That was worth a shot of energy, she figured, it was indeed.
It turned off, and then it turned on, off and on. Finally it went on again and stayed on.
And never once did it threaten to trigger an alarm.
Funny, you never really lost the knack with gadgets, no matter how rough you felt.
“Interesting,” she mused. “Convenient,” she muttered. “Useful.”
Then, worn out by the fuss and bother, she rolled over and went back to sleep.
* * *
The number of shuttles leaving the Dome on Belthan had geared up. Now there was hardly anyone left and the echoing passages were empty. Whatever was coming was due soon. The good news was that Sam had finally managed to contact his father. Briefly, once, for a moment and the flash had cut out with a rotten wham, but he was dizzy with success.
There was no time to try again.
Belthan was being evacuated. Sam had no wish to be left in a derelict Dome without food. There would be ghosts and there were too many ghosts in his head already.
Sam had to get on a shuttle. He would be.
If wasn’t in his vocabulary any longer.
There was a queue waiting to board and each man was being hand-scanned before mounting the ramp. Concealed in the lengthening shadows at the rear of the vast launching bay, Sam recognised some of the men in the line and deliberately hung back until he could identify their shuttle. The blank-faced men had come from Belthan Six and they’d been micro-chipped at the same time as Soren and Sam on the transport down to Belthan. Soren had believed the chip had branded people so they could be returned to the right place.
A rapid well-timed scuttle from his hiding place and Sam slid into the queue.
The proto-soldiers waited, passive, totally docile. There were no shared jokes, no laughter, no buzz of impatient conversation, no companionship and no self. Menace growled and danger prowled but the men saw nothing. Danger didn’t matter for them any longer once the Crack-Crystal implants had drilled into raw brains. To fear you need something to lose, like life, and they were already lost. They had no more whys and buts and wherefore-whens, none of them, not one. Not the long, the short, the fat, the thin, the blonde, the bald, the old, the young or not so young. The Autocracy was an equal opportunity employer for receptive minds of the right calibre. A Giag stood at the front of the line, three slim and graceful Dimitrions swayed behind him, then came a pairing of D’moids and six human meat-bots. After them was a rare full-blood Psamin with atmosphere adapted-gills and dull rainbow webs. Soren had told Sam that Belthan Six was the only moon to welcome them.
The queue shuffled forward. So did Sam.
Shuffle, halt, breathe, shuffle, shuffle, halt.
A few paces at a time. Stop. Shuffle. Stop. At the base of the ramp they were now doing further checks. A dull-armoured guard did a preliminary visual scan and if anything untoward showed, the ear-implant was speared with an interrogatory laser.
Sam went cold and clear and hard as crystal.
He had no implant, no Shiny Ear. As soon as they realised, he was dead. There were guards posted around the docking bay and if he so much as blinked out of time he had the chance of a snowflake in a furnace. If he bolted they’d fire, so he stayed put and prayed.
Think ordinary.
Crystal blood tinkled through his veins.
There’s nothing different about me at all, you dim shits... Just one of the boys...
His outline blurred, wavered, forming an impervious crystal shell.
Nobody noticed because nobody saw him. Even Sam didn’t realise.
Without any idea of how to do it he created a mask.
There was a longer pause than usual. Unable to move more than his eyes, Sam saw that the hitch was the Psamin. There was an abnormality in the tough, fine-scaled skin behind her rear gill and the laser started to hum. She stood dumbly, gills whispering aimlessly, staring at the guard while greenish goo trickled out from under her ear node. Shoved to one side, she slid off the ramp and with a rattling thud splayed on the ground, making no attempt to right herself. How could she? She’d had no appropriate orders. The Crack-Crystal spider inside her head had malfunctioned, ceased relay; there was nothing left, not even pain.
Reject, the guards decided. Sam remembered only silence but he heard it.
Four of them gathered and they shot her. Dead. Vapour. A cloud of gas. A slight charred stain on the dirty floor. The stench of burned fish. Again fish.
Fish and Soren and the murdered Psamin.
Once Sam would have spewed. Not now though, for he was crystal.
Like the others, he fixed his eyes on the shoulders in front and hung on.
Shuffle, halt. Shuffle, halt.
By the time it was his turn Sam was only a hard crystal image, unreal, unfeeling.
Inspection took a lifetime twice over and the probe tickled.
It didn’t matter because Sam was a crystal statue and statues don’t feel.
Inside the shuttle, the proto-soldiers filed to a series of dark benches but weren’t directed to sit until it was rumbling with pre-flight. When they sat, Sam fell. Nobody saw.
* * *
The day and the night were the second since Ellis’ latest awakening.
Duty Medical Officer Kelsey, accompanied by a bluffly benevolent man-mountain with eyes like pincers, who had introduced himself as Sri-Arwin-girlie-call-me-Arwin (all one word), had finished their assessments. Ellis was a medical conundrum. Expecting her to need weeks of recuperation, after seeing her they reckoned she’d be good to go inside a week. The Donn, she assured them, had amazing powers of recovery so there was no need to keep her, but they were adamant. That had been yesterday and she was champing at the bit.
Tomorrow loomed.
The next morning she had leave to attend an early morning meeting. It was the official Harth Norn debrief and there Ellis would meet with the High Admiral and his Chiefs of Staff as well as her fellow escapees. Kai Matheson had liked his breakfast meetings but she’d always loathed them. Food with decision making had never seemed quite right – yeah, shoot’em all, pass the coffee… On many levels, including personally, it was daunting.
Finally lights dimmed for the night and a restless Ellis was left alone to brood.
For long minutes she lay, considering the situation and twirling the Dome key between her fingers. Life was strange, wasn’t it? She’d stumbled on Rocket’s key by accident and yet it was absolutely vital. Of that she was certain. It was the key to a cage and whatever lurked behind the door it locked was dark and damaged and wily and dangerous.
What was it? She had no idea.
But she had every intention of finding out.
When Ellis had escaped she was certain that there had been three or four other survivors still alive. Dome people didn’t live long after they woke up, even if they woke up sane and now Ellis understood why, Introven. Those Autocracy bastards.
Whatever happened at that meeting Ellis was going back to Harth Norn.
To do that she needed to sharpen up her odds.
Life would’ve been easier if she’d had some visitors, someone she could trust to answer her questions. None came. Whispers had interfered with her naps on the first day. She was positive that some had even sounded familiar and her heart had leapt unevenly a couple of times, but no one had actually come to see her. She had no idea that Biotech Sellars was currently acting as her personal defence screen, if she had she’d have been furious.
Mark would no longer have been Eunice Sellars’ worst problem.
The Biotech had righteously repelled all borders.
She had even seen off a bemused Tam Harris and a more innocuous visitor could not be imagined. Jenson, on a mission, had also been sent packing with a flea in his ear, though he’d been largely relieved. A coldly livid Mark had been as good as his word and not bothered with threats when Sellars had banned him. He’d smiled that quicksilver smile of his, nodded farewell, and strolled off without even a backward glance. Doing
nothing and walking away hadn’t improved Sellars’ attitude to him, and in fact it made her jitterier than ever. She was one step short of hiring an assassin as a bodyguard.
So Ellis, alone in bay11/1/81 that evening, needed information.
She could not, quite, bring herself to call Mark.
Not yet, anyway...
He was going to have to work so hard after that stunt he’d pulled, so bloody hard...
But, on due consideration, she was not displeased, far from it. She’d known people Identify far worse matches. A friend had found a mate who could give him forty years (standard). Another had Identified after spending three years with a human partner, which had been really knotty. Ellis had a notion she and Mark were going to suit very well indeed.
She was miffed but not unduly concerned that he hadn’t turned up.
But dreaming up ways to make him suffer (sort of) didn’t solve the problem.
Only a fool went into a briefing meeting cold. That wasn’t Ellis and never had been.
The dodgy sensor pad winked at her earnestly like a supportive friend.
Ellis blinked gravely back, cocked her head on one side, and concentrated.
It stopped winking.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Timmis had lost interest in the intricate spirals and thrilling patterns of Imperious’ assembled teams of Glo-white fighters vying for pole-place in the War Games. The fleet meandered in from the outer limits of Harth Norn’s system, stopping for workouts now and again. It was great if you were in Flight, and Endurance’s Marines and Infantry troops also appreciated the extra preparation time, happily clogging up Imperious’ energy suites, firing ranges and gyms. However, constantly fielding various local Air Traffic Controller objections and avoiding flak from sulky Commercial Traders being diverted wasn’t the reason Timmis had fought to stay on Imperious with Eban Krystie. He dumped most of it on Kent, working hard next door and ignored her martyred whines. Timmis had bigger fish to fry.
There was a regular War Games wash-up at the start of each day, 0930 sharp. On tomorrow’s agenda was a full debrief of the Harth Norn episode, including the new Donn on the list of attendees. Baron Carolli had caught wind of this and decided to attend. This time, apparently, unencrypted reports were not enough. The meeting had been brought forward to 0730 but the Baron had somehow slipped off the classified notification list.
And no way was he getting on it again. So let battle commence.
The air on Krystie’s formal channel glowed white hot.
Emir Carolli was the High Council Representative, the link with the High Council on Ju-juras, and with that authority he could turn up anywhere he liked. Krystie had that one down pat. Didn’t the diplomats talk to the military divisions? Why did the Baron need to waste his valuable time? Wasn’t he satisfied with the standard of feedback so far? Would he like more details? He could have verbal instead of textual transcripts if he liked.
What a good idea, agreed Carolli, he would vastly prefer that.
Doctoring those in the slender window before they were dispatched to the diplomats would be a hoot and a half, Timmis realised gloomily. Not so sure about that, Boss.
If he attended, pointed out Krystie, wouldn’t he miss the scheduled Ju-juran Bylanes communications window? Snakes were very rare. Wasn’t it at 1000? Wouldn’t that clash?
There was a pause.
Given Imperious’ position it would be difficult to postpone, it could take months before another snake linked the two worlds. Krystie offered to put his best man onto it.
Timmis held his breath.
Carolli curtly thanked Krystie for reminding him and cut contact.
Now that was downright ominous.
“You could be court-martialled for that,” oozed a breathy voice.
Timmis’ eyes rolled sideways and collided with Kent’s.
“I’ve always,” she purred, “wanted to learn how to bypass such a high level security code, like that one, especially with those sweet little inhibitors built in. It’s so nice to know I won’t have to ask anyone. I’m positive you’ll offer to teach me, Mr Timmis. Dear.”
* * *
The entire rear elevation of Refreshment Lounge A was composed of a Vista-View showing swathes of stars behind pictograms of permanent Bylanes windows. It was deadly accurate. Wherever Imperious was located in real space you could find the nearest window on the Vista-View. The ship was a green dot, her presently reduced fleet a comet’s tail and the Bylanes web was behind her. Anyone could tell that Imperious was two or three days short of Harth Norn and that there were few useful pre-formed windows left. On the dais, cut off from the main lounge by a wall of vegetation, the sprinkling of tables looked like silhouettes. It was an old trick that worked if you wished to meet and greet privately.
The need for your own space was valued on a two-year tour.
At a corner table sat a lone figure, utterly content with his company, enrapt in his crossword and the sights. Occasionally flashing Glo-white acrobats showed off and Tam Harris watched with a lazily critical eye. For almost the first time since Lent had died and Sim Edger had loomed on his horizon, Tam Harris was not dreading the next day. Getting trapped on Harth Norn meant he’d missed the last through-window to Scolos, but his sister Kasta had left a message to say his girls were fine. Disappointed they weren’t going to see their daddy sooner, they were happy that, all being well, he’d visit at Year Festival. That was a long time away, two-thirds of a year, two full duty-spells, but the promise was a treasure and Tam intended to keep it. He relished the prospect of tomorrow’s meeting, and he’d bet by tomorrow evening he’d be on his way back to Harth Norn. There was something going on down there. Tam Harris didn’t hold grudges but he’d rather like a rematch with the people who’d beaten him up and murdered Edger. They might find the tables turned ever-so-slightly.
Harris propped the crossword board on his lap, smothered a yawn, and stretched out his legs, hooking a nearby chair into play as a footrest. Life could’ve been worse.
Jenson could have warned him. Jenson was a very realistic pessimist. Hang onto your hat, Jenson would’ve cautioned, it’s going to get stormy, trust me. He was over at the bar, giving people who had not asked for his opinion his views on everything. Except the Donn.
“Is this seat free?”
The honest answer was no with italic capital letters and an exclamation mark. There were lots of other seats free and Tam hated pillocks who crowded you when there was space available further away. Yet the typical Scolosian motto was live and let live, the seat was definitely vacant and if the unwanted company proved too irritating, he could move.
“Of course.” Harris sipped short-beer, gave a curt nod and very deliberately returned to his crossword board. Out of the corner of his eye he noted his unwanted companion was a scrawny little Biotech Grade III, who curled up like a prim cat with her knees drawn near high enough to wrap her chin. His brows pinched. He’d seen someone do that before.
“It’s a beautiful view,” observed the Biotech, perniciously determined to be noticed.
Harris attended to clue fourteen-down. It was a bugger.
“You’re an anti-social wretch, Tam Harris,” she snapped.
Oh yeah, he thought dully, that’s who. “What the hell are you doing here? When I checked last that Biotech was on guard.” The board got slung on the table. Being singled-out wasn’t good news, he’d read enough of Chapter Three to know that. He deliberately did not shoot an anxious glance over to the bar to where he hoped Jenson hadn’t noticed his visitor.
“You came to see me? Oh, I’m touched.” And Ellis was too. She glowed, and then bethought herself of something more urgent. “Look away for a minute, please Tam, this is a private enough spot, I’m tired and I’m going to de-mask and be me again. Ok?”
When Tam peeked a moment later the uniform was the same but it was definitely Ellis wearing it. Still painfully thin, she’d cleaned up pretty well and that halo of hair when it caught the ligh
t blazed like polished bronze or should that be copper?
“What did you do with the Biotech who owns that uniform?”
“Thanks all the same, Tam, I won’t have a drink, I don’t like alcohol much, but you go ahead.” She spotted a dish of snacks parked next to his elbow. “I’ll snack though, if you don’t mind, rations down there are nutritious but they taste like week-old crap.”
The dish edged across to Ellis with a dry scraping sound that yelled look-no-hands.
Harris watched impassively. “Ellis, they weren’t letting us in and you’re only just paroled for the meeting tomorrow. How did you get out of medical, why are you here tonight, and,” because, seriously, he couldn’t resist it, “where have you stashed the bodies?”
Ellis squinted suspiciously at a nut before nibbling daintily. “Any particular order?”
“Just tell me.” Tam signalled the mechanical and ordered another drink.
“In that order? I walked. There’s stuff I need to know. No bodies.”
“They’re going to miss you,” he warned.
“Not for an hour or so,” she said. “I assure you, I’m very good. I was trained by the best in the business. And Tam, I would’ve been whipped and disowned if I hurt anything, let alone anybody. I kept down the inn and sorted you out without casualties, didn’t I?”
Tam waited. He’d perfected that parental look, the one where they wait for the truth.
“You’re so like Kai.” She shrugged defiantly. “Really? How I did it? Technically?”
Kai again, who was Kai? Tam smiled briefly without using his eyes.
“You asked.” Long-suffering brows hit heaven. “The Donn emit a low level electro magnetic field on a frequency way different to anything your magnetic resonance scanners can detect.” Something strange struck her. “The Autocracy was a whole lot closer than you guys to detecting it and that was ages ago. They used computer linked tomography and it was a total bitch to dodge. They had Crystal-techs developing sigma-stream detection devices.”
“They called them prods or streamers,” he told her stiffly. “They were vile. We banned Autocracy technology and anything else that used their Sentient Crystal.”
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 18
