The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1)

by S Thomson-Hillis

  Later Kent never recalled how long it took before Krystie responded.

  The next hour or two got a bit cloudy.

  She recalled her stomach pinching and an Enhanced Coded Roll from Harth Norn.

  And Eban Krystie authorising live-ammunition for the War Games.

  * * *

  Solly Dennis’ meddling had revived a nightmare. The deteriorated revivification mechanism had skyrocketed the apex of the Dome to the surface but at least seven-eighths was still underground. Tye Beven’s scavengers had only cleared the top levels and the middle section contained viable cryo capsules, though in some the apparatus had been damaged or the cryogenic control partially collapsed. Combined with the Ging-mould/animal residue problems integral to cryogenics, it meant some passages were festering morgues where capsules had opened and spilled out putrefying bodies. Gas masks and breathing pills filtered the stench but after a couple of really bad tunnels Tam insisted on an ongoing purge, informal cremation. It took hours. When Jenson had half-heartedly argued, Harris had calmly returned that in the long term it would save them time, much trouble and increase their chance of finding what they sought. He was right. Exploring in a gas mask, to the detriment of visibility, was slow going and not knowing what rotting horrors were going to greet you round the next corner played on your nerves – even those famous HStJ Jenson nerves

  Carnage grew less the deeper they delved.

  It was a service Dome, plain, workaday, and skilfully purpose-built and that somehow made it infinitely worse. The levels were connected by elevators that miraculously still worked and once the worst of the detritus had been cleared anyone would be able to travel quickly to and from the surface and clearly had. They wound through passages lined with dull metal and empty plastic couches, auto-doors swinging loose, canopies hanging open, dented, ripped, ruptured in the dim light of the odd power-cell that still worked. Lastly they passed the laboratories and here Ellis speeded up, head down, muttering something about being astonished that a prat like Rocket had got this far on his own. Tam realised that those ancient labs had probably been where she’d been cryogenically instilled, and hindered Jenson’s incessant carping when he could. The lowest levels were created from a natural cave formation and explained the Dome’s location. It squatted on monstrous sprung pillars in caverns originally hollowed out by the sea. That made sense. The Autocracy would have had few resources left so they had harnessed nature where they could. Harth Norn with its sporadic limestone/granite landmasses hollowed by fierce tides was the perfect lair. Along the final tunnels their boots crunched on rough grit and gravel, voices echoed queerly and the omnipresent luminous glows grew dim and dirty and were dotted even farther apart.

  “Just your ordinary, everyday cryo-dome,” Jenson murmured grimly, flashing the narrow beam of his torch across another passage off the central hub. “Pretty average.”

  “Oh yeah.” Harris padded up behind him, using his torch in much the same way up another wall. “Gives you that cosy old-home feeling, doesn’t it? So why-fore the weapon stashes next to the entrance and the lifts? That’s an S-II Auto over there or I’m a Giag.”

  “Weapon caches?” Jenson shrugged. “On every level, aren’t they? They expected to come out into a hard time, remember the Autocracy Wars? First man up sorts out the hardware ready to dole it out so folk pick up orders along with a gun. I’ll bet they were programmed for heavy artillery and ground fighting. This whole thing is a gigantic barracks and armoury. I’m surprised Beven didn’t have this lot away, it’s still worth a bundle today.”

  “Too hard to shift even on the modern black market?” suggested Tam who’d wandered over to take a better look. “Even this far out the news’d travel pretty quick.”

  Jenson didn’t reply as he debated which tunnel to explore.

  “Why S-IIs?” Harris shook his head. “You don’t need training for those you need a lifetime commitment. You know what they did? Once locked the shot never deviated till it hit target and if you didn’t programme them right and it didn’t hit, they boomeranged and blew you up instead. Still issued on Scolos fifty years ago. Should’ve been banned.”

  “All you need to know already uploaded I do not doubt. Implants.” The pilot twirled a finger at his ear. “If the Autocracy couldn’t afford Shiny Ears they’d find another way to plug you in. It might have been factored into that Introven stuff they used on Ellis.”

  “But S-IIs? That’s quite some plug in.”

  “Talk to Mark.” Jenson shrugged. “He’s the expert. He and Barsnip spend hours swapping old weapons stories back on Imperious. Where’s our sweet Killer gone?”

  Jenson wasn’t likely to admit he realised what Ellis was going through but the Dome reminded him of the first time he’d gone home to his annexed world, and he’d never forget that feeling. The Dome was his worst nightmare but it had been Ellis’ prison, her torture cage where she’d been forced into cryo. Neither was he joking when he said he believed their private war kept her going. When she was sniping at Jenson she wasn’t brooding and that could only be good news. Nobody needed an aggrieved Donn on their hands. He wasn’t sure of her, but she was a strong woman and something inside him respected that.

  Harris jerked a thumb at one of the dark passages Jenson had rejected. “She shot off a few minutes ago but don’t worry there’re enough tunnels left for everyone to play in.”

  “Generous. A whole tunnel to myself? You have no idea what you are owed when we get back to base. And in this murk I have to locate a single key-hole smaller than my hand.”

  “Oh yes, that’s your job.” Tam tapped his tiny communicator. “And keep in touch. Don’t be late. I want us safe back at the ZR well before daylight to activate the cloak.”

  “You are not alone,” sighed HStJ. “That one?” he pointed randomly. “Here I go.”

  * * *

  From the gloomiest corner of Baron Carolli’s dark, Mark shimmered out of the shadows and began to breathe again. That had been too close and he had not counted on Carolli returning while he was checking out the study. Trying to get at the cane in the dark had nearly killed him and the click when he’d finally felt and prised open the niches in the head still echoed in his ears. Carolli had swung too fast and dropping it was the only way out.

  That moment was a mirror. Hard and shiny. Luck had thrown the dice on his side.

  Crack-Crystal cones.

  And he’d seen the second key.

  There were two keys. Something was trapped behind a double lock. The Autocracy had never bothered with spares. Carolli had one, Ellis the other. They couldn’t meet.

  Now he was certain he knew what he had to do.

  Best get on and do it then.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  There were two work stations in the medical supplies and administration office in which Macluan had been dumped. Both were being used by glassy-eyed men who worked industriously without any idea what day it was. Invoicing had never been so fascinating. The first did his own job, checking now and again to make sure his new officemate was in place.

  He was. Or someone was.

  Someone sporting a lurid black-eye, occasionally wiggling aching shoulder muscles that had mysteriously been re-arranged in the wrong order. Someone engineering a universal loop in sanitary supplies. Someone with absolutely no idea what mess he was creating.

  Someone who’d never, ever, remember doing it.

  * * *

  Sam lay back in his pod while his head pounded and his knee ached. After a while he decided he was very glad that the ghost was no father of his, the man was a dictator. For a while he wasted time wondering what Mark looked like and ended up picturing an aging General, with interesting facial hair, a paunch, a monocle and a mindset as malleable as a rock. The pastime soon palled, replaced by the mounting fear that if Sam stayed in the pod he was going to suffocate. His bruised eye hammered and he was certain the bridge of his puffy nose was twice the size of his face. The pod’s emergency aid kit was no help. The o
rdinary stuff was fine, but sealed containers full of hypos labelled with meaningless names were beyond him and he didn’t dare experiment. Low level painkillers helped a bit, but Sam had a raging thirst. Dehydration was bad news he realised sagely, he needed water. There were galleys close and Sam had become an expert scavenger. It wasn’t anything drastic, was it?

  He knew what to do, he’d had his instructions, wait, don’t move, you’ll get caught.

  But nipping back up the strut shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.

  Sam was Donn and now, thanks to Mark, he knew the score.

  The feeling that Mark might be a man who ran on a short fuse nailed him to his pod.

  At first. But not for long. He was really thirsty.

  He snuffled snot, stubbed his nose, and gagged. That did it, what the hell?

  Sam jack-knifed with a groan, reached out and sprang the release on the pod.

  * * *

  Astro-Engineers (Mechanical Corps) were notoriously unobservant unless their noses were buried in whatever intricate device they were currently working on. Give them an engine and you could rob a bank in front of them. However even a dedicated Mech-tech, like Tick, couldn’t miss what awaited him as, half asleep, he left the flight bays that night.

  He’d just seen off the second wave of WuVane’s lumbering transports after spending his day checking their cargo, short-range drones and spy-eyes, and the heavy-duty Multi-Purpose Vehicles, good for land, sea and air. The early shift would deal with the massive troop transports. Tick didn’t really enjoy the big birds, still a ship was a ship, when all was said and done and it was good to keep your hand in. His first love, though, would always be working with the graceful Glo-white fighters. When he’d finished his shift, he’d hung back to help kit out on the next Glo-white Flights due to fly the Games. Love those birdies.

  It was over at last, all finished, all serviced, all good to go.

  Tick and his friends had lingered to see their work fly off from the bay’s View. There were no words to describe how that felt. Those were their ships, not Krystie’s ships, or Stanson’s ships, but their ships and they’d personally checked every nut, bolt and weld on them. They’d cheered, and then some of them had shot off to Refreshment B, the one with the surround screens, to watch the Games kick-off. Usually you’d never have stopped Tick from catching the start but after working almost a double shift he was bone weary.

  More or less contented, he sauntered off to collect his mobile hover-truck from the communal park at the rear of the bays, and pack up his tools. Rounding the corner of the big storage locker behind which he’d stowed it, he stopped dead. A vaguely preoccupied looking man was lolling drunkenly over Tick’s tool-truck wearing nothing but a gung-ho grin, an embarrassingly skinny under-suit and space-boots. The boots were the giveaway. They were tagged Red Flight issue, about size thirteen large-leg fastening, space-weighted. Brand new.

  Wearing those he was definitely a pilot. If a little lost.

  “Hello,” Tick experimented, sidling possessively closer. A Mech-tech’s tool-truck cost a fortune and took a lifetime to fill with personalised tools. “Can I help you?”

  For a moment the pilot just stared then he drew himself up.

  “Nope. I’m on a mission. I’m good. Thanks.”

  “No you’re not,” Tick objected. He nodded at the boots. “You’re Red Flight. You guys took off for the field ages ago.” Probably not tactful to mention the mode of dress.

  “Orders,” explained the pilot, tapping his nose. “Wait twenty minutes, and then take these to Timmis on the bridge for the Admiral’s attention. The Captain said so.”

  Tick hesitated. Line-command in Flight went Flight Commander, Wing Leader, Squad Leader and Pilot. No Captains. He’d watched Red Flight take off, flying like the beauties they were, not a pilot had missed a beat, and expertise in a Glo-white wasn’t something you picked up overnight, so unless someone else flight-trained was flying there was a problem. All the ships were accounted for, ten ships to a Flight, two Flights to a Squad, Five Squads to a Wing, and a Squad, Red and Green Flights, twenty Glo-whites, had soared off to dance in space around Harth Norn. Lastly, most puzzling, the crazy pilot was clutching a tiny data-dot and a nasty looking double-barrel rifle and Tick had no idea who Timmis was.

  “You know what?” he said, backing cautiously off, “You stay here and I’ll get the Deck Officer. Right?” No answer. “Ok?” Louder. “You stay there, while I get...”

  “Timmis,” agreed the pilot happily. He beamed. “For the Admiral. That’s right.”

  * * *

  “There you go.” Ellis sounded thin and hollow. “See?” Flashing the scrap of metal hanging around her neck at the raised slot in the wall-panel, she started to slide it in.

  “Don’t!” Harris seized her wrist. “We do not want to unlock that.”

  “That’s all we need.” Wearily propping up the wall, Jenson flashed his torch, together with martyred eyes, at the roof. “Killer opening the tomb and freeing the family ghoul.”

  “Your boss wanted to know what was behind that door,” she pointed out and then relented. “Over reaction, just checking I was right, my key can’t do that on its own.” Shaking free she dropped the key under the soft material of her shirt, twitching it home on the leather thong she used to hang it around her neck. “Ain’t going to happen. No way.”

  Jenson flashed his torch in her eyes. “For sure?”

  She flinched. “Stop it. Yes. For sure.”

  “Why?” He was remorseless.

  “Enough, children.” Tam grabbed the torch. “Ellis’ word is good. Back off.”

  Even the normally unrufflable Harris was edgy. Everybody sensed that there was something weirdly nearby. A clue might’ve been the baleful red light flickering rhythmically on the panel next to the keyhole, and the array of flickering lights suggesting functions like life-support-for-dragons and press-here-for-voracious-giant-creepy-crawlies-you-really-do-not-want-to-wake-up. Other than that, the lock stood at chest height on the side of a totally unremarkable, if deep and dusty, alcove set back from the main passage. Its rear wall was occupied by grimy metal panel, thick and heavy, ergo a dirty big door.

  “If we don’t know what’s in there,” said Jenson, straightening up with a distinct creak, “that’s mission unaccomplished in my book. Reckon the boss’ll think the same?”

  “It’s late and I’m not sure even a deep-scan will tell us that, H. We should be back at the ship to activate the cloak by daylight.” Tam returned Jenson’s torch by ramming it hard against his chest and not waiting for the oof. It was a nuisance but the ZR would be more secure. “Come on, let’s go home and rest. You got this location noted on the chart?”

  “Fine by me.” Ellis scowled at Jenson. “First off, use your eyes, both of you, really use them and tell me what you notice. Then you can tell me why my key won’t work.”

  Flashing his own torch at the dilapidated panel, Harris had to admit he couldn’t see anything. Frankly, the antiquated technology beat him; it was hardly recognisable as a lock.

  “Bog standard magnetic drop?” Jenson joined Tam in the alcove. “Lead anganite?”

  Ellis had mizzled in the murk and Tam swore under his breath. He wished she wouldn’t play that trick on them, they were supposed to be the good guys.

  “Well, I still can’t see it,” grumbled Jenson. “Where’s she gone now?”

  Harris shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “This time I am going to strangle her. You hear that, Killer?”

  “No problem, you do that.” Tam snarled and returned to the controls. “Only you can tell your mate Macluan because I’m not going to.” He raised his voice. “Ellis? Play nice! Come tell us what you’re talking about before I lose my temper and use Jenson’s head on it.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” advised Ellis from somewhere close. “If you muck about there you’re likely to set off alarms and I’d like to get out without springing any naughty Autocracy traps. In f
act, I wouldn’t step back or move much at all if I were either of you.”

  Two statues stared at the key panel. Jenson later denied holding his breath.

  “I’m behind you,” she breathed. “Turn on the spot, very slowly, watch your feet.”

  They shuffled round. She stood on the other side, leaning her shoulders against the other lock, arms folded and a pitying look on her face. “You didn’t think Rocket would’ve already set off any booby-traps if they existed, you pair of dings? He ripped off a key for pity’s sake. It’s on a different circuit, and no way can what’s in there detect us out here.”

  They were patient men but you could push them too far.

  The expression on their faces told Ellis she’d just about crossed that line.

  “Ok, fine, sorry, fine.” She threw up her hands and stepped smartly aside to reveal the opposite side of the alcove. “See here? What’s this?” Gingerly rapping a twin control panel with her knuckles. “Magnetic drop and seal? Heavy anganite? Balanced counterpart? Right here. What does that say? Does it or does it not say this-is-just-about-the-oldest-trick-in-the-book? Whatever’s inside is nasty all right, no doubts there, they made sure it couldn’t escape or be let out by accident. This is a double-secured cell. It needs two separate keys used simultaneously. And the other key is not on any hook near here. I just looked.”

  * * *

  Bridge Communications were sitting on a time bomb and the clock was definitely ticking down. Three more wheel sightings on the other side of Harth Norn had been recently logged and the ships were approaching fast on a direct trajectory. The planet’s navy-blue globe now occupied a fair slice of the Vista View, enhancing two Flights of Glo-whites dancing across it. Their grace made Kent uneasy and dizzy as did the frantically bobbing heads of scientific wizards from Evermore monitoring performance bobbing about.

  At the station beside her, Timmis worked like a fiend.

  Timmis wasn’t just good at his job he was the capital-lettered best. When he trained her, she watched, asked relevant questions, learned and, from time to time, grew so absorbed she forgot to use her impressive battery of feminine wiles. Sometimes, nowadays, they shared a workload and checked it together. Kent could see Timmis’ pending stack gathering height automatically with irritatingly neglected clicks. Her own work was up-to date, logs were current and she’d cleared the buffers and combed the interfaces. Perhaps she could help him.