“Shouldn’t we have asked them some questions first?” asked Sam dubiously.
“No. No need. I know what I need to know.”
“Should we tie them up?”
“Waste of time. They don’t matter and we need to get you to the inn.” Catching the boy’s numb arm, Mark tugged him ruthlessly towards Beven’s. “Come on, this way.”
After a while Sam’s legs began to work properly and Mark dropped the arm.
They forged on. The lights of the village reflected by the sea began to glow. By the edge of the thinning forests, on the brow of the final hill they finally looked down on the tiny cramped streets zigzagging to the harbour. Here Mark drew an unresisting Sam into shadows.
“From here, you must be very careful,” he warned seriously. “Especially when we get to the inn. It’s dangerous. I’m going to change how people see me. I want you to look away, I’ll look a bit fuzzy to you but no one else will see the real me. Don’t worry, ok?”
Mark was stressing. Sam knew the telltale signs from Soren. He stared at his feet.
They throbbed. He could feel them. The whole world was throbbing. Vibrating like a boom-box. He clapped hands over his ears and gritted his teeth. “Was that you?”
“No. It was not.” Mark’s voice was flat and grim. Something had happened but he wasn’t certain what and how Sam had picked it up, he had no idea. He’d sensed a thunderous kickback of a pulse through Ellis’s reaction, and now he was absolutely positive that she was very close to the inn. He took a shaken breath and shucked on his mask. “You can look now,” added an older, squatter man, unshaven and unkempt. “Remember what I told you.”
Sam looked. He could see through the mask to the Mark underneath. It was like watching a real-time visual echo, as if someone superimposed one image on another. He felt sick as if his stomach rebelled at the sight, and acid rose in his throat. He swayed. Biting back rising bile, he stared at Mark with round unfocussed eyes. “I need a drink.”
He meant something to take the bad taste out of his mouth.
“You need water,” snapped Mark, irritated again.
The boy’s head had started orbiting his neck and he couldn’t feel his fingers. He nodded gravely but everything was a long, long way away. He turned to the village below. It danced and there were two lots of every light. “Will I be able to make a mask one day?”
Mark sighed. “Yes, but I hope you won’t have to, and Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Not tonight.”
* * *
Tye Beven, lord of his manor, strolled the first floor landing of the inn, stooped and poked a drooping Tu-tu plant at the top of the stairs. There was a faint crash and rumble from the bar below and Tye scowled. Sheek would have to make good the damage. He was a fair steward for a Giag but sometimes his eye wandered and Beven’s nose for trouble was itching badly. From behind the door at the top of the stair came muffled pounding. Tye bent closer with a creak of the corsets he’d taken to wearing lately. Heavy thumps seeped through the thick wood veneer. That didn’t sound good, not good at all, nor did a full-blown groan.
Minon’s at the girls again, he thought, I’ll kill him this time.
Grabbing his master key from his belt, he unlocked the door and bullied in.
Three Dome women had been dressing for their duties on the floor.
Two wore more than the other. Heads cocked as if listening, they were facing the same wall, hammering with bleeding fists. The Dome lay beyond that wall. Before Tye could move they arched their backs, and moaned. One fell, twitching; the others turned on her.
Kicking, hissing, a snake’s strike.
And it was very bad news, those women had to work.
Beven licked his lips. Locking the door behind him, he unbuckled his belt.
Afterwards he locked the door behind him again before he walked away.
* * *
“Look there,” said Jenson, craning forward to look harder at a commotion by the side of the bar. “You don’t often see that. I always wondered about Beven’s staff training.”
Over in the alcove leading to the kitchen passage the Dome called and Dyssa, waiting until her call to the stage, flailed helplessly. As Sheek tried to haul her away, she attacked with a limp desperate ferocity but was flung hard against the wall by a huge backhand and fell clutching her tray wildly. The Giag hauled her upright by her thin arm, clamping a huge paw across her mouth. They vanished into shadows of the kitchen passage.
Tam was only half listening. Primarily engaged in sipping a drink that tasted like mud, he’d noticed something odd about the bar-room. It contained an awful lot of men who seemed to be creating a loose-linked corral between their table and the door. “What?”
“Over there,” said Jenson. “That little waitress had a fit or something. You know,” he tacked on darkly, “watching staff training might be more instructive than the floorshow. I don’t like this place; I wasn’t keen the first time. We need to get going and get out.”
“You were the one who said let’s be punters, act casual and talk to people first. I said it was risky and we should just go looking,” Tam pointed out crisply. “This is on you.”
“Hello there,” said a voice and Harris jumped, staring up into the face of a bald man who, at a pinch, might be the same one who’d led the ZR’s stake-out that morning. “You’ve got a good view of the stage from there and I have a friend performing. Mind if I join you?”
Jenson shrugged. “Oh,” he said. “Right, yes, fine. Please do. Help yourself.”
* * *
Time is a great leveller, cruel, savage, inexorable, but a great leveller.
The once great and powerful Autocracy had died painfully, fading, in agony.
Their legacy was deeply flawed.
System architecture on Harth Norn supported the last desperate Autocracy attempt to win the war by harnessing erstwhile unattainable sonic weaponry, and it had corroded. It never had been more than a botched job and it had been neglected for over two hundred years. The sorry results limped through an integral circuit linked to the controls of creature’s prison. It was perfectly possible for it to scan the data through a complicated neural network and wall panels. It did, of course it did. Perhaps that capability had slipped Carolli’s mind.
The wheels were close, victory’s breath was warm. Perhaps he didn’t care.
To him the creature was only a means to an end, part of a beautiful machine.
But it was very much more than that.
And it might be mad but it wasn’t brainless.
It fully appreciated the implications and it blamed Carolli.
Close enough for communications to be relatively secure, the Baron listened, largely unfazed by the ranting. The experiment had begun over two centuries previously, he reminded it, serenely patronising a lesser being, and wastage was to be expected. There was no way to recoup the losses, there never had been, so why worry? The creature was aghast, both by the abysmal outcome and Carolli’s cavalier attitude. Any loss was unacceptable.
Scientific heads would’ve rolled if they hadn’t already rotted.
The only head left was Carolli’s and he would pay. How he would pay.
The mind had marinated in vitriol for years, it was almost as good at hating as he was.
This wouldn’t do, the creature seethed and thrashed.
It was Emir Carolli’s fault and it would not do.
Chapter Thirty-nine
General WuVane’s Groundhogs had established a beachhead at Long Island Air Traffic Control centre. Communications was already up to speed and they’d started scrutinising inter-island infrastructure for signals with Autocracy codes. Nothing took off or landed without Union permission, some essential water traffic was being permitted but civilian movement was restricted. Patrols had been dispatched and they were preparing to advance on Beven’s Dome, the hub of a tightening noose, using the ubiquitous Multi-Purpose-Vehicles and co-opted native craft. It had seemed a good plan at the
time.
They were doing fine until the earth had a coughing fit.
General WuVane was not a happy Giag.
The earthquake had showed up Harth Norn’s seriously lackadaisical approach to safe architecture and buried a large percentage of WuVane’s pre-fabricated Communication control-banks under rubble. The ATC tower, nearest the epicentre, looked more like a drunken spike leaning on a handy heap of debris, and the space-docks and harbours were pocked by deep jagged fissures. Communications had set up their banks in the tower, piggy-backing on the ATC power and their energy cells had been trashed, along with many of the mobile terminal banks and some delicate, essential instruments. In the last seconds before the quake several spikes on virtually unintelligible frequencies had been detected, which the final contact with Imperious had verified. She’d detected vibrant echoes and was going to track...
That was the last they’d heard from Imperious.
Long story short, communications were down, on-planet or off.
The Groundhogs were cut off.
WuVane supposed the returning Glo-white escort would give Krystie some information. But on the last contact they’d been tracking what looked like triads of Darts pouring out from the fourth moon, forming a barricade between Harth Norn and Imperious.
He wasn’t sanguine.
Having just wound down from that blow he was surprised by Ground Ops Leader 1 reporting the loss of an MPV. A super-kitted Multi-Purpose-Vehicle was big enough to be pretty visible but no one had seen it. It was a larger sophisticated model, a small tank, lightly armed, able to traverse land, sea and, at a pinch, a short-space flight to enable an emergency off-planet escape. It was impossible. You couldn’t lose an MPV-Super just like that.
To lose one on WuVane’s watch was suicidal.
Heads weren’t rolling so much as bouncing.
The General didn’t waste energy speculating about the thief’s identity, he was certain it was Carolli, and guessed that by the time they’d started searching Imperious the Baron had already left. WuVane couldn’t warn Krystie, there was no way to send or receive orders.
General WuVane wanted planet-to-ship communications reinstated.
Today. Now. This minute. Oh, and if anyone should happen to spot the MPV...
* * *
Close up Tye Beven’s inn was a lot bigger and squarer than Ellis remembered, more solid, a bit like the mountainous doormen stationed just inside the door. The force of the Dome’s pulse lingered sickly, a throbbing hangover of a threat, but she squared her shoulders, picked her moment, and tucked in behind a bunch of roistering customers. Making rapidly for a bolthole under the side-stairs, once her own stairwell, she settled to watch. Snoo smoke tickled, her eyes started watering starbursts and she clutched a beam and rocked.
You’re not free, rumbled the Dome in her head, soon the last call will come.
It wasn’t hard to imagine what that summons was like for the others.
She forced herself back to the task in hand, find and warn Tam and Jenson to leave.
Oh yes, and give them the key.
That would be the key that had to be kept safe at all costs.
Specifically the key that she should not have brought here under any circumstances.
By the time she’d remembered it was round her neck it was too late. The Dome had called and the thong had all but strangled her. There was no going back. It was small comfort that if she reached Tam before Mark arrived, Macluan would never have to know what an idiot she was. A prize, stupid, Rejected idiot. He’d been right to turn away.
It didn’t take long to locate them and she groaned. They were at a table in the front by the stage, behind the spotlight but directly in Sheek’s eye-line and in his favourite UT hotspot. Nice work. She saw Harris beckon a waitress she’d never seen before and tensed. Perhaps the Dome left an invisible marker on you or perhaps it was the girl’s cringing stoicism, but Ellis was certain that she came from the Dome. No more than a child, pink and white and golden and oddly delicate, a stray wind would have bowled her over. She was just a little girl, thought Ellis fiercely, her revolted gut twisting cruelly, just a little girl who should have been dreaming about her first boyfriend or studying for her final examinations.
Ellis marked Dyssa for salvation.
That was when she noticed who was drinking with Jenson and Harris.
Life went very dark.
Running an expert eye over the crowd that thronged the floor, her plans streamlined dramatically. Given the firecracker mob out there, they might need one hell of a diversion. She glowered malevolently at the Tri-D of the human blonde, the Psamin and the Dimitrion. She’d never liked it, it was disgusting, and image-fazers were ever so easy to manipulate when your time was running out and you had all the energy of a corpse.
* * *
Their waitress had turned out to be the girl the Giag had captured. The red welts travelling her jawline made Tam’s skin crawl and she’d looked terrified. Probably with good reason. They’d given their order but she’d been gone a long time. Time enough for Harris to spot the telltale bulk of a rifle under the coat worn by their new friend. He was armed.
Surprise, surprise. Tam quirked a brow at Jenson.
Jenson knew very well what was coming. It was so old it had warts. What he didn’t understand was why Minon was pussy-footing around with the softly-softly approach. Best get it over and done with. He leaned back on his chair, sighed and folded his hands across his chest. “I’ll have what they had.” Jabbing one lazy finger up at the looming Tri-D of the peroxide blonde, the Psamin and the Dimitrion. “Any time before next year would be good.”
There was a moment of collective contemplation.
Harris sighed. “Those beers are being brewed from scratch.” He clambered reluctantly to his feet. “I’ll just roll up to the bar and fetch us a bottle, shall I? It’ll be quicker.”
“Please yourself, but she’ll be back.” Dandy knew they had no way out.
Smiling a distant and dehydrated smile, Tam just turned on his heel and mizzled into the crowd. It was amazing how a big man like Tam Harris could melt when he chose.
Minon locked on to Jenson. “I could swear I’ve seen you here before.”
“Strong family likeness,” said Jenson. “What’s up with your ear?”
* * *
Trundling a sad path between customer and bar, somebody tugged Dyssa’s elbow, grabbed her tray and dragged her under the cover of the back stairwell. “Hey! Don’t...”
She stopped breathing and goggled at her captor.
“No, I don’t belong here,” said the woman. “Neither, I think, do you.”
The attack was so unexpected it worked.
“What’s your name?” asked the woman urgently. “I’m Ellis.”
“Dyssa,” gulped Dyssa. “At least that’s what they call me. It feels right.”
“Good,” nodded Ellis briskly. “If you like it and it feels right, it will do very well indeed. Now listen Dyssa, I want you to look me straight in the eye and concentrate…”
* * *
The bar was crowded. Tam shoved his way through heedlessly, trying, and failing, to spot an exit that wasn’t tactically blocked. Somebody knocked into him, accidentally spilling a quantity of sticky liquid down his jacket and he whipped round with a curse.
“I’m sorry,” panted a voice breathlessly. “Really sorry. Here...”
It was a strung-out, swaying kid in a wet-coat four sizes too big. “Don’t worry about it,” said Harris wearily, hastily deflecting the boy’s dabbing hand before it got embarrassing.
“Was that your drink he spilled?” asked a concerned voice. “We must get you another. Sam can be very clumsy at times but he means no harm. Was that a beer?”
Harris recognised the voice instantly. It belonged above Harth Norn in the Diplomatic Suite of Imperious and its owner was the last person he’d expected to meet here.
For a stunned second he looked around wildly. “Where the...?”
“I’m not at my debonair best,” replied Mark drily. “Just keep mopping and talk to Sam. This is Sam, by the way. Sam Nevus, this is my good friend Tam Harris.”
Harris grinned weakly at Sam, who blinked back owlishly. “Why are you here?”
“To tell you to get out, Carolli has the second key. I need you to get Ellis and her key, together with Sam, back to Imperious as soon as possible. Is she here yet?”
“She’s back at the ship,” said Tam, and realised it was a lie as soon he said it.
“We should be so lucky. Do you know who you’re drinking with?”
“A very unpleasant person?”
“He’s the one who got me last time, ditch him. He has a streamer. I’ll sweep the bar for Ellis and meet you back at the ship. Get out as quick and quiet as you can.”
A streamer, huh? A Donn specific weapon. Tam’s gaze hardened. “He has friends, observant friends, lots of them, stationed all round the floor. We’re trapped.”
There was a short silence. It swore telepathically.
“Isn’t it busy here?” Sam nervously started to mop again. “I’m so sorry.”
“Please don’t do that.” Tam removed the hand. That was the hideous moment when he saw Sam’s half-full flagon and got a scalding foretaste of red hell to come. Catching a whiff of filthy teenage boy, bad beer and grimy wet-coat, his nose wrinkled. “What the…”
“You’ll need to watch out for Sam,” said Mark. “He’s one of us, Donn, like me and Ellis, he has information Krystie needs and if my life goes tits up he can take messages to and from me. But he’s had a tough time, I gave him Phytomine for pain and he’s lifted off to la-la land. Sam, do exactly what Tam says and...” He noticed Sam’s flagon, the contents of which, to be absolutely fair, hadn’t actually impinged before. “Lose the beer, Sam.”
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 28
