Tyche's Demons: Ezeroc Wars, #4

By Richard Parry

The leader of the fallen Republic returns. Destruction sweeps across Earth.

Grace Gushiken and Nathan Chevell rule the Empire. While they petition seditionist worlds for aid in a war humanity struggles to win, Grace's father arrives. Kazuo Gushiken brings the might of the insect-like Ezeroc to crush humanity's home.

Kazuo travels with a fallen civilization. AI machines fight at his side. They are allied with the Ezeroc in a common purpose: destroy humans, once and for all. If they kill the heads of the Empire, all planets will fall.

The AI destroy humanity's Navy, leaving Grace and Nate to escape on an old ex-war heavy lifter. Pressed into service one more time, the crew of the Tyche must survive against the combined might of the Ezeroc and AI. If they can't, they will die, and humanity's hopes with them.

Tyche's Demons is the fourth book in Richard Parry's gripping Ezeroc Wars series. If you like page-turning space opera with great dialogue and heart-pumping action, get your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mondegreen
• Release date: Dec 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780995109087

Book preview

Chapter One

When Grace woke, she had Nate’s arms around her, his scent close. White sheets stretched out under her, rumpled from their sleep. From their cabin on the top decks, the rumble of the Mercenary sounded so faint as to be almost subliminal.

The trick with waking up next to Nate was to be stealthy. To be quiet, slipping from the bed like a ghost at the coming of dawn. Grace reached out to peel the sheets back.

Morning, said Nate. Was waiting for you to get up.

Grace sighed but snuggled back into him. He was always so damn warm. How long have you been awake?

Hours.

Then why is there no coffee? Grace kissed his arm. Call yourself the head of an empire. Hmm.

Well, said Nate. Thing is, with coffee comes responsibility.

How so?

I get up, and there’s problems to fix. Here in our bed, there are no problems.

Grace smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. You’re concerned about training.

Of course, he said. "Every time we train, I get bruised. You don’t even sweat."

I sweat! Grace thought for a moment. I mean, sometimes.

That’s what I’m talking about, said Nate. You don’t sweat.

Exercise is the best way to start the day, said Grace, trying her best to hide a smile.

You sound like you’re trying to sell me something, said Nate. Never sell to a salesman.

You’re no salesman, said Grace. You’re a pirate.

I’m the emperor.

Same thing.

This, from the empress herself? Nate poked her back. It’s your empire too.

It is, she agreed. And it won’t save itself.

Eh, said Nate, nuzzling her hair. Stay here. For a little while.

We’re going to Cantor, said Grace. And you need to have your training session before we go.

You’re going to beat on me before I die? said Nate.

I’m going to beat on you so you don’t die, said Grace. Whole point. Now get up.

Coffee would wait.

The Mercenary’s training lounge was huge, the size of a stadium. Many of the ship’s crew were here, getting a good clean sweat on. More than a few eyes followed them as they walked, heading towards an open padded section. The mats were no tatami, but they’d do — good Empire tech, enough to absorb falls and tumbles without leaving broken bones. Just a few bruises, to remind a person to keep their guard up.

Grace carried two bokken, wooden practice swords that would hurt plenty but were unlikely in the extreme to sever limbs. As she led Nate onto the mat, she tossed one of them his way. He caught it in his left hand, golden metal fingers closing around the wood. Good. Two weeks ago, he wasn’t comfortable enough using his augmented side. Nate used to be left-handed, and still was. The point of their drills was to teach him to be comfortable using either hand with a sword.

Nate had argued with her use of the word augmented. He’d said prosthetic, and she’d said you can crush steel, and left it at that.

They faced each other across the mat. Grace held her bokken low, circling him. Whenever you’re ready.

Ah, said Nate. He tugged one of his ears. There’s about a hundred people watching.

They don’t matter, said Grace.

They do to me, said Nate.

Then you better not lose, said Grace, letting herself smile. Think of it as an incentive.

Nate made a big reluctant show, all sighs and shoulder rolling, then ran at her. She’d expected no less. He often tried distractions before he fought, and Grace figured it was a good tactic. Not a great tactic against someone like her, who could read minds. But against the everyman? It wasn’t a bad option. She let him come, then stepped to the side, her bokken rapping against his, the sound tight and hard. As he passed, Grace tapped Nate’s butt with her practice sword.

Hey, he said.

Clumsy and slow, she said.

Nate looked hurt. It’s before coffee.

You think the Ezeroc wait for coffee? said Grace. Then she struck, hammering her bokken overhand. Nate’s reaction speed was amazing, his wooden sword coming up to block her strike again, and again, and again.

They broke apart, both panting a little. Not bad, said Grace. You’re getting better with your off hand.

Which ones my off hand? said Nate.

Precisely, said Grace. And she struck again. The wooden swords tap-tap-tapped against each other, an accompaniment to their breathing. Nate was no sword saint, but he’d worn the Black for a previous emperor. He was fast, and he was strong, and better with a blade than anyone else she’d fought. Or almost anyone else. Grace knew two other souls whose skill was higher.

The first was sensei, who had died years ago at Grace’s birthday party. Sensei was, bar none, the best person who’d held a blade in the universe.

The second was Kazuo Gushiken, Grace’s father.

Thoughts of her father almost unbalanced Grace, and she slipped on a stray slick of sweat. She stumbled, caught herself, and stood up. Nate waited, watching. Grace shook her head. Why didn’t you attack?

He looked surprised. Because you’re training me, he said. Be unsporting.

Grace laughed. Only Nathan Chevell wouldn’t strike the person who’d hit him a hundred times before.

Nate relaxed his stance. I figure there’s plenty like me who wouldn’t want to strike a person while their back was turned.

Might be, said Grace. Not my experience, but maybe.

He sighed. The morning of long sighs. That’s what they’ll call this. Coffee?

Not yet, said Grace. Time for you to swap hands.

He did. They sparred again, Nate using his flesh and blood hand. The bokken tapped their rhythm out once more.

Breakfast was a simple affair. When they’d first boarded the Mercenary, the chefs had tried making elaborate feasts for the emperor and empress. Nate had said I’ll get fat, which was his way of saying don’t make a fuss on my account. He didn’t care for the trappings of power, and it was one of the many things Grace loved about him.

Coffee. A few pastries. Fruit.

Nervous? said Grace.

A little, said Nate, still flushed from the shower, or workout, or both. I mean, lots of things could go wrong.

I’ll be there, said Grace.

Yeah, but so will Kohl, said Nate. That there is a crisis waiting to happen.

She laughed, helping herself to more coffee. We could just nuke ‘em.

Nah, said Nate. That would be a bigger crisis.

They’re terrorists, Nate, Grace said. They’ve pretty much asked for it.

What we’ve asked for and what we deserve are two separate things, he said. And anyway. It’s good to have friends.

Terrorist anarchists for friends? Grace strode to the viewing window of their cabin. Small ships flew in formation around the Mercenary, the mighty Empire carrier locked and loaded for almost any situation. Seems a stretch.

Depends why they’re terrorists and anarchists, said Nate. And that’s why we’re here.

They’ll try to kill you, said Grace, not turning to face him. She felt the fear in her gut, a tight ball, heavier by far than what she’d eaten for breakfast.

I hope so, said Nate. This wouldn’t be worthwhile otherwise.

Grace shook her head. His sense of doing the right thing was another reason she loved him, but she wanted to shake him, to shout at him. Tell him dying isn’t the way. But she’d tried that, and he’d shrugged, and like the mule he was, came out here anyway.

Only thing for it was to be at his side. Together. Forever.

Chapter Two

Nate looked out the shuttle’s windows, the Mercenary seeming to drift away, lost in an ocean of darkness. Well, that’s a morbid thought. The big carrier waited, ready for their call. When Captain McDonald had asked what the signal would be, Nate had flashed a grin and sauntered off her bridge. Why take the surprise out of life?

The shuttle, speaking of surprises, was comfortable. Some enterprising soul had installed a full autobar next to the standard military dispensary. It didn’t look like a rush job, despite the emperor’s surprise visit to the Mercenary — and commandeering of the same — causing many wide-eyed stares among the crew. Nate rubbed his chin. Truth, he wasn’t sure if the wide-eyed stares were for him, or the empress who walked at his side, back straight, hand on her sword. Grace’s reputation had spread like a carpet under their feet. Nate knew it made her uncomfortable, but he’d said to her if I’ve got to suck it up, you best get a straw and join me. Everyone wanted to see the emperor who died so humanity could live. They wanted to see his wife, the empress whose smile was as brilliant as her blade. It didn’t hurt that the rumor mill said Grace could break stone with her mind, too.

Anyway. Chalk one up for Team Engineering on the Mercenary. They knew Nate liked a beer and had stuffed a military shuttle with all the comforts of home. Nate wasn’t going to ask where they’d found enough good Europan whiskey to stock it with, and he suspected he owed Captain McDonald a case or three.

Penny for your thoughts? Grace leaned against his left side, flesh and blood fingers intertwined with his metal fingers. She smelled good, clean, a slight hint of lavender underneath cotton and silk.

Considering the plummeting value of the Empire’s coin, that won’t buy you much, said Nate.

You know I can read minds, right? said Grace. It’s generous of me to offer you anything. He could hear the smile in her voice, even though she faced the windows.

I’m just thinking… said Nate.

Seems silly to walk into a trap? she offered.

Maybe, said Nate. That felt like part of it, but not the whole thing. Maybe a slice of the cake, with plenty more calories left on the table.

Nathan Chevell, said Grace, pulling away a little. "Are you … you are."

I’m what? said Nate.

You’re worried about killing the people who want your throne, she said.

He frowned. Right there, the heart of the issue. Nate knew she hadn’t read his mind. Grace didn’t need to. She was the only person who knew him better than he knew himself. Maybe, he said, a little reluctantly. I figure, what if there was another way?

She turned back to the windows, seeming to take in the starlight as much as leaning into him. If there is, you’ll find it.

Cap couldn’t find his ass with a map and a compass. Terrible navigator, came the rumble of October Kohl.

Nate turned, letting Grace’s fingers slip away. Kohl reclined on an acceleration couch — Nate’s acceleration couch — with a tumbler of expensive Europan whiskey in his hand. Nate still found his new look just plain weird, not on account of his black uniform, but because he’d traded his dreads for something more short-back-and-sides. It had the same mental dissonance for Nate as when he shaved off a beard — any stage you choose — to rediscover his jaw underneath. Kohl, said Nate. Why are you drinking before a … what did you call it?

Suicide mission, said Kohl.

Yeah, said Nate. That.

Well, said Kohl. He waved his glass as if it was a conductor’s baton. Jonny Baggs and Georgina call-me-fucking-George Guilella said nothing, their Emperor’s Black uniforms doing all the talking. No way I’m doing something like this sober. You said no bracelets.

I did, said Nate.

And you said no Marines, said Kohl.

That too, agreed Nate.

You want just five of us to go onboard a station owned and controlled by seditionists, with nothing but these ass-hat mechanical weapons, no anti-bug bracelets, and not even a clean set of underwear? Kohl held a hand up before Nate could reply. Cap, I said it before. Lousy idea. But you’re the boss. But if I can’t have my bracelet to stop those Fuckerocs from reading my mind, I’ll drink so my brain’s a little fuzzy.

Your brain is always fuzzy, said Grace.

Thanks, said Kohl. Wait. What?

The Cap’s plan is good, said Baggs. No bracelets say we don’t think they’re infected by the bugs. Which, he said, running a hand through buzz-cut hair, better be true. I can do all the mental yoga in the world, but if the Empire’s Bulwark are nervous about fighting the roaches, so am I.

It’s true, said Grace. No Ezeroc.

George nodded. And us coming in without Marines and power armor lowers their war dial a notch or two.

Hey, said Kohl. You assholes work for me, remember?

Kinda, said Baggs.

Sure, boss, said George. She adjusted the assault weapon at her hip, running practiced fingers along the pommel of a knife before looking at Kohl. Except, you know, he’s the emperor of all humanity.

Fuckers, said Kohl, but not with any rancor. He took his turn staring out the window. Hey, I can see my house from here.

Didn’t you buy a place on Luna? said Baggs.

"After the Mercenary glasses this planet, there will be a lot of real estate up for grabs, said Kohl. I’m just, you know. Prospecting."

Nate grinned. Don’t get too attached, Kohl. If everything goes okay, we won’t have to glass the planet.

Yeah, said Kohl. But if everything goes wrong, we’ll all be dead.

The station in orbit above Cantor was odd, if you didn’t know the background. Most stations were built like a layer cake, circular section atop circular section. Cantor Station was long and thin, an almost organic nature to additions studding the surface. Back in the day, Cantor Station had been the Cantor, a bridgeliner that took its merry crew of seditionists out to this particular section of the hard black.

Turns out, building stations was hard and expensive, especially without the Guild and their autofactories. Some enterprising soul no doubt suggested repurposing the Cantor as a station, and viola, Cantor Station was born.

It wouldn’t win any awards for beauty. Even with the shipyards of Sol, Titan, and Triton vying for who could pump out the most sails in limited time, they still made hulls with an artistic flair. To be fair, Cantor Station didn’t need beauty. It needed to hold air. Act as a trading outpost, for any who would come this far. The long thread of a gravity elevator stretched to the surface below the station. Nothing was coming up the elevator at the moment, which wasn’t a surprise. He figured the emperor commanded a certain level of focus from station personnel, even if they were all seditionists.

The shuttle docked against the station with a gentle clank, bolts sliding home against the seal. After a brief pause, more bolts slid into place. Hmm, said Nate. He hefted the case he carried.

We’re on lockdown, said Grace.

Kohl laughed. They think we’re trapped here with them, he said. If only they knew.

Knew what? said Nate.

"They’re trapped here with us, said Kohl, tossing his whiskey glass into the recycler. It clinked as it tumbled into the chute. They keep that shit up, the mortuary will be the only business booming."

Nate frowned, turning to Kohl. You remember our talk, right?

Sure, Cap.

You remember the part about not killing everyone?

Sure, sure.

And the part about not killing one person. A specific person? Nate heard another clank against the airlock as the station equalized pressure.

Kohl frowned. Which person was that again?

Oh, fuck, said Grace. Kohl, you need to—

The airlock opened with a whispered hiss, the sound causing Nate to turn. It opened into a small chamber, at the other end of which was another airlock, and a cluster of soldiers. He turned on what he hoped was a winning smile. Hey.

Pietrina Clemson stepped forward. Nate knew her from the holo conversations they’d had. Black hair cut close. Robe a darker black than came from nature, like she was an inkblot walking. Bright purple irises, something else about her that didn’t come from nature. Nathan Chevell, she said.

That’s ‘Emperor’ to you, said Kohl.

Not of Cantor. Not yet, and perhaps not ever, said Pietrina.

Super, said Nate. Nice warm welcome, by the way. Soldiers, guns, and attitude. I sure as hell hope you’ve put on coffee and cake. He flashed Pietrina another grin. I could get to like it here.

Nothing. It was like trying to talk to a stone. Pietrina gave him the up-and-down, and Nate felt Grace shift at his side. He wasn’t sure, but she might have made a hiss, under her breath. Of course, said Pietrina. Where are my manners? This way. She turned on her heel, leading on, soldiers still waiting at the airlock.

Nate shrugged, setting off behind her. The station’s grav was a comforting 1G, just like Earth normal. Whatever the crust held on the planet below, they were keeping it real up here, or putting things at a level that would make him more comfortable. Nate doubted the latter, based on the welcoming committee, but the glass could be half-full.

As he walked past the soldiers, they tried to close ranks behind him. Nate heard the unmistakable sound of weapons drawing, the slide of metal on leather as sidearms left holsters, the slight clink of fingers on triggers, safeties coming off. He turned, nice and slow, to see Baggs and George, each holding a sidearm and a blade. Baggs was up, close and personal, with a soldier who wore sergeant’s stripes. His grin, more of a snarl, was in place as he spoke. Soldier, if you get between me and the boss, best case? You lose all your teeth. Worst case, you lose your head. Think carefully.

That’s ‘Sergeant’ to you, said the sergeant.

You gonna call the boss ‘Emperor?’

Unlikely, admitted the sergeant.

Then don’t get your hopes up about the rank, said Baggs. How we gonna do this?

The sergeant, whose weapon had made it about half-way up before Baggs and George had drawn on them faster than they could blink, eased his weapon back down. You wanna walk with him, be my guest.

Fucken awesome, said Kohl, shouldering through. How we doin’, Cap?

This is the best day ever, said Nate. I’m glad everyone has a great sense of humor about the situation.

The negotiating room was a simple affair, but that didn’t stop it feeling like Nate was doing laps in a bowl of dicks. White walls. Holo stages arrayed on a long, thin table that stretched the length of the room. Trade delegates, if that was the right term for them, wearing a variety of expensive-looking clothes below uniform cold stares.

The table also held coffee and cake, so the day wasn’t a total write-off. Nate sauntered to the table, helping himself to a cake. It wasn’t bad, rich and nutty. Fuck me, this feels like a kid’s dance hall. Team Empire — Nate, Grace, Kohl, and the two Black — were on one side of the table. On the other, four trade delegates, and an unnecessary five soldiers. Nate finished his cake and poured himself a coffee. So, he said. Do we ask you to dance, or do you ask us? I get so confused about the rules. He noted every person on Team Asshole, sorry, not sorry, Team Cantor wore one of the mind-blocking bracelets. So much for trust.

Not a smile. Not a word. He finished pouring his coffee, selected a cube of what he hoped was sugar — so difficult to tell on the fringe worlds — and stirred it in. He took a sip. Gun fingers — sugar. Okay, said Nate. I’ll go first.

You can start by telling us why you’ve brought an Empire carrier to peace negotiations, said Pietrina.

Or, you can go first, said Nate. Sure, fine. Well, see now.

The thing is, said Grace, stepping beside Nate, you keep sending death threats alongside the coffins of our envoys. You have a real issue with the Empire. She shrugged, the scabbard at her back clacking. Which is fine. You want to be out here on the edge of the hard black without support, that’s on you. But you called us. This time, you sent a message through your Guild Bridge, begging us for aid.

A man Nate identified from holo comms as Gilchrist Waugh wiped a hand down the front of a silk shirt. Empress, he said, earning him a sideways glance from just about everyone on Team Cantor. We’re fighting a civil war. You know how these things are. He gave a what can you do shrug of his shoulders. "I mean, you’ve just gone toe to toe against the Republic. It’s larger in scale than what we face, but I’m sure you can understand that the situation is … fluid."

That’s one fucking word for it, said Kohl. He stared at the sergeant across the table. I promise you one thing, though. Your boy over there keeps giving me the eyeball, we’ll have a whole bunch of new problems. Nate wouldn’t have guessed he’d spent the shuttle trip slugging back whiskey, not a slur in word or movement evident.

Kohl, said Nate. Maybe you and the sergeant can take a moment afterwards to work this out.

Maybe we can, said Kohl. He said it in a way that suggested it was already on his calendar.

Anyway, said Gilchrist, easing himself into what might have looked like a conversational gap. Nate admired his tact, as the gap was too anorexic for anyone except a seasoned pro. We wanted to get you here to see if we could … entreat with you.

You want soldiers, said Nate. You want servants of the Empire to win your civil war. He held up a hand, forestalling objections. At least the coffee’s good. "And when we do, on account of the carrier out there," and he pointed his golden hand in the general vicinity of where he hoped the Mercenary still orbited, you claim we came in without authorization, and kick us out. He smiled. Not my first rodeo.

The nervous-looking woman on the right side of Team Cantor cleared her throat. Meenaz Lodhi. She was one of those rare people who looked in person like they did in the still images Chad supplied. "Emperor