Kent’s eyes hardened. With a blink she’d memorised his codes. Mostly out of bloody mindedness, she plugged them into her own terminal and, within an hour, retrieved an altered flight plan logged in the private/commercial-trader database. She stared, as a rogue idea bubbled and then her fingers caught fire smacking in relevant prediction codes. By then Timmis was too involved in a terse spat with the UC-II pilot to notice what she was up to.
“Are you sure?” he was asking.
“Couldn’t be more positive,” insisted UC-II. “I validated your coordinates, twice. I’m in the right place all right, no mistake there, but I’m not going any nearer. No bloody way.”
“But the Myremidian III?”
“Your Myremidian has been blown away but good,” UC-II assured him. “I have residue, I got that a-plenty but she’s definitely an ex-freighter. There is nothing left out here but me, myself and I, together with about a zillion tons of homeless iron-oxide.”
“Take my calls, Lieutenant,” said Kent abruptly. “The Admiral needs to see this.”
Timmis was so shocked he jammed UC-II on hold.
“The boss?” he gasped. “What’s so hot?”
“Your blown-away freighter, that’s what. Guess which door it was knocking on?”
Chapter Sixteen
Belthan’s moons were desolate and abandoned. The seven one-time host-worlds to thousands of hand-picked settlers suffocated under the dismal detritus of what had been and no longer pretended to be natural satellites. Spinning slowly on their various pre-programmed axis each had fallen or risen into a common geosynchronous orbit about the giant planet, dancing with a robotic choreography. A constant drone of insectoid Autocracy shuttles ferried men and supplies between the moons and the newly awakened dome on Belthan.
The settlers had been herded into the shuttles clearly marked with the insignia of their moon, Six, One, Three... The settlers also were given a barcode. Sam and Soren belonged to Belthan Six and were thus micro-chipped with the Six-Ident and penned accordingly, before, with the rest, they shuffled into the waiting shuttles to be shipped down to undergo testing, improvement and return. The main Autocracy base was manned by a skeleton crew as the schedule had rocketed forward but that made little difference. It was a processing plant and procedures were automated. Once processed, existing staff would be augmented by the new recruits, a typical Autocracy solution to the lack of volunteers. Resistance was traditionally futile and it was obvious there was no point. Fools who’d tried to defend their homes and liberty were piled into mounds, bleeding muckpiles, waiting for atmosphere released when gravity generators would be swapped for inertial dampeners. Then like the rest of the waste matter, they’d simply disperse into space. The word was out, the word was live, don’t fight, live. Perhaps it was better to hope that while they were alive there was a chance. A chance of what? Of anything. Of escape? A chance of knowing why, what, when... Of a future?
Pick a chance, any chance.
Soon the moons would become unrecognisable.
What hope would be left then?
* * *
The tug wallowed in the deep sea swell like one of Jenson’s famous beasties, dipping and swaying. A bemused official stared fixedly at Ellis from the stern as the sleek launch accelerated away, spreading more V-shaped spume and making the tug rock even harder.
Ellis gave the craft a dutiful wave. “Good bye, nice Mr Water Policeman. Thank you so much for your help. Good riddance.” It had just been a normal patrol doing a job, not interested hunters, and it was actually a lucky chance that they’d stopped. Now it was highly unlikely they’d have any trouble at the Spaceport even if they were being hunted.
At her shoulder, Mark likewise watched the Water Police craft retreat. Between his fingers he twirled a triangular token, a universal Port/harbour-pass personalised by the Water Police Captain. “Getting us a Clear-pass? Inspiration,” he approved softly. “Smart. Very.”
“I always was,” she snapped, staggered and clutched the rail. Swallowing a retch she stared blindly at the churning sea. The effort of controlling the police had left her giddy. Back up, in the shape of Mark, had turned up without being asked and quietly piled in to help. He was good, very dexterous, and she was ashamed and humiliated that she’d needed his help. In another time and place she’d have admitted he was a catch, but not here, not now. Suddenly it was very important that such an adept potential partner should never suspect he’d Identified a sick weakling. It wasn’t true, but the worry consumed her, grew and flexed and grinned.
She wasn’t thinking straight.
When she was near him she felt warm, comfortable... And sick.
With a muffled gasp, she shoved off from the rail rapidly and pounded determinedly past the hatch and aft, skirting the below-cabin. It would have been kinder to slap him.
Harris, with Jenson beside him, leaned against the wheelhouse and watched the show thoughtfully. As Ellis flew past he realised she was going to be very poorly, very shortly.
“Did she look ill to you?” he asked Jenson.
The pilot registered the weird look on Mark’s face. “This whole mess looks sick to me. Bloody sick. I’d rather she was sick than steering, though, wouldn’t you?”
* * *
In the end the premature beacon had made little difference to the plan.
The Union High Council on Ju-juras should shortly receive a distress call from Belthan’s Council Representative, now sadly deceased, begging for help to deal with Belthan’s crisis. Belthan’s moons had broken into a decaying orbit, spiralling into the planet below and she’d ordered evacuation. It wouldn’t reach the High Council for days and as far as the Council would be aware settlers from all seven moons were currently being sheltered in the old interment dome on the giant Belthan. By sheer coincidence, Emir Carolli had received an echo of her message, overheard the situation, and immediately had sent a signal offering to step in as emergency coordinator. Wasn’t his proximity lucky? The Union Council would have to agree to the fait accompli, they were too far away to do anything; ditto Eban Krystie on Imperious who would receive news of his intentions only as a courtesy.
Carolli preened.
A half-breed nothing, he believed himself a pure-bred politician.
Actually, he did himself too many favours, he was easy to read and his long-term references weren’t that good. An ambitious also-ran, he’d consistently walked the fence between Autocracy and the fledgling Union, never quite toppling one way or another. Both sides had sensed that his true allegiance was to himself. Discounting incidentals and missing details were his trademark, coupled with a lack of charisma and a tendency to underestimate his enemies, thus misdirecting his forces and blaming them for the consequences. The Autocracy, to whom he had ceded by choice, had no problem with sociopaths but preferred tools that cleaned up their own mess or that didn’t make a mess at all. They used him when forced. Carolli had attended the right schools, knew the right people and his Typhion genes, ensuring great longevity, also ensured practice, though his half-blood status led to a grudge mentality. He scored a flashy two or maybe three out of ten on the villain scale, nowhere near super-villain status. For his part he admired the Autocracy for not trusting him (he would never have trusted himself) and despised the Union because he believed they did.
It was taking everything he could do to keep the thing in the Dome sane. For the plan to succeed, it had to stay rational and malleable. The more the creature believed Carolli to be a wise and caring mentor the saner it remained but its balance was alarmingly fragile.
Frequent contact was his chosen method.
Extracting the synthesised UT from his cane, he called the creature as soon as he’d received the Union’s authorisation. As he spoke, he clutched its key as if it was a karmic token, a symbol of the power it imbued. Finding out about the key and the plan from his masters on Typhin, had been so lucky he could almost believe it was his true destiny.
“You see?” he was cooing. “I told you be
fore, the beacon sounding early merely means that you will have less time to wait for your glory. Surely that pleases you. All will proceed as intended,” he finished firmly, “soon I shall escort you to your throne.”
Is all ready? The capsules dimensions are exact? You checked the proportions?
“Of course,” lied Carolli smoothly.
He’d seen no need and had no time. After all, what could go wrong?
And is the Donn problem solved, it pressed, what about the Donn?
Now that was worth checking. Minon’s report was tardy, and though the Donn situation had slipped his mind in the excitement of the Belthan revivification, here Carolli admitted he was slightly anxious. Yet there were sentinel ships standing watch on the fourth moon, and Dart’s had nets about the system, so, again, what could possibly go wrong?
“It’s all under control,” he reassured, hardly skipping a beat. “You’re quite safe.”
* * *
Eban Krystie had stepped up the pacing and Timmis, amongst most other old-stagers on the bridge, instinctively braced as they watched him. There was a storm brewing, probably cyclonic. Krystie’s pacing had begun with a diplomatic signal from Carolli’s cruiser but the news was huge, and monitored public newscasts in that sector were already percolating.
Belthan, an entire colonial system had collapsed. Seven populations had been evacuated, lock, stock and barrel to the enormous dead world below. That wasn’t big news that was humongous. There were ratings on this bridge with relatives who’d been eking out lives on Belthan moons. Timmis’ antenna said that was not a natural tragedy. He didn’t believe it and neither did his Admiral. It didn’t smell right. It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t right.
And Carolli’s too timely intervention had to be part of the wrongness.
He squinted furtively. The Admiral was half-way back from the dais and about to hang a left to the Communications banks. Timmis’ had first served with Eban Krystie at the end of the Autocracy Wars, when the Typhion was a mere Second Admiral. Since then he had refused two promotions to stay with him. Nobody declined two promotions and stayed operational without high-up sponsorship so he figured his boss was as pleased with Timmis as Timmis was with his boss. All the same it meant staying front-line and front-line, in those early, anxious post-war days, meant sharp wits and sharper skirmishes with sharp Autocracy diehards. Timmis reckoned that a bit more than a mere skirmish was next on the agenda.
It was a good thing Kent had swapped shifts and was on a late, her sniping would have driven him crazy. All the same her fair ghost lingered. After the Myremidian III affair she’d plotted beacon locations based on largely unconfirmed sightings from UC-II. When he’d deployed the long-range craft the Admiral had been impressed enough to use it. A UC-II pilot following Kent’s plan had discovered another beacon on an asteroid, cleverly concealed, but right where she’d predicted. There were fleets of UC-II craft testing the Admiral’s theory based on Kent’s triangulation. Timmis snuck another peek at Krystie as he booted it down to the Admiral’s board. This was good news, the boss needed cheering up.
Then a second UC-II sighted another beacon right where Kent had said it should be.
Another. Followed closely by a fourth.
And a fifth.
And so on.
Chapter Seventeen
In the recreation-room of the ZR-3 all tucked up ready for take-off, Ellis was secured on a bench couch. Harris limped unevenly across to the one on the opposite side of the tiny area and she saw three of him as he strapped himself down in the webs. The ship throbbed, she had never felt so sick and the only help in sight was a preoccupied Harris. “Tam?”
“Yep?” Tam was not happy. This was a typical make-over ZR-3 and the 3 series was worse than the ZR-2s for dodgy take-offs. Engineering never refitted the modern inertial dampener systems properly. Jenson had just shrugged and told him not to worry.
Ellis’ personal world was spinning and she gripped reality with two skinny hands she couldn’t feel. Her stomach heaved dangerously. “I know nothing about your UC service and I should know the basics before we arrive. What exactly do you do?”
“Now?” He shot her a hard look because she’d sounded more plaintive than she usually did and his heart sank. Her face was patchily pale and luminous under a damp sheen of sweat. Not now, he wailed silently, please, hold on till we can do something, not now.
“Tam,” begged Ellis with all her heart and soul. “Help me. I really need to talk.”
* * *
The big Commercial Trader departed Harth Norn peacefully oblivious that she was being scanned by Carolli’s neo-Autocracy squad. She was on the good-to-go list. The ramifications of the Myremidian III affair had bought them a vicious reprimand that they felt they actually did not deserve. The large command vessel, a Command Spitter, ruled a restless squad. Minutes stretched into days and weeks and months and years...
“Let the Trader Tramp go.” The Commander was brusque.
Leader-2 didn’t dare query a direct order but his silence did. It was eloquent.
A flare announced the Trader drilling a window into the Bylanes and they spiralled dispiritedly, and secretly, down over the pitted back-side of the tiny moon.
Tedious normal life resumed.
Tokker pilots fumed, dealing badly with too much waiting, not enough fight.
* * *
ZR-3s were bigger than the 2 series, holding three reasonable cabins and six berths, but Tam and Ellis hurriedly strapped down in the galley cum rec-room along from the tiny medical facility. Jenson and Mark took the could-be-roomier flight-deck, promising to open up the optional third control board for Tam later. It meant that the two passengers were perched on top of a couple of super-deluxe engineering decks, ie, just over the bit that really throbbed, which was not good news for Ellis. Tams’ couch was just below the ship’s central schematic board and his heart sank as he scanned it. This was a turret ship, a bloody turret ship, she hadn’t even been upgraded. In addition to bridge defence, turrets gave them four additional gunning stations, which, if active, enabled the pilot to concentrate on flight tactics while his/her/its crew took shots at enemy craft. They called the targeting-sites turrets, Tam had no idea why, because they weren’t. They just felt risky because you could see all around.
Guns or not, the ZRs still didn’t do easy take-offs. They never had.
And now Ellis was sick.
Harris was nobody’s medical expert; he’d only taken the emergency aid course so how the hell could he do anything? The ZR coped with low-atmosphere flying, but not on a sharp rise. Common sense told Tam this would be very sharp and there was nothing he could do to help Ellis until after they’d cleared it. To be honest he was shocked by her reaction. First seasick and now space-sick? She was right, distracting her was the best he could do, censoring the bits that meant he’d have to murder her afterwards if she admitted she knew them. Tam loathed verbal reports. Eban Krystie, a shrewd judge, reckoned Tam Harris preferred written reports because he dropped clangers when he couldn’t read back and edit.
“Turn your head on the side,” he advised gruffly. “It’ll help.”
The ship began to pound in earnest and Ellis turned to face him.
Her eyes were glazed, the skin shiny and so pale you could see blue veins.
“All right, I think I already told you I’m UC-I – that stands for First Class UnderCover Operations. We have second and third class too, just because we do a different job, that’s all.” No, that wasn’t quite true, UC-I was elite, UC-II was jobs for anti-social psychotics and UC-III was also-rans, ok? A swift check told him she was drifting but he carried on anyway. “UC-III do general field operations, just scout around and report, mostly looking for folks stranded by the Autocracy nowadays.” Or Tokkers. “Ellis? Ok?”
“Still here.” Drum went the ship; drum, drum went her head. “So what’s UC-II?”
Tam pulled a face. Not so long ago he’d begged Krystie for a UC-II post but instead he’d got
Edger. “Deep space network. Flyboys, space-junkies, they don’t come in often. Unsociable in a big way. They do initial longer-range probes, ship’s UDC’s, tracking. Ok?”
“Mm.” The ship was spinning. The ceiling was spinning. Her couch was whirling. Ellis was whirling, but not the same speed or direction as the rest. Spew tasted purple against her teeth. What had she eaten that was purple? When had she last eaten? She shook her head, puzzled, and forced her voice to surf the bile. “UC-I? That’s you, isn’t it?”
“We’re First Class, hence UC-I. We go in where others can’t handle it or when they need discrete investigations or something tweaked. We do the real UnderCover thing.”
Tweaked? “The other two? Are they UC-I?” As if she cared. Did she care?
Well, yes, if she survived she probably would, for one at least.
Harris unerringly picked the wrong one. “Good old HStJ Jenson?” Most folk you met in the refreshment lounges knew or knew of Jenson. He was one of those types. “Jenson’s a real sky-rider, fighter style, he’s a Wing Leader, does that surprise you? He’s with UC on pretty permanent loan from Flight, which is generous, as he’s Stanson’s best boy. He’s supposed to be very good.” Silence with raspy breathing. “Ellis? Are you still with me?”
She moaned. The deck vibrated in jerky ripples and every one smacked amethyst starbursts into her face. Harris could’ve been singing psalms for all Ellis cared.
“Macluan is something else again.” Tam rarely gossiped but was getting into the swing of storytelling, dredging up as much as he could, which wasn’t much. “We have to be sitting on something hot for either one to turn up, especially him. Macluan is definitely on the up and they say the boss likes to keep him pretty close. He started out with Jenson over in Flight, hot as fire in a Glo-white, too bloody hot to handle. Even Stanson couldn’t hold him once the boss stamped his foot. He’s the last of the Donn so what do you expect?”
Considering he was talking to the other last Donn that was hardly tactful and Tam squirmed. There was no reaction. “Ellis?” The air pounded. “Ellis?” He twisted, gasped at the sight of her, and nearly dislocated his shoulder on his harness trying to jump up.
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 11
