Tyche's Chosen Page 2

  “Predictable,” said El.

  “Don’t get cocky,” warned Wadle. “Tactical?”

  “PDCs hot,” said Sumner. Lasers and masers came online, blinding the sensors of the enemy warheads. An almost subliminal thrum came to El as thousands of rounds of tungsten punched across the hard black, coring the inbound warheads.

  “ETA?” said Wadle.

  “Thirty seconds, sir,” said El. “Holding steady. Course locked in.”

  “Understood,” said Wadle, all his attention focused on the Bridge holo. The Ramses, coming closer. Her launched warheads, turning to fragments. The Nostradamus, supposedly only able to limp away at a modest 3Gs. All of it timed to perfection. The captain nodded at Sheri. “Open comm.”

  She nodded, opening a line to the Ramses. Captain Wadle cleared his throat, then said, “Ramses, this is Nostradamus actual. We wish to discuss the terms of our surrender. Our main drive cores have malfunctioned. We have a reactor breach in Engineering. I am willing to discuss terms.”

  There was a hiss on the comm, then a man’s voice answered. “This is Ramses actual. There will be no terms for any who serve the corrupt regime. Prepare to be destroyed.” The comm clicked out.

  “That went better than expected,” said Wadle. “Helm?”

  “Numbers are good, Captain,” said El. She feathered the drives, dropping their acceleration. “I’d say we’re about there.”

  “Record this,” said Wadle.

  “Recording,” said Sheri.

  All Bridge officers watched the main holo, the Ramses approaching for what she no doubt considered the killing stroke. El kept an eye on her own holo, vectors and relative-v showing they were still good. She tried to relax. Either her plan would work, or it wouldn’t.

  The holo, updates continuously painted by the Nostradamus’ LIDAR, showed the Ramses shed fragments of metal. More and more debris sprayed out from the enemy ship, until the hull separated into two main sections. The railgun rounds the Nostradamus had fired from Shyke Alpha had arrived, perfectly lined up, a promise paid forward in time. Not all of them hit, but only a few had to. The Ramses was torn to pieces, the back half disappearing completely from the holo as one of her reactors blew.

  Sumner let out a whoop, but fell silent at a glance from the captain. Wadle said, “No time to celebrate. Where’s the other one?”

  As if on cue, the Manticore dropped out of jump off their port bow. She didn’t use rail guns or torpedos, instead electing to fire off particle cannons. The Nostradamus shook as a hole was punched through decks three and four. The main holo lit red, warnings cascading across it. Wadle was trying to bark orders over the klaxon on the alarm, but El knew what they needed to do. She played her fingers over her console, space outside the Bridge windows stretching, and El felt—

  The anger of the Manticore, bright and dark at the same time like a raven’s eye. The shuddering of the Nostradamus as she cried at the sailors lost from her breached decks. The thousands of souls gone as the Ramses’ reactor blew, circling her heart, trying to find a way in. 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.

  • • •

  The alarm klaxons still blared, red warning light filling the Bridge. “Shut that noise off,” said Wadle. Sheri complied, the noise dropping away like it had never been. Wadle turned to El. “I didn’t give you the order to jump.” They’d arrived back at Shyke Alpha, the sun’s heat and radiation once more blasting the hull. This time it was worse, as there was no longer a hull on decks three and four. Killing heat would fill the Nostradamus. Bulkheads would seal. The ship would do her best, but before long the sun’s fire would cook them like a pot roast.

  Space bulged outside as the Manticore arrived, hungry for blood. El took one look out the Bridge windows and said, “You didn’t order me to do this either.” She jammed the throttles forward, the Nostradamus surging ahead on a massive column of thrust.

  “Helm—”

  “You can court marshal me later!” shouted El. “When we’re alive!” She checked her console’s bookmark, finding the particular part of the hard black she wanted. The Nostradamus sought it out like it was hungry for an escape, the Gs of thrust pushing past the easy three they’d had before and through six, then seven, and into eight. They didn’t have a lot of time, but distance could buy them the illusion of more life.

  There was a clank as something small, about the size of a grapefruit, hit the Bridge windscreen. “Close shutters,” croaked Wadle. Metal rolled down over the glass, providing more protection. El didn’t need to see where she was taking them. She knew exactly where they needed to be, and another clang told her they were hitting the edge of that space.

  The sounds of metal impacts against the hull grew louder and more frequent. El’s hands trembled with the strain of trying to fly the ship while under heavy Gs. She couldn’t keep this up forever, but she didn’t have to. The holo said the Manticore was in kissing distance. “Sumner,” she gasped.

  The Tactical officer tried to nod, but gave up under the strain of thrust. He manipulated his console, sending commands to the Fury Sand waiting in the hard black. Thousands of the small mines woke up, took stock of the situation, and made for the Manticore. By the time the Manticore hit the edge of the Fury Sand cloud, similar clanging against her own hull, it was too late. The mines sought enemy metal, and exploded. The Bridge holo updated, showing the thousands of mines as tiny points of light, the Manticore dissolving as it hit the cloud like a snowball on a grill.

  It was done. The Manticore and the Ramses were both gone, turned into clouds of expanding debris. All hands on those ships would be gone. Crew who would never make it home to see families. It was the nature of war, but it made El feel sick. It wasn’t the Republic Navy’s fault their captains were inexperienced, their crews untrained. But it was El’s fault that her plan left no room for surrender. No matter it had been us-or-them. She tried to mask the feeling by rubbing another stim across her gums, but the sickly fluid made no difference to how her moral compass spun, unable to find its true north.

  El eased back on the thrust, looking to her captain. He took stock of her expression. “Helm, chart a course for Shyke Gamma.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’ve still got Vaeclite,” he said. “We’ve still got the mission.”

  El nodded. If they destroyed Vaeclite, there would be fewer warships the Republic could throw at them. But it would still be another twenty thousand souls lost to the hard black. She keyed her console, preparing for jump.

  “Helm?” said Wadle.

  “Sir.”

  “Orders are supposed to help,” he said. “If I tell you to do it, it’s on me. Do you understand?”

  El nodded, then said, “Helm, clear for jump.”

  Wadle nodded. “Make it so.”

  • • •

  Ending the Vaeclite shipyard was an anticlimax. Captain Wadle, tight-ass though he may have been, gave the facility a couple hours to evacuate. Heavy lifters, shuttles, and escape pods rained from the structure, getting humans out of range. Minimizing civilian casualties was what the rulebook suggested. El knew it made good sense. People who made it out alive might see it as a mercy. They might be enemy conscripts and want to help their saviors. And even if they hated you, you wouldn’t carry their ghosts with you forever.

  They’d destroyed the Guild Bridge. There was no calling for help. No way to get a message out. Unless another Republic ship lucked into this system, Vaeclite was going down.

  On the two hour mark, Sumner lit the station up, torpedo after torpedo hitting the structure. Debris would whirl out into space or fall into Shyke Gamma’s gravity well. Either way, there would be no more warships made here. No more eager men and women throwing themselves against the bulwark of the Empire.

  Wa
dle let them have a moment of silence on the Bridge, the bright explosions of Vaeclite’s destruction wondrous and terrible. After the explosions subsided, leaving glowing metal to cool in space, he said, “Helm?”

  “Sir.”

  “Take us home.”

  El nodded. Sol it was. They’d need to take the Nostradamus into a shipyard of her own to repair that hole in her skin. And to take on more people, grist for the mill, to replace the crew they’d lost. Her hands shook as she keyed in the jump coordinates. Maybe if they won this damn war the shaking would stop. She hoped so.

  CHAPTER ONE

  EL SAT IN her Helm chair, eyes glued to the holo. They all did.

  Titan drifted in space above them, the normally busy Empire shipyards still and silent. No hails on the comm. No response at all, which wasn’t surprising considering the broadcast coming through. It was on multiple channels, in multiple languages. Sol was no longer under Empire control. The Emperor was dead. The Republic Senate was in power. The mighty orbital cannons that guarded Earth now pointed at the enemies of the Republic.

  Everything from cruisers to destroyers flew in the system, the might of the Republic on clear display. El hadn’t known they had that many ships. The Empire should have had more, but they weren’t here. And if they were, their Emperor was dead. If you didn’t have an Emperor, whose flag did you sail under?

  The broadcaster, a tired-sounding woman with a slight hint of Texas drawl in her tone, promised amnesty for those who would set down their weapons and swear allegiance to a new power. She promised vengeance against those who wouldn’t.

  The broadcast ended, and El looked to Wadle. Her captain was pale as he lay in his acceleration couch. El stole a look at her hands, folded in her lap so no one else would see them shake, then cleared her throat. “Sir?”

  “Helm?”

  “What do we do, sir?” She spared a glance for silent Titan, then looked back to Wadle. “Have we … lost?”

  Captain Wadle thought that one through for a moment. “Helm? I don’t know.”

  “We haven’t won, is all,” said Sumner.

  “Orders?” said Sheri. “Which flag are we flying, sir?”

  Wadle thought some more. “We’re not flying a black flag, Comm. First thing, find out if it’s true. I want you to get hold of someone on Titan. I don’t care if you need to walk down there yourself. Do you hear me, Comm?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Sheri nodded, then worked her console, trying to get someone on the line. Anyone at all. Hell, as far as El was concerned, the janitorial staff of the Titan shipyards would be fine. Truth or lie. If it was a lie, she knew Captain Tight-Ass would go down in a blaze of glory.

  If it was true? He might still go down in a blaze of glory. She ran hands down the pants of her ship suit, wondering what she would do if that happened. The Empire was good and all. But living was better. An amnesty sounded okay. After a week of killing tens of thousands of other humans, it sounded just fine, actually.

  • • •

  It was true. The Nostradamus still hung off Titan, hole through decks three and four still causing them some problems. No berth would welcome them while they still flew the Emperor’s falcon. Wadle looked like a man lost, the sole survivor of a shipwreck that left him alone on a raft. And he was taking on water.

  The play of the broadcast still sounded through the Bridge system. El figured the captain was waiting for the message to change. But she knew it wouldn’t change. The days of the Nostradamus flying for the Empire were done. The big question remained: would they die for an Emperor past caring, or would they take the amnesty?

  What was peculiar was none of the Republic ships in the system seemed to pay them any mind. It’s like the mighty Nostradamus was beneath their notice. She’d just gone two on one and lived to speak of it. She’d taken out a core shipyard of the enemy. You’d think they might at least get the courtesy of a formal escort. Turns out, Empire ships were surrendering in droves, taking the amnesty. Captains wanted an end to the fighting. Those that didn’t got turned into pieces no larger than a cubic centimeter as they flew against Sol’s defensive systems.

  It was clear it wasn’t a military victory that had toppled the Emperor. This system was unassailable by a massive force. Sheri said the jungle drums whispered of an assassination. Death by a blade, given by a trusted companion. And Dominic Fergelic left to die in the dark. They said since the Captain of his Black had left, things went downhill. El didn’t know what kind of asshole the Captain of the Black was, but he hadn’t been there when he was needed most. So here they were.

  Wadle unclipped his harness, standing. The man gave a stretch, then turned to El. “Helm?”

  “Sir.” Hope and fear warred in El, and she wasn’t sure what she was afraid of. Or hopeful for.

  “Set a course for Earth.” He turned to Sheri. “Comm.”

  “Sir?”

  “Transmit our surrender.” Captain Wadle seemed to deflate a little. “I will not be responsible for the deaths of the men and women of my command. Comm? Open a channel to the ship.” He straightened his shoulders again, then spoke to the ship. “You may have heard the Empire has fallen. I tell you this is a lie. The Emperor is dead, but his Empire lives in each of you. Still, it serves no purpose for us to throw ourselves against the guns that protect our home. I am signaling our acceptance of the Republic’s amnesty. Those who do not wish to be on the Nostradamus when we approach Earth under a white flag may take the ship’s lifters and go where the winds take you. I ask that you respect each other’s wishes. Be kind to each other. It has been an honor to serve with you. The Empire may not remember anymore, so it’s up to each of you. Do not ever forget. That is all.” He nodded to Sheri, who cut the channel. Wadle seemed to find his bearings, turning to leave. “Helm?”

  “Sir.”

  “You have the Bridge. Take us home.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said El. Hope lifted in her heart, and she felt a traitor for it.

  • • •

  When they reached Earth, a boarding party disarmed the crew. They noted one of the Nostradamus’ shuttles had been taken, an unknown complement of crew aboard, no destination logged. They found the remaining crew dispirited, and tried not to be assholes about the situation. El respected them for that.

  They also found Captain Wadle in his cabin, brains sprayed against the back wall, an old kinetic flintlock pistol in his hand. El figured he’d be the kind to go down with his ship. For her part, she wanted to live. When the boarding party reached the Bridge, she was already out of her acceleration couch, kneeling on the ground, hands clasped above her head.

  A man with a face covered in scars stood above her. “Elspeth Roussel?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Guild certified Helm?”

  “Yes.”

  “You any good?” His eyes softened. “Plenty of work for a good Helm. Ships need flying. People need the universe to keep on turning. You could do your part in that.”

  El took his hand as he helped her stand. “I don’t know if I could fly for you,” she said.

  “Too soon?” The hint of a smile played about him, reaching his eyes but no further.

  “Too soon,” she agreed. “Also, your Republic flag looks like a bunch of kids made it.”

  He laughed. “No need to fly with us. Amnesty doesn’t mean indentured labour, Helm. The Republic’s justice is fair. We’ll get your boots on the crust and then you can fly with any crew that’ll have you. Many will. Just…” He trailed off.

  “What is it?”

  “Best not mention you were with the Empire,” he said. “Not a lot of love to be shared on that particular point.”

  “Understood,” said El. She paused, then said, “Thanks.”

  “What for?”

  “Not being a huge dick about all this,” she said.

  “No problem,” he said. “Thanks to you too.”

  “What for?”

  “Not setting the ship to self-destruct,” he said. �
��See you down there.” He offered her a salute, which she didn’t return because it didn’t feel right. Instead, she held out her hand. He shook it, watching as she left the Bridge. She turned at the airlock, taking in the empty captain’s chair, right in the middle of the big gold falcon emblem on the floor. El tried not to cry as she gathered her things from her cabin.

  Lifters took the crew to the planet. She wished she was flying. She wished she was drunk. El didn’t get either of those wishes, at least not straight away. What she got instead was the San Francisco spaceport.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SPACEPORT WAS just like all the others, and different at the same time. It had the usual cluster of starships, some with noses pointing at the heavens, others skids on the deck. El knew the ones sitting like land crabs had Endless Drives in them. The ones pointing at the sky used fusion rockets to claw their way off the deck.

  Where San Francisco’s spaceport differed was the smell of fear and panic overlaid with triumph and jubilation. Everywhere El looked, she saw Navy crew in their Emperor’s black, shoulders slumped, not a sidearm in sight. Marines, looking like they wanted a fight, nose to nose with Republic military. The chaos of civilians looking for loved ones. She trudged down the ramp from her shuttle — a ship she’d never caught the name of, and didn’t care to with its bland interior and lackluster flying. It had no spirit, and El wanted no part of it. She would fly the big starships. She’d Helmed on Empire destroyers. Tiny ships like that had no place in her life.

  Ramp to spaceport complex was a confusion of sights and sounds, and she fought to get through the press of bodies everywhere. The ceramicrete under her feet was baked with noonday heat, and she sweated in her ship suit. After the baking she’d had while the Nostradamus hid behind Shyke Alpha, it felt like a memory of a nightmare. El didn’t care for it. She didn’t care for anything that reminded her she was on the losing side.