Tyche's First Read online

  “Ship’s not for you, Nate.”

  “This ship. Is it an unlucky ship or something?”

  “Seems like it,” said Harlow. “Ever since I laid a hand on her hull, there’s been a rain of fire and brimstone the likes of which I’ve never seen. Law’s gone from here. Gangs roam, extorting money. Spaceport’s emptying out, which means the money’s emptying out too. And now the Emperor’s dead.”

  “Your ship killed the Emperor?”

  “Feels like it,” nodded Harlow.

  “Quite the ship,” said Nate. “What’s her name?”

  “She’s the—”

  “HARLOW!” bellowed a man’s voice. “You’re a dead man.”

  “Be right back,” said Harlow, and did the best vanishing act Nate had ever seen. One minute his friend was there, leaning conspiratorially against the bar, whiskey in hand, eyes wide with a tale tall as the mountains. Next minute, the door leading out the back of the bar was slipping closed, not even the smell of Harlow’s cologne lingering.

  Nate sighed. He turned, taking in a mountain of a man at the bar’s entrance. The mountain was flanked by a very short man and a lean, hard woman, one of her eyes missing. The patrons who’d been in here earlier slipped out around the three newcomers like water escaping down a drain, not even a ring around the tub to remember them by. Nate squinted at the sunlight streaming in behind the Mountain, then sighed. “Who you here for?”

  “Harlow.” Mountain clomped closer, the floor creaking under his weight. “He was just talking to you.”

  “The bartender?” said Nate. “His name’s Harlow?”

  Mountain turned that over in his head for a few moments. “You’re saying you don’t know him?”

  “I landed this morning,” said Nate. “How the hell would I know the bartender at the Drench?”

  “The Drench?”

  “This bar,” said Nate, arms wide. “It’s what it’s called.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what it’s called,” said Mountain. “Tiny? Go check out back.”

  The smaller man made to move out Harlow’s egress point. Chevell? Now’s the time to not get involved. He wanted to hit himself. Instead, he let a small laugh out. Three sets of eyes swiveled to him. “Something funny?” said Tiny.

  “It’s just, well.” Nate sniffed. “It’s not an ironic name, is it? Like, ‘Little John.’”

  “Little John was big,” said Tiny.

  “That’s why ‘Tiny’ isn’t ironic,” said Nate.

  “You trying to be funny?” said Tiny.

  Mountain lumbered closer, grabbing Nate’s shirt in a bunched fist. He hauled Nate off his stool. Nate went with the motion, hands out for balance. Gold glinted in the dim light. Mountain looked at Nate’s arm, then pulled Nate closer. “Seems the Apollo Alliance are after a runaway. Description says he’s got himself a gold hand.”

  “Sounds like a coincidence,” said Nate. “What kind of idiot would stick around with the Apollo Alliance on their heels? Weird, though, me and this other fellow having suffered tragic accidents.”

  “Weird,” agreed Mountain. “I figure we take you with us and just check.”

  Nate was afraid it would come to this, so he unholstered his blaster and shot the Mountain. At least, that’s what he wanted to do. His hand found his blaster, but the Mountain’s free hand clamped around Nate’s wrist. Nate figured this was what wrestling an orangutan might be like: frustrating, painful, and full of that delicate loosing feeling. Hell with it. He stamped down with his metal foot, causing Mountain to exhale but not much else. Then he slammed his forehead into Mountain’s nose, and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch.

  Mountain stumbled back. Nate saw Tiny and One-Eye trying to draw on him, but holding their fire for fear of shooting Mountain. That wouldn’t last, so it was best to end this quickly. He reached for his blaster again, and found his holster empty. He looked at Mountain, the big man’s hand now holding Nate’s blaster, and thought, This is what happens when you get involved, Nate. You get your ass kicked. And then he dove over the bar.

  Blaster fire tore chunks out of the bar, fragments of wood exploding into flame and char. Nate scuttled along the floor, glass and liquor raining around him. His runway ended abruptly with the end of the bar. Nate’s eyes turned up, at which point he saw salvation. The stock of a weapon was poking out at him. He reached a metal hand up, pulling the gun free. Short-barreled, it looked like it fired kinetic rounds. What kind of fool still used a kinetic weapon? They were prone to jam, or misfire, or damn explode on you. After he got out of this — if he got out of this — he was going to talk to Harlow about his choice of armaments.

  Until then, it was time to get to work. There was a brief lull in the firing, and Nate used that to call out. “Hold your fire! I’m coming out!” He risked a glimpse over the bar, taking in Mountain, Tiny, and One-Eye pointing blasters in his general direction.

  Nate kept the kinetic weapon hidden behind the counter as he stood. “Guys,” he said. “I feel like we’ve got ourselves off to a bad start. You want to find this Harlow, right?”

  Mountain squinted at him, but nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Okay,” said Nate, and firing the kinetic weapon through the bar. There was a massive boom, like a ship passing the sound barrier, and half of Tiny’s face disappeared into red chum, wood splinters erupting from the bar. Nate stepped to the side, neatly avoiding the blaster round that would have turned him into a pile of burnt wreckage, and shot One-Eye. His aim was spoiled because of the dodging, but he still managed to take her leg off at mid-thigh. She screamed, a high, keening noise. Nate twisted to the side again, another plasma blast turning liquor behind him into living flame. He pointed his weapon at Mountain, pulling the trigger, and was rewarded with a hole the size of a grapefruit opening in the man’s chest. He toppled backward.

  Smoke. One-Eye’s whimpering. Nothing else. “Harlow?”

  “The pirates are gone?” came Harlow’s voice.

  Nate assessed the room. “I’d call it about eighty percent in that direction,” he offered.

  • • •

  The walk to Harlow’s place was a mixture of terror and warm sunlight. Terror on Harlow’s side, Nate’s friend looking around as if every doorway held a hidden gunman. Warm sunlight, because Nate liked the feel of it.

  Harlow lived upstairs, a narrow stairway of chipped stone taking them to a loft. A door, not well cared for by time, opened to a single room apartment, privacy shutters closed. Nate sauntered over, placing a hand on the control panel, and said, “Let there be light.”

  Nothing happened. Harlow looked down at his feet. “Sorry. Broken.”

  “Harlow, your place looks like shit.”

  “Thanks, Nate. Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

  “I’m serious, Harlow.” Nate pulled a jacket, pants, three shirts, and a pair of shoes off a chair before giving up on the whole sitting-down affair. “Is it his fault?”

  “Whose fault?” said Harlow.

  “His,” said Nate, jerking his thumb towards a still image on the wall. Harlow, arm draped over another man, all nut-brown skin and smiles. “That asshole.”

  “Devon? No,” said Harlow. “Devon is … out of town on business.”

  “Devon is a captive, isn’t he?” said Nate. “Or Devon’s dead.” Harlow nodded, mute. “Okay,” said Nate. “We’re going to need two things.”

  “You can’t try and bust him out,” said Harlow. “If he’s not dead, they’ll kill him for sure.”

  “The two things are a deck of cards—”

  “Nate, no.”

  “And another bottle of whiskey.” Nate looked around. “We could use a card table, too.”

  “Nate, no. No. Definitely not.”

  “You haven’t heard what we’re gambling over,” said Nate.

  “You want to know where Devon is,” said Harlow. “Like you can go in there, one man with a blaster, and get my lover out. It’s a nest of pirates, Nate. They’ve turned to sold
iering, there’s so many of them. There’s like a hundred people there. All angry , Nate. And they want the ship.”

  “Okay,” said Nate. “What’s the problem with giving them the ship?”

  “Ship doesn’t fly,” said Harlow, with a sigh.

  “You broke the ship?”

  “The ship was working. Now it’s not. No Engineers on this crust. Briar Glen doesn’t have the kind of gravity to pull in a real Shingle. No one can make her fly.”

  “Huh,” said Nate. “Get your cards. And the whiskey.”

  • • •

  It took three hours to get Harlow so drunk he couldn’t stand. They faced off over a small table, whiskey low, light lower. “No,” said Harlow. He was so slouched on whiskey he managed to say it without using any vowels, like Nnnnnnn.

  “It’s a, what, what would you call it,” said Nate, having the decency to slur a little. Metal fingers clicked and whirred as he dealt cards. “It’s a proposition, Harlow. I win this hand, I get the ship. I get the debt. And I can do what I want with it.”

  “Lost one friend already,” said Harlow. Lssstwunfrnnn alrrrddeeee.

  “Cool,” said Nate, pouring more whiskey.

  “Sword,” said Harlow.

  “What?” said Nate.

  “Sword,” said Harlow, nodding at the hilt still peaking over Nate’s shoulder. “You win, ship. I win, sword.”

  “Hey now,” said Nate.

  “S’fair,” said Harlow.

  “Fuck,” said Nate. He scooped the cards back up. “You’re on.” Flick, flick, flick as the cards hit the table. Harlow picked his up. Nate considered his own hand. A bunch of trash, and not even trash you could rummage through for a half-eaten sandwich. It was a sad day when the five of diamonds was your best card. “What you got?” he said.

  “Is, whadyacallit, aces,” said Harlow, laying his cards out. Three aces.

  Well, that’s inconvenient. It was especially inconvenient because Nate had already stacked the deck. He knew what he’d dealt Harlow, and it didn’t have three aces in it. He sighed, then stared at Harlow hard. “Harlow? Never lie to a liar. Never steal from a thief. And never cheat a cheater.” He laid his own hand out, ace, ace, ace … and ace.

  Harlow looked at the cards. Three aces in his hand. Four in Nate’s. That there was a good three aces more than a deck of cards should hold. “You cheated!”

  “You cheated first,” said Nate, leaning back. “Ship’s mine.”

  “You cheated!” said Harlow, then hiccuped. He smiled, then leaned back. He kept going until his chair fell over, laying Harlow on the ground with a bang. Snoring, and not the soft kind, came to Nate.

  “Well, that’s a solved problem,” he said. Time for a bit of sleep himself.

  • • •

  “On your feet, asshole,” said a gruff voice. Nate squinted. Card table, check. Mostly empty bottle of whiskey, check. Harlow, check. Nate’s sword, being held by someone else. No check. Nate’s blaster, on the card table. No check there either. Nate raised his gaze, hangover threatening to crack his skull with the force of a meteor impact. Tall guy, tattoos all over his face. Missing teeth, never a good sign. Behind him, two more guys, generic thugs minted from the same factory. They held Harlow between them like they wanted to pull him apart and see what would spill out.

  “Hi,” said Nate.

  “I said, on your feet.” Tattoo leaned forward, fetid breath washing over Nate.

  Nate leaned back, wincing. “I heard you, just, you know. Not so loud, okay?” He eased himself forward, then stood. Then sat back down. “You think you guys could get me a glass of water or something?”

  Tattoo’s fist, when it hit Nate’s face, felt like a bolt of lightning. Nate rocked back. This feels unfair, and totally not how a morning should start. Tattoo leaned in again, and Nate held his breath. “You think you’re some kind of comedian? Some kind of funny man?”

  “Uh,” said Nate. “A comedian is a funny man. That there is a redundancy.”

  The fist wound back, and Nate figured this was about the time he’d had enough. He jabbed Tattoo right in the balls, an especially easy move considering Nate’s sitting and Tattoo’s standing positions. Nate then grabbed a fistful of Tattoo’s jacket, spinning the man around, and pulled the other man’s blaster clear of its holster. He fired twice, the two thugs holding Harlow disintegrating into pieces of burning men, the remains sprayed against the back wall. Nate kicked the back of Tattoo’s knee, the other man dropping to the floor. Nate leaned in to speak in Tattoo’s ear. “I tell you what. It’s rare for me to kill three men before breakfast. Why don’t you get on now.” He gave the man a little push, and Tattoo scrambled for the open door. Nate waited for the slap-clatter of footsteps to fade. “So, Harlow. Friends of yours?”

  “They want the ship,” said Harlow.

  “Yeah,” said Nate. “They want my ship.”

  “Uh,” said Harlow.

  “I won that ship fair and square,” said Nate. “Where is she?”

  “They’ll just come after you,” said Harlow.

  “Naw,” said Nate. “I put a tracker on that guy. I’m going after them.”

  “You’re kidding, of course.”

  “Harlow? The ship.”

  “How about coffee?”

  “Ship first. Tell me where it is, and then we can get coffee.”

  Harlow deflated like an old balloon. “Best if I take you there. We’ll need the coffee first.”

  • • •

  After dry-swallowing an off-brand hangover remedy, Nate felt like the day was getting better. Harlow didn’t have anything resembling food in his apartment, so they’d grabbed coffee from a small corner store where the proprietor — a child who seemed wiser than her age warranted — had given them two cups without asking for their orders.

  After that, Harlow had taken Nate to a lockup, security lights glowing a comfortable green. The lockup was too small to hold a starship, so it came as no surprise that inside was a rusty old ground car, paint chipped and worn. The big tires promised a capability over any kind of terrain that proved to be warranted.

  Harlow drove them out of the township of Briar Glen. Buildings gave way to scrub. Scrub gave way to sand. Sand gave way to more sand, the odd rock poking out. The ground car hummed along, the tired electric motor pushed along by a fuel cell that couldn’t keep up with the demands of movement and air conditioning. Nate wiped sweat from his face and thought: The ship isn’t at the spaceport. The ship is in the fucking desert.

  The rocks turned to boulders, which turned into small hills and mountains. Harlow took the car into a narrow canyon, walls of red stone rising up around them. The car scrabbled over some loose shale, skipped around a bend, and then they were there.

  It was a heavy lifter, a wartime relic. Funny to think relic when the war only ended today. The ship had to have made its way into Harlow’s sticky fingers by way of the black market. The hull was scored with carbon burns, the sign of repeated entrances into an atmosphere, but nothing screamed hull breach at Nate. Just a little wear and tear. He looked at Harlow, who shrugged. Nate slipped out of the car, boots crunching and slipping on sand and stone. He walked around the ship. It was a flying wing design, cargo bay airlock at the rear. Twin fusion drives. Thirty-five meters nose to tail. What looked like three decks, the middle studded with the standard design for crew-berths-as-escape-pods. Nate looked at the hull where her name was writ large, an Empire falcon stenciled next to letters as tall as he was.

  “No,” said Nate.

  “What?” said Harlow.

  “That’s not the ship’s name,” said Nate.

  “It’s right there. She’s the—”

  “No,” said Nate. He put a hand up, flesh and blood fingers feeling the skin of the hull. “Ship like this? She doesn’t wear a name like that.”

  “It’s what’s in the transponder.”

  “Harlow? It’s why she won’t fly for you.” Nate sauntered to the rear airlock, stepping up the ramp.
r />   “Like you know anything about ships,” called Harlow, hurrying to keep up. He watched Nate touch the entry controls. “You’re wasting your time,” said Harlow. “Ship’s dead. Won’t fly—” He stopped talking as the door groaned, clanking open as Nate keyed the entry. Darkness yawned beyond, then was banished as the lights flickered on. “Huh,” said Harlow.

  “Yeah,” said Nate. He stepped inside. A few crates were stacked in the cargo bay. A ladder led up to the crew deck. No other noises; no hush of life support, no hum of an Endless field generator. “Emergency power, looks like.”

  “Reactor’s dead,” said Harlow. “I’m surprised it opened at all. I was figuring on having to cut my way in.”

  Nate gave him a horrified look. “You’d cut on this old girl like that?”

  “Don’t get attached,” said Harlow. “You cheated this ship from me.”

  “Sure I did,” agreed Nate. “You tried to cheat me first. You were just too drunk to do it right.” He walked to the ladder, hoisting himself up. Engineering would be at the rear. He walked aft, boots clanking on the decking like the ship missed the sound. Engineering’s door was open wide, no lights inside. Nate drew his blaster, shining the under barrel light around. Reactor was still there, just not switched on.

  “I’ve tried to fire it up,” said Harlow. “It’s dead.”

  Nate nodded, not really listening. There was a blank space on one wall where an Engineer’s Shingle would sit. A standard acceleration couch was nestled between a console and a couple of dead holo stages. Nate checked the reactor. There was capacitance charge enough left to fire it up. Fuel, yep. Ah. Safety control was engaged. Someone had put the ship into safe shutdown, locked her off, and walked away. “How much do you know about starships, Harlow? Or, let’s say, reactors.”

  “More than you,” said Harlow.

  “Funny,” said Nate, disengaging the safety control. He initiated the startup sequence. The reactor shuddered under his hands, then a warm hum filled the space. Lights around Engineering illuminated, the drives growling in pleasure. “Must be luck,” he offered.