads, each shouting as loud as they could within the bone walls of their skulls. Wanting to be heard, but unable to speak.
She could hear people’s feelings, but not the words. Her father had heard their voices, and could speak to them. He had served the Empire, he said, until the Empire was unworthy of his service. Then he had pulled it down.
They called her esper, but she was twice damned. To carry the stigma of it, the hated stares the deaf and mute used against her kind. By the same token, damned to be almost a hikikomori, closed off, mute in her own mind. Able to listen, and only to the partial meaning. Unable to speak.
Until Absalom. Until now.
She couldn’t speak, but these words filled her mind. Her name, spoken so clear and bright. Not even her father had been able to speak to her like this.
Grace needed to know who was speaking. With borrowed steel, she left the Tyche’s lights behind her.
• • •
Grace had always exercised. Before the fighting it had been the joy of kata. Before kata it had been running wild and free, just out of the grasping reach of a parent’s fingers. As her frame had grown longer, leaner, she’d kept the speed, used the drills to keep her mind and body sharp.
It was hard, on a spacecraft, to keep fit. To be fit, to move, to dance. Running was a particular discipline that was challenging when your entire world was only a hundred meter lap.
Even so, she ran. She ran until she was sick. Grace ran until her throat burned. She ran, because she could only hear one thing, and the sound of her ragged breathing helped to drown it out.
Grace.
Together.
Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace.
• • •
She was climbing a hill now, the sword in her hand heavy. Grace knew she should toss it aside, because she wouldn’t need it when she got to the voice.
Grace!
But her body wanted to hold it, so she held it. Her body knew what it was for.
When she was learning the drills, kendo forms learned at the feet of the best sensei money and influence could buy, her body was too small to hold the bokken they’d given her. She’d asked for a smaller one, and been told that her enemies wouldn’t bow to her size. There had been many lessons about how, for all that her chin jutted out against the wisdom of her betters, she would always be smaller than someone else. Weaker. They’d said this while their minds whispered things like mongrel/avoid/hate at her. Those had been lessons too.
So she kept the sword, gloved hand firm around the scabbard as she ran.
• • •
The tower reached up out of the forest ahead of her, set atop the hill like a spike. It was dark; she could see it only by the stars it blotted out through breaks in the trees. It’s where the voice was.
Grace.
Together.
There were things rumbling in the dark about her, massive shapes that were more shadow than creature. They rasped at her and at each other in what might have been language.
It could also be hunger making them gnash their mandibles.
Smaller things that rustled in the brushwood chittered and scattered before the lights of her suit. She wanted to take her helmet off to breathe easier, to feel the cold night air on the sweat beading her skin. But to take off her helmet, she’d need both hands, and that would mean dropping the sword. Her body wanted the sword, so instead she ran.
There were lights, readouts in her visor that spoke of oxygen levels and lactate buildups and adrenaline. They’d be there after she spoke with the voice, so she ignored them for now. Plenty of time for that … after.
Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace!
She clambered up the rise, bursting into a cleared area at the base of the tower. The tower reached to the sky, a communications facility for speaking to the stars. The kind of thing that would transmit to the Guild Bridge. Messages of comfort could be sent home if you had a family who didn’t think of you as mongrel/hated/lesser. Grace had used facilities like this to lie and cheat and steal.
There was a chain link fence with razor wire set at the top. The chain link was old, rusted, and the razor wire broken and missing. Something huge had trampled it all down, making for easy access to the tower. Grace walked over the flattened fence, her boots crunching on an old sign. REPUBLIC SCIENCE FACILITY ABSALOM DELTA. Above and below that were the words INTRUDERS WILL BE EXECUTED.
She paused. Science facility guards generally didn’t shoot people for getting too close. Black ops sites, now those shot at people. Grace looked back at the forest behind her. She saw a massive insect creature standing almost 3 meters tall, looking back at her. One of the Ezeroc, guarding her passage.
Or preventing her escape.
Grace.
Together!
The rust on the fence spoke of an age well beyond the Ezeroc’s week-long infestation of this planet. Whatever had happened here had been long ago. She’d missed the action, and that was just fine. There were turrets at the base of the tower, dark and quiet, barrels pointed down or plain missing.
The tower itself was larger than she’d been expecting, moss and lichen of the woods creeping up the walls. The forest wanted to claim it for its own. The structure tapered towards the top, but here at the base it was a hundred meters a side, easy. It was no simple comm tower like she’d thought. She wanted to rub her head to clear it. But to do that she’d need to take off her helmet. To take off her helmet, she’d need to put down Nate’s sword.
Nate.
She’d taken his sword, and she couldn’t remember why.
• • •
She’d stepped inside the tower with ease. The doors were massive, vaulted metal, on the floor inside. They’d been torn off and tossed aside like paper. To do that, you’d need some kind of industrial equipment.
Inside was a confusion of equipment amid a jumble of bones that might have been people once. Shells, hard casings from fallen Ezeroc. All covered in vines, moss, fungus. Holos stages were dark, their consoles inert. No people, and nothing automated minding the facility.
Grace.
She looked up at the voice, coming from above her now. She’d have to climb.
One of the Ezeroc came out of the darkness, a warrior d
rone. She felt it had come to collect her, to take her to the top, to be—
Together.
—with the voice. Those fore claws reached for her, and she wanted to close her eyes and just be. Be with something that wanted her. That wanted her. For just a minute, just a second, just a moment between thoughts, to be where she was needed, desirable.
Her body didn’t want that. It didn’t want that at all.
Where her mind was confused, her body was sure. Where her mind wandered, her body had the certainty of the drills. The sword she carried whispered free of the scabbard, the blade making one perfect cut as it crossed up, and another as she spun, bringing it on a reverse path back again. The Ezeroc’s fore claws fell to the ground, followed soon after by its head.
She stood in the silence, something dripping from the end of her blade in the darkness.
When she’d found the sword in Nate’s cabin—
Who is Nate?
Grace.
Together…
—she’d been so surprised. He hadn’t moved like a swordsman, all cocky show and a chin that jutted against authority just like hers. He’d fired a blaster. And yet, he owned a sword, with a blade black as obsidian. Gold circuitry inlaid the hilt, a motif or actual technology, impossible to tell. It was beautiful and strange. The balance of the blade was wrong in her hand, like it didn’t want her to know it, but it went with her nonetheless.
When her bare hand had closed around the hilt on the Tyche, the voices in her head had grown quieter, but out here with her suit on, they became more insistent, still scratching at her mind with sharp little claws. On the Tyche she’d been able to think, and so she’d gone hunting. Now she was here the voices were louder, the scratching more insistent, the claws not so little.
Grace looked up again. “Together, huh?” It helped to talk out loud. To speak words not just in her mind. “No problem. Together it is.” She found a stairwell, the door ajar, and climbed.
Tyche's Flight (Tyche's Journey Book 1) Page 20
