El sighed, but keyed her console. “Gladiator, this is the Tyche. We are a civilian free trader under contract from the Republic Navy. We are en route to your location, seeking assistance. Please respond.”
They both stared at the console. Nothing.
“Let me try,” said Nate.
“Be my guest,” said El.
Nate worked his own console, flicking on the comms. “Gladiator, this is Tyche actual. Captain Nathan Chevell. We’ve had a serious reactor … malfunction. Radiation risk is zero, but our hull has been stressed. We seek aid. Please respond.”
More than nothing this time: static. That was odd. Static meant something not ship-shape, something not well-maintained. Something that wasn’t being managed, and if the Republic was good at one thing, it was managing the details. Nate looked at El. “Take us closer.”
“You sure?”
“No,” he said.
“Taking us closer,” she said, hands on the sticks. There was a rumble, the big fusion drives at the back of the Tyche pushing with a gentle but insistent hand. Half a G of thrust, no more. Despite the gentle thrust, there was a groan of straining metal from behind them, Tyche complaining about the load. El gave him a look. “She’ll be fine.”
“I know,” said Nate. “She’s the Goddess of Luck.”
“This week hasn’t felt very lucky,” said El.
“Imagine what it could have been,” said Nate.
Before El could respond, Tyche’s LIDAR having done its work, the holo lit. The Gladiator rotated in 3D between them. Details filled in, a rough schematic — tonnage, expected ordnance, possible crew numbers — spooling out on the display. All of it was a guess based on Old Empire information kept in Tyche’s data cores. She was the Goddess of Luck now, but she’d seen battle in an earlier life and still carried the memories. She’d flown in battles where destroyers like the Gladiator drew down on her, skipped through beams of fire as she danced through the sky. The Tyche remembered how to be afraid of the right things.
“Well, shit,” said Nate, staring at the Gladiator’s image. “That’s … unusual.”
“You don’t say,” said El, her voice cracking a little. “What’s the plan?”
“Plan’s still the same,” said Nate. “Implementation changes.” He keyed the comm. “Kids, we’ve got ourselves a problem. I’m looking at the Gladiator right now. She’s in a steady orbit, but that’s a miracle of automated flight. There’s a hole right through her. Looks like a hull breach, all decks, top to bottom.” He paused. “So, we’re going to dock.”
“The captain’s gone insane,” said Grace’s voice. “I vote we mutiny.”
“The reason,” said Nate, bending towards the comm like it would help convince them that this was the sane course of action, “is because she’ll have a repair bay. Ships like Tyche could be aboard. Spare parts. Maintenance equipment. Just because the Gladiator’s leaking air doesn’t mean she’s useless.”
“I can work with that,” said Hope’s voice.
“You can go to sleep for 24 hours,” said Nate, “while we make sure the ship is safe. If the Gladiator is leaking radiation or is filled with pirates, we’ll break free and try and make Absalom Delta’s spaceport.” He didn’t say, If there are pirates capable of taking the Gladiator, we’re all fucked.
“What about the rock?” said El, pointing to the holo. The huge asteroid that Ravana had mapped was still orbiting Absalom Delta.
“I say,” said Nate, “that you practice not flying into it.”
Tyche’s holo cleared then chattered to life once again, highlighting more details about the breach. Stress tolerances of the metal used in the hull, courtesy of the data banks, coupled with the way the breach was formed. “Huh,” said El. “She was hit by something solid. Not a weapon.” A pause. “Debris floating around her. Nothing … organic.”
“Probably not a weapon.” But Nate relaxed a little. Marginally. A fraction only. Because the Gladiator being hit by something solid — something big enough to punch clean through the superstructure — didn’t look like pirates. Looked more like a high velocity asteroid, something tear-assing out from deep space, too big for the PDCs to do anything about it and too fast for the ship to waddle out of the way. The Gladiator didn’t have the Tyche’s nimble wings, and even if it did there was only one Elspeth Roussel. It was hard to find that combination of doesn’t like to work too hard so won’t climb the ranks and can thread a barge through a needle of any size, you choose. The lack of organic matter floating around the Gladiator suggested the crew might still be alive in there. Somewhere. Survivors of that impact, huddling in sealed-off sections of a hulk that wouldn’t fly.
An asteroid like that might have come with the bigger one. Been part of some cosmic event, sending shards to travel through the hard black until they hit something. Didn’t feel right, though. Big rock like the one in orbit, they didn’t just flow through space and cling to a planet like a baby calf to its mother.
“Hmm,” said Nate.
“What?”
“Just … take us in, Helm. We’re not going to learn anything until we get there, and we need to get there to fix the Tyche. Just try not to crash into the big floating rock.” Nate gave her a glance. “If that’s not too much trouble.”
“Have you,” said El, “been told to get fucked today?”
“Not yet,” said Nate. “Still. It’s early.” He clicked the comm on. “Kohl.”
“Cap,” said Kohl.
“You feel like shooting pirates?”
“You promised me pirates last time, and all we found was meatsicles on a ship without anything of real value. I got a few new holos for my collection, but that’s it.” Kohl sounded sour over the comm, Nate could feel the scowl.
“I never promised,” said Nate. “But, you know. We’ve got a cored Navy destroyer out there. Odds are higher this time.”
“Sounds fair,” said Kohl. “Let me get my stuff.”
• • •
Grace was waiting for them at the airlock. Nate did a double take, flipping up his visor. The woman was leaning against the closed airlock door, borrowed flight suit on, sword at her side.
Sword. Not a gun.
Nate had to admit, even in a loan flight suit of the wrong size, she caught the eye. Fit, trim, like the universe had built her to a specific high performance standard. Also, Nate hadn’t … well, it’d been a long time since he’d had the pleasure of a woman’s company. And it will continue to be longer, because you do not sleep with your crew. And longer still even on shore leave, because he didn’t have Kohl’s view on, as the big man put it, rentals.
“You might,” she offered, “need an Assessor.”
“We might,” said Nate. “We might also need another gun.”
“I’m not a great shot,” she said. “I work better with a blade.”
Kohl grunted, his heavy armor shifting with a whine of servos. “Your funeral,” he said. He’d racked a heavy plasma rifle to the side of his armor, the kind of thing it would take Nate two hands to lift on a good day.
“Kohl,” said Nate. “Where’d you get that cannon?”
Kohl looked down at it, a fleeting moment of surprise crossing his face. “I think … I think I got this one from a truck on that shitty mud ball we dropped medicine at about a year ago.” Surprise turned into a frown. “You know? I’ve got so many. I don’t remember.”