Tyche's Crown

by Richard Parry

  “I hear you,” she said, because she did. He wasn’t an Emperor, because an Emperor wouldn’t go into the hard black after mere crew. Sure, Grace wasn’t just crew, not to Nathan Chevell. But his actions wouldn’t change a whisker of it was El, or Hope, or Kohl out there. Yes, even big dumb Kohl.

  “You done what we talked about?” said Nate.

  “Yeah. I’ve run the drives a little dirty. Hope wasn’t happy, on account of me making her reactor ‘run noisy,’ but we’ll leave footprints in the sand, Cap. I don’t know why you think we should, but there will be a path to follow.”

  “I figure if you’ve got yourself a shiny new emperor, you will go after the emperor come what may. And where we’re going, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

  The comm chirped, startling them both. It was Hope. “We’re in.”

  “Kohl with you?” asked Nate. El noticed he hadn’t asked is Kohl okay, because that would be like asking if water was wet.

  “Here,” came Kohl’s grumble over the comm. “I’m coming up to the ready room to eat something. I might eat everything.”

  El grinned. That was Kohl. And he was a walking miracle, legs working like they’d never been hurt. She thought about the plaque she’d given Hope. Do great things. It was the Guild’s motto. Saying that, El had never met an Engineer like Hope. Not one as good. Not one who did so many great things. She keyed her console, checking the Tyche’s grip on the Torrington. “Blue skies, Cap. We’re good to go.”

  “Hope freed the lockdown?”

  “Looks like,” said El.

  “Never doubted it,” said Nate.

  “Me neither,” said El. “You want to do this fast or you want to do it right?”

  “Helm,” said Nate, “I want to get Grace. I want us to make it alive. And I want to do it in as short a time as possible.”

  “Fast and right,” said El. “What I figured.” She keyed the comm. “Helm to Tyche. Brace for hostile departure.” She clicked it off, then brought the drives online, the slow rumble building through the Tyche, a familiar urgency that said I want to run ahead of the wind; I want to jump the waves. “And … docking releasing.” She keyed the docking release controls, the holo’s DANGER LOCKDOWN DANGER blinking twice before switching to a calm green LAUNCH CLEAR.

  She pulled the nose of the Tyche down and out, swinging her under the Torrington’s vast bulk. El was hopeful the Torrington wouldn’t fire a torpedo at them, but she might aim to maim, using a maser or laser on a drive core. El kept the Tyche kissing-close to the Torrington as she ran them down towards the rear of the destroyer. As they got closer to the aft of the ship, El jammed the throttles to their stops.

  The Tyche roared in delight, hard thrust slamming her back into her acceleration couch, the flight deck shaking around her. Her vision blurred a little as her eyeballs flattened in their sockets as they went past 6Gs of thrust, then hit 7Gs. 8Gs. She needed to claw more speed out of the launch so that once they burst free of the Torrington’s shadow they’d get enough distance to Jump before the destroyer crippled them.

  9Gs. 10. Nate groaned beside her. Or maybe it was El herself. The force was so much she couldn’t breathe. Her jaw felt like it would break off and choke her.

  They cleared the rear of the Torrington so fast if you blinked you’d miss it, and the holo lit with BRACE BRACE BRACE TARGET LOCK BRACE BRACE BRACE. Warning lights hit red, then—

  Her body, so perfect and human. Her soul, once held flat by the girders of her body, soared free. The universe was without limits. She could see everything. She was everything.

  They jumped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  KARKOSKI STOOD ON the bridge like she owned it. Because she did. There wasn’t a high command anymore in the typical sense; the Senate had crumbled into more squabbling than usual, and the Admiralty was sending mixed messages. Those messages were further confused because loyalists — as Karkoski figured it, loyal to her and not the bugs — were launching attacks against entrenched seats of power. Capital buildings were falling. Space battles were unfolding, with great ships gouting flame into the void as humans lost lives by the thousands.

  It was a drop in the bucket if they didn’t get their shit together.

  Her command crew were at their stations: Helm, Tactical, and Communications. There was just one other person with her and the crew: Chad. An Intelligencer she wasn’t sure if she should trust or throw out an airlock, but they saw eye to eye on enough issues. She would keep him around for the time being. The Torrington’s command deck was a standard Republic design; placed closer to the rear of the destroyer, mounted on the ‘top’ if there was such a thing in space. It didn’t make a lot of difference, except that gravity was applied from the ‘bottom.’ Humans needed their norms to function; she knew back in the day they’d made ships that were spheres, others that were discs, some that had limited or no gravity. Others using spin (horrible in combat). All of them failed the human need to know what was up and down, left and right. Humans had evolved on vast plains under skies full of stars; they weren’t designed to sail seas made of those stars.

  Just another thing on the list of human accomplishments. If she wasn’t on her game, that list wouldn’t grow larger. The alien menace would come and destroy them all. It’s why she’d made the gamble, perhaps the biggest of her career. No, the gamble wasn’t taking charge, starting a coup, and subverting the chain of command. If you considered that business-as-usual in wartime was protecting the interests of humanity, she was just taking care of things. There might be an accounting at the end of this. She figured on making it to the Admiralty herself, or being presented with a retirement package in front of a firing squad. A firing squad would be a mercy compared with what was coming for them all.

  No, the gamble was something else.

  The Torrington’s weapon systems came online as Helm and Tactical coordinated to fire on the escaping Tyche. Karkoski was impressed with that little ship. She punched above her weight. It might have had something to do with the crew her captain had corralled together, a collection of misfits who’d never survive military discipline, but who seemed to be just where they were needed, when they were needed. They got the job done.

  Karkoski felt like they had more than their fair share of luck. It would be unfortunate if she’d miscalculated. This was the moment when a prize destroyer of the Republic — the Torrington a new ship, fresh off the mill at the Titan shipyards — would test her weapons against the quick stick and fancy moves of a has-been Helm. Elspeth Roussel had been on a bridge like the Torrington’s, her hands doing work for the Empire, until she’d found herself on the wrong side in a war that ran out of puff. Chevell had found her somewhere — Karkoski wasn’t sure where, or how, or what twist of fate had brought them together — and roped her into doing suicide missions on a heavy lifter. Karkoski was certain Roussel hadn’t signed on for any suicide missions, which made it all the more curious.

  The Tyche should have been mothballed a long time ago. Karkoski hadn’t been able to find her original name, not that it mattered; she wore the new one like she was born to it. Manufactured for this particular crew, at this particular time.

  Karkoski realized she was clenching her fists. She forced herself to relax. The holo stage showed the Torrington’s position in the center, the tiny spec of the Tyche running fast and close under her belly. Delta-v was shown — my, that Helm is pushing the red on this one. It was about the only move available; try and escape the Torrington’s shadow with enough velocity to escape target lock, grab enough time — or, in this case, enough distance over a short period — to engage an Endless Drive. Make the jump before being torn out of the sky, atmosphere venting from a breach in the hull. There was the risk of killing the entire crew through stroking out or hemorrhage with that many Gs, but if your options were maybe die or definitely die then Karkoski was sure she’d want to take the maybe option. It was a roll of the dice, a twist of luck that would decide whether you lived or died.


  Goddamn, she was clenching her hands once more. She made herself relax.

  “Fire at will,” she said, watching the holo.

  “Aye,” said Tactical, the officer working efficient hands over his console. The Tyche burst free from the Torrington’s shadow, and the holo lit bright orange as the Torrington acquired a lock on its prey. Tactical said, “Firing,” and then…

  Nothing. The Tyche had jumped. Karkoski let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, then said, “Helm, track that ship. I want to know where it’s gone, I want to know how long it’ll take to get there.”

  “Aye,” said her Helm, another efficient officer. She looked at Karkoski. “Done. Orders?”

  Orders, indeed. She looked at Chad. “Thoughts?”

  “Hell of a gamble,” he said. “Hell of a risk.”

  “We talked about this before,” said Karkoski. “It’s done. I mean, your thoughts about now. Stay the course?”

  “Yes,” said Chad. “We’re committed.”

  “You still have doubts.”

  “Well,” said Chad, waggling his hand side to side — maybe. “I don’t think I’d have set them up as much. Chevell seems the kind of man you can have a rational conversation with.”

  “There was no rational conversation where you discover that you’re the Emperor,” said Karkoski. “Not when you’ve got crew missing. He is … attached to them.”

  “As you are to yours,” said Chad. Not because he was guessing; the Intelligencer knew. There was no point arguing.

  “It is what makes us similar,” said Karkoski. “In other things, we’re different.”

  “Eh,” said Chad. “You’ve just had more practice. You’ve been an officer a long time. Big crews. Chain of command. You know what’s needed.”

  “I do,” she said. “It’s why he needed a … a little push.”

  “You put your boot on his ass and shoved,” said Chad. “Now you’ve got him on the run. Which is what you wanted. I’m just not sure if the … risk-reward ratio is right.”

  “We’ve made a hero, Chad. The crew on this ship have seen their Emperor jump into danger to save one life. Personal sacrifice. The last Emperor? Never would have done that. If Chevell makes it out of this alive, the stories of this day will spread like a carpet under his feet. He’s now someone people will follow.” She frowned. It had been difficult to ensure that the thug Kohl had encountered so little resistance on his way to freedom. Just enough to make the man work for it, not enough to cause him to fail. The crew he’d encountered would also tell stories: the Emperor already had followers ready to do what must be done. Capable. Committed. The side you wanted to be on. “You’re still concerned he might die?”

  “Fuck yes,” said Chad. “Aren’t you?”

  Karkoski thought about that. “We will bring the storm with us, Chad.”

  “Ships are lost in storms,” said Chad. “Doesn’t matter if it’s a storm of our making.”

  “The storm will come regardless.”

  “It will,” he agreed, looking unhappy about it.

  “So, we proceed as planned?” She wanted to check her working, make sure she wasn’t going crazy. That the lack of sleep coupled with stims hadn’t clouded her vision: the dawn of a new Empire. Humanity needed it with what was to come. Hell, didn’t matter if it was an Empire or a Republic. It mattered that it wasn’t run by aliens who wanted them as a food source.

  “I guess we do.”

  Karkoski turned to her Helm. “Helm. Chart a course. Take us past the Guild Bridge in this system first. Communications? You know the message we need to send. Helm. Once the message is sent, follow that ship.” She paused, considering. “Tactical?”

  “Aye.”

  “Finger on the trigger. Finger on the trigger.”

  “Aye.”

  The Torrington rumbled beneath them as Helm fired up the drives, pushing the big destroyer closer to the Guild Gate. Their course was fixed. Karkoski just wished that they’d had a little more time. Or a little more luck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WHEN SHE AWOKE, it was with the heat of a furnace around her. She didn’t come awake lying down, shaking off the comforting down of sleep. She was awake all at once, standing up, on the side of a volcano.

  Ash was in the air, thick as a snowstorm, and she knew she would have coughed if she’d breathed it in. The challenge was that she had no mouth, no lips covering white teeth. Her hand, when it explored her face, found a smooth expanse of skin from chin to nose. She tried to scream, but only a muffled sound came from her.

  Don’t panic.

  Easy to say, hard to do. If she had her sword, she could have cut herself a mouth. She would have, just to make this right, to get it to make sense. There was something she was sure she should remember, and her hand moved up from where her mouth should have been to her hairline. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but her fingers found the top of her head, her hair, fine and straight under her fingers as it had always been.

  The volcano under her feet rumbled, the ground shaking, and she knew a normal person would have fallen to their knees. She kept her balance because of her training, a life on the run, of always trying to stay one step ahead.

  That was right, wasn’t it? If only she could remember her name.

  Sweat ran down her face. She knew her ship suit would be wet with it in minutes, and then she would die of thirst if the volcano didn’t eat her first. It was alive, horribly alive, magma and violence under its skin. She looked up, trying to see the broken top of it through the ash, but all she could see was a red glow of fire burning in the night.

  Was it night? It felt like night, but that could just have been the ash. It wasn’t like the hard black of space.

  What was her name?

  She turned to look at the base of the volcano, because she felt — or knew — she was about half-way up its rocky side. Nothing down there at all except black and gray. No life, the melted and cooled eddies of old magma leaving ugly puddles as far as she could see.

  The volcano rumbled again, and she knew if she didn’t get off it, down to the safety of the darkness below, she would be burned alive. If there was a starship, a lucky, nimble ship, it could scoop her up and take her away. But safety was such a long way away. She couldn’t call for help with no mouth. She couldn’t even say her own name, if only she knew what that was.

  As she continued to turn in place, she saw a man approaching her through the ash. He was a little older than her, and a lot heavier. He was … dead, she was sure of it, but here he was, walking around like that had never happened. She wanted to say, Harlow, run, just run, but she had no mouth. She tried anyway, a muted sound coming from her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry.

  Harlow got closer to her, most of him covered in ash. “You can make it stop,” he said. “All you have to do is ask.”

  She gestured to her lack-of-mouth. I can’t speak.

  “Not like that,” he said. “With your mind. It’s all they want. Give them what they want and … become. What you are meant to be.”

  But she couldn’t do that. She’d told them already. Her father—

  Mongrel.

  —had tried to make her form speech with her mind. He’d used the whip of his words, and the harsh fists of his instructors, but she’d remained mute. Under the gentler care of Chad, who came from the same dark source as her father but had been forged of a brighter metal, she’d learned to push her feelings out into the void. But never had she been able to speak.

  The mountain shook under her feet, the eruption breaking forth in a brilliant ochre rain above her. She was tossed to the ground, all her training for nothing as the mountain shook, and shook, and shook. Huge chunks of rock were tossed through the sky, not seen but felt by the menace of their passing. She had to get off this volcano. She had to run, but she couldn’t get to her feet with the ground shaking under her. It was like trying to stand on water, if water were angry, and hard.

  Water never had the
end-game of burning you to ash.

  She turned to Harlow. Please.

  He shrugged. “The gift is within you. You need to ask, and they’ll make it go away.”

  A slow-moving slug of lava started down the side of the volcano, seeking her out. She knew it was coming for her, knew it was hungry for the fuel her body had. It would set her off like a torch, burning a brief, human-shaped pyre for a second or two before she turned into a human-shaped pile of carbon and trace metals.

  She turned to run, but the path down the mountain had become blocked by another river of lava. Too wide to vault, this flowed fast and hot, she could feel it baking the sweat from her skin, leaving her face dry like parchment. She realized she would die without remembering her name. They’d taken her name from her, she was sure of it. To … become. What she was meant to be.

  Whatever that was.

  The lava descending towards her was orange-white, flicks of flame running across its surface as it marched on. She turned around, circling, but there was no escape from her island of safety on this mountain of death.

  “Just ask,” said Harlow. “If you ask, we can both live. Become. What you were meant to be.” His skin was becoming more orange in the light of the lava marching on them both. “Or we both die. Here.” He didn’t seem unhappy about it. He didn’t seem to feel … much of anything. She couldn’t feel him, nothing like fear/panic/run. Those things she would have expected, not this empty hissing that surrounded her.

  The lava was close now, very close. She could smell burning, and realized her hair was singed. She squinted against the incredible heat. There was no escape. There was nowhere to run. There was nobody to help her. There never had been. Being … together … with someone else was an illusion. This was all she had. This end, or to use her voice. The one she had never had.

  Her ship suit caught on fire, and she wanted to scream, a mewling noise coming from her, because she had no mouth to open. She fell to the hard ground, the baking surface searing her, and she wanted to scream anew. The lava came ever onward, and she felt the flesh on her face crack and char. She lost her sight as her eyes boiled in their sockets, writing on the ground, the pain unending, God please let her die, just let her die—