Tyche's Chosen

by Richard Parry

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The End of War

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Enjoy this book? You can change the world!

  About the Author

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  EXCERPT: TYCHE'S HOPE

  The Job of a Lifetime

  TYCHE'S CHOSEN

  Richard Parry

  TYCHE'S CHOSEN copyright © 2018 Richard Parry.

  Cover design copyright © 2018 Mondegreen.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9951090-1-8

  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 John, who seems to do all the giving around here. Not to mention, the work.

  THE END OF WAR

  THE SMELL OF charred circuitry wasn’t a perfume El liked to wear.

  That’s what the bridge smelled of: charred circuitry and fear. They were running dark, sensor net tucked in nice and close, not a blip or marker to give away their presence. That usually wasn’t enough, so Xavier Wadle — the Nostradamus’ captain, and all-around tight-ass — had ordered them to hunker in next to Shyke Alpha. El spared a glance out the forward windows, and was rewarded with a reminder of where they were: in a pit of fire.

  This particular pit of fire was about forty-five million kilometers out from the Shyke system’s star, the yellow sun blasting them with enough heat and pure radiation to make the Nostradamus’ hull glow a burnished red. Above them — because El’s primate brain still wanted an up to go with a down even out here in the hard black — was Shyke Alpha, a burnt cinder of a world. Nothing down there but rock melted so many times it looked like black glass. And here they were, drifting between Shyke and its first planet, sensor grid down, hoping no one would notice them.

  It was a good plan. El wished she’d thought of it herself.

  As long as they didn’t fire up an active sensor, they were fine. The heat bleeding off their hull wouldn’t look out of place. And that right there was why they were still alive. While Captain Tight-Ass looked hot and sweaty, the man had a functional tactical mind, and that tactical mind was well aligned with El’s: do not get noticed, and thus do not get gunned down.

  Being gunned down was a material risk. They were at war, after all. The Republic — as they fancied themselves now, because labels like rebel and traitorous assholes didn’t swing the popular vote so well — were swinging for the fences. El didn’t know where the rest of the Empire’s damn fleet was, but it sure as shit wasn’t here in the Shyke system. What was here in the Shyke system was the Republic shipyard Vaeclite, named that way because some other asshole wanted a place everyone had to spellcheck before sending off official memos. Vaeclite was their target, orbiting around the terraformed blue-green orb that was Shyke Gamma. Also orbiting around Shyke Gamma were Captain Tight-Ass’s problems: the Ramses and the Manticore. Big destroyers, full of anger and justice for the enemies of the Republic.

  El adjusted the straps of her acceleration couch, checking the Helm controls in front of her. Still nominal, her holo giving the occasional flicker as taxed systems weathered the storm of fire and radiation bleeding off Shyke’s star. The downside of hiding here, if there was a downside to survival, was that with the sensor grid down, a ship could snuggle right up alongside them and they’d never know. The ol’ Mark One Eyeball was the extent of their sensor grid, and crew had faces pressed against every available viewport.

  There was a deep, sustained groan from the Nostradamus that El felt through the insulating gimbals of her acceleration couch. Her eyes snapped up, taking in the perspiring face of Wadle, then doing their own walk across to Comms. Sheri Cass was manning the station on this shift, face as sweaty as the rest of them. The good news, if there was some in this torrid mess, was that the Empire flight suits they all wore — jet black, gold falcon on the breast to mirror the design tall and firm on the floor of the bridge — were designed for vacuum. No underarm sweat circles in sight, just a lot of sweaty faces. Those faces, like El’s, showed fear.

  “Comms? Report,” said Wadle.

  Sheri leaned in on her holo, her face an expression of concentration-meets-concern. Like she was trying to use the power of her mind to change the readout. “Sir. Thermal load’s too high. We’re fighting a battle here. Shipping the heat out as fast as it comes in.” Duh. Like that was news. Parking next to a sun? Fine for short durations. Hiding next to a sun for days at a time? Risky, even with the best tech the Empire had to offer.

  “Status?”

  “Hours.” Sheri wiped her face again. “Best guess. Engineering thinks the heat transfer system will give up about then. Or we’ll lose a reactor under the load.”

  “Very well,” said Captain Tight-Ass. El did not think hours was very well, but she figured the captain needed to put on a face like he knew what was going on. She hoped he had a Plan B. “Helm?”

  Here comes the Plan B. “Sir.”

  “Lieutenant Roussel, chart a course. We’re taking the fight to them.” Xavier Wadle stood unbowed. She knew his type. By the book, up to and including trying to finish the mission, even if the mission meant everyone would die.

  “Sir,” said El. “Sir?”

  “What is it, Helm?”

  Captain Tight-Ass was not a man who dealt well with people questioning his orders, so the trick here was to see if she could alter the odds while doing what she was told. “Sir, if I may. We’re two on one—”

  “The Empire’s best is more than enough for rebel villains,” said Wadle.

  “Aye, aye, sir. Of course. I’m thinking about the next mission, sir. Minimizing the damage. We’ll take them down, make no mistake. But the Nostradamus will wear scars. What if she could come through this with nothing but notches on her belt? Not a scratch on the hull, and two more Republic destroyers to our credit.”

  “You know I don’t like that term,” said Wadle. El winced inwardly — the use of ‘Republic’ might have been ill-advised — but she kept her face calm. Wadle looked outside the bridge windows, taking in the glowing hull. “What did you have in mind, Helm?”

  • • •

  The plan was simple. The first step was to drop a little Fury Sand.

  That wasn’t its real name. Fury Sand was the Navy’s nickname for a storm of sleeper mines. You didn’t drop one or two at a time. Fury Sand dropped in clouds. Each mine was about the size of a watermelon, with small guidance thrusters on the surface. They’d be remote initiated by the Nostradamus’ Tactical officer, a young man named Leland Sumner. Sumner looked how El felt: terrified and tired.
But he was jacked up on stims, hands on his console, setting up the Fury Sand drop.

  The second step was to light up the rails, accelerating metal to a significant percentage of C. Leland was most nervous about this, because El had said you need to let me know where you’re firing that grapeshot and he’d said space is big so she’d said if you don’t get it right we’ll all die. Sumner would point the Nostradamus’ rail guns at the hard black and pull the trigger. A gift over space and time. All El had to do was to make sure someone was at the other end.

  The third step was to go make some noise. El was good at making noise.

  Wadle settled himself into the captain’s acceleration couch. “Comm?”

  Sheri nodded. “Sir. I’m ready.”

  “Tactical?”

  Sumner’s hands shook a little. “Weapons are go. Firing solution online. I still don’t think—”

  “Captain Wadle,” said El. “Helm is ready for jump.”

  “Roussel,” said the captain. He offered her a tired smile. It was the first time she could remember him smiling at her. JFC, we might die. “On my mark, everyone. And I’d just like to say … it’s been an honor and a pleasure.”

  Christ, we are going to die. El frowned. Her plan was good. It was good! She didn’t know why Captain Tight-Ass was getting maudlin. His plan would have left the Nostradamus cored by nuclear fire. At least El’s plan had a good thirty percent chance of survival.

  Maybe he needed a stim. She didn’t know when he’d last slept. He’d always been on the Bridge when she came on duty. Best thing a Bridge officer could do in a time like this was be professional. “Aye, aye, sir. On your mark. Helm is ready.”

  “Comm?” said Wadle.

  “Message is good to go when we egress jump.”

  “Mr. Sumner,” said Wadle. “If you would be so kind.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Sumner’s fingers paused for the briefest moment as they hovered over his console. El watched him close his eyes, lips moving. Then the young officer opened his eyes, initiating the firing solution.

  The Nostradamus came alive around them. The sensor net re-engaged, RADAR and LIDAR sweeping the void. The Bridge’s holo came live with telemetry, planets and asteroids being kind enough to confirm they were just where they should have been. The Nostradamus had fifteen railgun mounts on the port side, and she pivoted those towards a particular piece of sky. The big destroyer shook as the rails fired into the hard black. El couldn’t help but watch. The glowing of the hull outside, the rail guns shouting at the darkness, fire raging down their lengths as they accelerated slugs to a third of the speed of light. Each railgun fired ten times each, each shot fired at a slightly different position in space.

  In the brief silence that followed, El knew that the Nostradamus was spilling Fury Sand into the void, a great expanding cloud of mines. She had their location bookmarked on her holo. Don’t go anywhere. We’ll be right back.

  “Helm?” said Wadle, after the mines had been deployed. “You are cleared for jump.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said El. She keyed her console, bringing up the charted course. She breathed in once, twice, then initiated the jump. Space outside the Bridge windows stretched, pulled, and El felt—

  The sweat on her face, fine droplets of radiant beauty. The ship suit around her, a comforting companion in her trip through the glory of the universe. The Bridge officers around her, points of wonder and delight. 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 Nostradamus’ cockpit.

  They jumped.

  • • •

  Post jump, they shuddered into place outside the Guild Bridge. It was stationed out past Shyke Gamma. The hull still glowed bright against the hard black, bleeding heat into the void.

  Sheri Cass opened the communications array. “This is the Empire destroyer Nostradamus, seeking peaceful surrender of all hostile forces in the Shyke system. We have the Ramses and Manticore on scan. Please comply.”

  With some luck, those Republic assholes would think they dropped in from the Guild Bridge and send one of the two guarding destroyers to meet them. Wadle nodded to Sumner. The Tactical officer worked his console, then said, “Firing.”

  The Nostradamus opened up on the Guild Bridge, torpedoes streaking across the hard black. In less than a minute that immense ring of metal would be an expanding cloud of wreckage. Anything they could do to keep the enemy guessing was a plus, and if one of those destroyers arrived out here and had to wrestle with a debris cloud, that wouldn’t be a terrible thing.

  “Time to go,” said Wadle. “Stims, people. Helm?”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said El. Second jump in as many minutes. They’d be high on Jesus after this, or down like a crashed addict. She cracked open a stim, pasting the sickly fluid across her gums. The stims would help with the post jump effects. They would make her jittery, but that was preferable to depression or elation. Either of those two would lead to an increased likelihood of death. She dropped the stim tube into her station’s receptacle, then keyed the jump controls. Again, space outside the Bridge windows stretched, pulled, and El felt—

  Xavier, a warm and friendly father at her back. Sumner, his fear bleeding into peace as the jump caressed his mind. Sheri, head bowed in awe at the wonder of creation. The Nostradamus, gentle guardian to their fortunes, humming with the thrill of the hunt. 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 Nostradamus’ cockpit.

  They jumped.

  • • •

  Vaeclite was a sprawling array of metal and ceramicrete, a giant shipyard for constructing the Republic’s warships. It hung like a jewel above Shyke Gamma, tiny lifters and shuttles traveling in a seemingly endless stream to and fro. The Nostradamus reached out RADAR and LIDAR, mapping the visible environment. The Bridge’s holo stage updated as each of those tiny ships was tagged and bagged, tonnage and likely ordnance noted.

  The smallest part of Vaeclite was the habitat, where about twenty thousand souls lived. The rest of it was designed for constructing starships weighing millions of tonnes. A partially-completed carrier was attached to spires stretching out klicks from the habitat. The Nostradamus had no data on the ship under construction, but it didn’t matter. To El’s eye, the ship had none of the important parts like a reactor or weapons. It was a target, not a problem.

  The good news? The Manticore was nowhere in sight. The Nostradamus’ database said the Manticore was over six million tonnes, ten decks, and had a fire-first-so-I-don’t-need-to-ask-questions kind of captain. The bad news? The Ramses was still in orbit, and it was also six million tonnes, ten decks, with a captain who was pure attitude from boots to bad hair cut.

  “Jump clean,” said El.

  “Systems ready,” reported Sumner.

  “We’ve got an Endless signature,” said Sheri. “Looks like the Manticore jumped away.”

  “Fire,” said Wadle. “For the Emperor. For Earth. Fire!”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Sumner. The Nostradamus shook as the rails — starboard side this time for a little variety — opened up. The hull, now a dull cherry red, thrummed and vibrated as the rail guns delivered a promise of death towards the Ramses and Vaeclite.

  While Sumner was raising all kinds of ruckus, El initiated thrust with the ship’s fusion drives. Nuclear fire blazed from the rear of the Nostradamus, pushing the big destroyer on a hard burn. The goal here wasn’t to hit the Ramses with the salvo of railgun shells. They weren’t close enough for that. The Ramses fired up her own drives, lumbering out of the way of their railgun salvo.

  Exactly as planned. The thing about being a captain made of pure attitude — boots to bad haircut — is that it lent you a certain level of predictability. T
he Ramses captain would scream blue murder at his Bridge crew about now, demanding pursuit. Demanding vengeance, and blood, and unleashing the dogs of war. This close to Shyke Gamma, they couldn’t make an Endless jump. They’d have considered the Nostradamus’s arrival as a tactical error, as she couldn’t jump away either. In El’s experience, if you could give up a little attitude for a small margin of intelligence, life was easier on you. Like her own captain; Wadle might have been a tight-ass, but he was a smart tight-ass who didn’t want to die unless it was necessary.

  “Burn is good,” said El. “Three Gs, steady.”

  “Easy as you go, Helm,” said Wadle. “Don’t lose them.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Wasn’t planning to, sir,” said El, but with her teeth gritted more than she probably should have. Wadle didn’t seem to notice, and anyway, there wasn’t time for an apology. There was only time to get the job done.

  The crucial part of the plan was to fly in the Goldilocks zone. If El dropped the hammer on the drives, they’d pull away too fast. The Ramses would wait until the Nostradamus made its Endless jump, then follow. As it was, if they stayed just a nose ahead of their enemy, they might think a conventional pursuit was worthwhile. So far, so good.

  Another important part was not to lose sight of the impending doom flying out from Shyke Alpha. If El screwed up the thrust vector and didn’t lead the Ramses by the nose ring to the right place, they were all fucked. She didn’t mind admitting it: she was nervous at this particular time.

  “Sumner, I’ll need them to come two degrees to port,” said El.

  “On it,” said the Tactical officer. The aft rail guns lit in a mighty salvo. The firing pattern encouraged the Ramses to shift to port rather than starboard by filling the space to starboard with a hail of rounds. The other ship obliged, shuffling sideways, before replying with a launch of torpedoes. It was a smart play, because if she’d been using rails the Nostradamus would have dodged no problem. As it was, the Ramses captain would rub his hands with glee that his enemy’s ship was captained by a chump.