That only left Sam wavering uncertainly in front of them.
“Sit,” said Jenson. He shot out a hand, palm up, and dropped it. “I said sit.”
Sam peered dizzily before his befuddled head decoded the command, and then, nodding obediently, he folded up like an exhausted puppy. A moment after that, with a soft sigh, he keeled over onto one side and curled up. In his maltreated stomach Phytomine wallowed, lost a scrap with bad beer over the concussion and bade him goodnight.
“Oh no,” groaned Harris.
“I’m not carrying it a step if it can’t walk,” threatened Jenson.
There was a soft sigh from Dyssa and she moaned and dry retched.
“Are you ok, sweetheart?” Harris checked, but stopped when she cringed.
Jenson chucked her a sour glance. “Tell me again why you decided to bring her?”
Tam frowned. The maltreated little waitress who Sam had admitted had got him out of the inn safely? Had she been trying to tell them something? It would certainly explain why she’d stuck around if she had. She’d been lying in the muck and the rain by the rain-butt, with Sam trying half-heartedly to prop her up against the wall. Every so often she’d twitched, and her lips had twisted into a gurn of agony. Harris looked up into the rainy night and found he was calculating how many years she could give his girls. About five or six at best, he reckoned. He compared the sunny faces of his two daughters with this child’s dark clouds and wondered what kind of life she had lost. “She’s here because I won’t leave her behind.”
Jenson nodded into the darkness. “Ok then.”
Dyssa’s eyelids flew wide, her mouth opened and shut.
She thrashed from side to side.
Ropes of tendon in her neck stood out like pulley-chains. Scrambling to her feet she stood, facing the lumpy wall. Tam tried to catch her but she hit him and staggered off into the dark of the byre’s corner. He ended up, behind her, circling, arms flung wide.
For a while she did nothing, and he started to relax.
“What the hell is she doing? What’s over there?” Jenson watched in horror.
“Can’t you guess?”
With a sob, Dyssa tried to walk through the byre’s wall.
The worst thing was that when she rebounded, she just kept on trying.
Jenson let his breath go and then realised he’d been holding it. “That bloody Dome.”
* * *
Ellis lay on her side on a gritty floor and scraped together the shredded remnants of self, strand by strand, until she’d woven a barrier blocking out the pounding Dome. Imperious’ medics had pumped out most of the drug but Introven’s scars ran deep. She struggled up and tried to touch her temple but her wrists were in binders. “What happened?”
Not out loud, please, we are being strictly supervised.
She squinted at the straight black-clad backs of the two guards she could just make out stationed on each side of the other side of the shimmering barrier across the door and scrubbed dirt out of her eyes with the heel of her hands. It wasn’t a cell, she suddenly realised in a kind of sinking horror; it was one of the waiting rooms attached to the cryogenic instillation chambers in the Dome. Two hundred years ago she’d been herded into a similar room, rough-hewn stone though the brackish stench of fetid decay had faded over two centuries. This is the Dome, isn’t? They’ve brought us back to the Dome.
Right first time. Mark was sitting beside and not so far away from her with his shoulders propped against the wall and his bound hands resting loosely on his raised knees. He looked round as she moved and said out loud, “Are you all right now?”
Her head wasn’t clearing fast enough, and the drumming echo of ghostly Introven still relayed its orders. She shut it down, slammed and bolted the door... What happened?
You collapsed. It was, he considered, looking away, interesting. She’d terrified him, and the iron need to do something about it, to attack on her behalf was worse. It was as he had feared, the nearer he got, the fiercer the Ritual compulsion. She was a candle-flame in the dark and he couldn’t, daren’t, touch her because it would burn them both to cinders.
And if Mark couldn’t think straight they’d never get out of this.
Outside their cell, the guards exchanged wary glances and wished Minon hadn’t insisted on using a clear force-field so the couple were visible. They’d heard stories about the Donn and what damage they inflicted on people who tried to hold them against their will.
What happened? Mark spat so violently he shocked himself.
Ellis stared anywhere but at him. The sleepers are waking up. They’ve activated the Dome. We are being given our instructions; I can still hear it.
So you can’t concentrate?
I can handle it, thank you. I won’t let you down.
The air between them froze solid.
You should’ve got out with Harris and Jenson, she said.
Oh yes, so I should, what a great idea. Almost as good as you staying on the ship.
There was a soft gasp and a guard glanced behind, then quickly away. Both Donn were leaning against the rear of the cell facing the door; their faces were white, spiteful and immobile. It was creepy. It made you jumpy. He shrugged at his colleague and pulled a nervous face. They were doing something, the Donn, but no one could tell what. By the look of them they could be trying to bore a hole through the force-field with their eyes.
So who are we expecting? Ellis asked coolly after a lifetime.
Probably Emir Carolli eventually, possibly the other one first.
His name’s Dandy Minon. Who was the brat with Harris?
Sam Nevus, he’s Donn, believe it or not. I’m pretty sure they got out and are waiting for us before they lift off. Sam’s new and scared but he’s our link to home. We’ll need a second relay now that they’ve got us both. It wasn’t meant as an accusation, it was merely a thought process, but it came out wrong. Hearing it, he squirmed.
Her chin jutted dangerously. Donn? Where did you find him?
As she tilted her head Mark caught a telltale glimpse of a leather thong around her neck under her shirt and his heart stopped. Tell me you left your key back at the ZR.
I left my key at the ZR.
In the resultant silence both guards shifted as if a cold knife had scraped their spines.
I think you’d better cash in your Sam and tell them to leave.
I know, he said bitterly, I have eyes and so has Carolli. You won’t hide it for long.
I’m sorry.
There was no answer to that. He leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes in despair. From the passages came a telltale scraping that evened out into firm footsteps, both guards drew to attention. There’s someone coming. Will you be ok with the guards while I try to get a message through? Can you manage that much? He was desperately worried about her link with the Dome. He could taste and feel her fear and it scared him. Again the words came out wrong. Everything he said or did came out wrong.
You just watch me.
The guard glanced over his shoulder again, catching a sudden scuffling noise from inside the room. The whites of his eyes rolled like a shying horse and he jerked his head at the other man. The prisoners had scrambled to their feet and were standing shoulder to shoulder, staring expectantly past them down into the oncoming murky shadows in the dimly lit passage beyond. In a kind of dumb play the male shook his head once in a sort of resigned and mocking disbelief, and the female glanced up at him sideways like a shy schoolgirl in her first crush, then, abruptly, they transferred twin gazes back to the passage beyond.
It was as if they were boring through the guards and the walls beyond.
The guard licked dry lips.
Dandy Minon, flanked by officious looking guards, drew to a halt just before the cell, nodding at the pair of sentinels. He was fresh tricked out in his brand new official uniform with a white flash covered his injured ear denoting a high level implant. He had no implant, by the way, just the flash and delusi
ons of grandeur, but Carolli had promised him the implant to match the flash when his ear had healed sufficiently. There was a painful purple/yellow bruise disfiguring most of his chin, his nose was bulbous and a cut slashed half his cheekbone. None of it mattered. He was reborn, Colonel Dandy Minon on a mission.
And the mission was trapped in the room beyond.
All he had to do was entertain a pair of injured Donn.
Perfect.
* * *
“Who had the bright idea of us moving nearer the Dome and further away from that inn?” demanded Jenson, struggling to keep his balance on the steep animal track.
“You did.” In the lead, Harris put his head down and toiled doggedly up and onto the brow of the last hill before they reached the ZR. He was praying that the enemy was too busy to have set up another ambush because he seriously doubted they’d cope. As he shifted Dyssa on his shoulder and the burden bumped awkwardly against his back, he flexed exhausted muscles. He was lucky she’d passed out or they’d never have got her back to the ship.
“Hang on,” called HStJ. “Sam seems to believe he can walk now.”
Jenson and Sam had got closer than Jenson had ever wanted to get to anyone. A dazed mumbling came from behind, and a thump followed closely by scuffling and low voices.
Tam Harris did not turn around.
As the pair behind decided that Sam could stagger without support, he waited patiently on the brow and watched misty lavender dawn creeping over the ocean. The cloud was clearing and soon there was going to be an orange sun burning off the mist. Perhaps it was symbolic. Perhaps a more optimistic philosophy was called for. Perhaps their luck, abysmal so far, was changing and Mark and Ellis would be at the ZR nagging them about being late. Sleepy and groggy he might be, but Sam was still alive and aware, well, sometimes, enough to show willing at any rate. That was positive because Tam had started to worry that there was far more wrong with Sam than curdling beer and Phytomine. Oh yes, and the other good thing was that their faltering progress to the ship gave Tam ample time to catch his breath on the walk. So you see, life wasn’t all black and grim, was it?
Jenson overtook on the inside wearing Sam like a cloak. “I was never,” he complained bitterly, “cut out for running a crèche. That’s why I went to the Military Academy and majored in Flight. Next time,” nodding at Tam’s burden, “I get the pretty one.”
“It could be worse.”
“How?” demanded Jenson indignantly, not braking as he incautiously began their final descent. “How could it be worse? I’m telling you, Tam Harris, there is only one thing guaranteed to make me smile. You. You just volunteered to nurse the zonked-out communications stations here when we get to the ZR. Pilot at work, no more babysitting.”
“Yes,” agreed Tam pensively. “We’ll need him to talk to Mark. I’ll bet you any money two diversions at the inn equals Ellis not at home. I only hope she managed to fix that misfiring cloak before she ran out on us. Oh yes, we’ll need Sam all right.”
“Fine.” The pilot stumbled, losing his balance as well as his hold on Sam who fell with a thud to roll down rough turf. Jenson watched, hands on hips. “You hear that, Sammy boy, you’re up as soon as we get home? He can do that with two broken legs, can he?”
Chapter Forty-three
The Domes were alive; the sleepers free, stepping out of a nightmare into the Autocracy dream. Mass produced cannon fodder. Every revitalised warrior, each braindead soul only saw their mission. It was their world, the word and the meaning of the law.
There were no exceptions. No relations, no relatives, no souls.
No identity. No gender. No life. No value. Each was a cold instrument.
Opponents were scythed and the troops swarmed over the stubble, armed with cantankerous S-II Autos amongst other guns they would never have recognised in their right minds. The guns were rusted and mouldy and some were useless except as clubs. About half recoiled, lethal to soldier and victim alike. Sleepers who failed to find or hold defunct arms picked up alternatives along the way and wielded anything handy with eerie efficiency.
Deviants, anyone who had woken early like Ellis or Dyssa and their peers, or whose command programme had been corrupted, were valueless. Rejects, defective, trash to be discarded. Anything less than a perfect soldier was somehow sensed and ruthlessly dispatched. Mothers watched dispassionately as their children fell and were clubbed or shot to death. None screamed as they died, like rubbish they were merely stepped over or kicked out of the way while still twitching and gasping. Nobody stopped. Nobody cared.
The troops flowed onwards with precise purpose in utter silence.
Nothing stood in their way and lived.
In the amber dawn of Harth Norn the grisly army swarmed.
And they never made a sound.
* * *
Sam opened his eyes. His stomach fizzed. He clamped his jaw and ground his teeth.
“Oh no,” he moaned.
“Oh yes,” disagreed someone crisply.
He was grabbed and a beaker was pressed against his lips. Sam squinted down his nose. The contents were green and stank, he wriggled away.
“Drink,” ordered Tam Harris. “It’ll settle the upset tummy. I think I’ve sorted out the worst of your concussion, by the way, though you’ll need a nap, but the next time you have a headache like that you do not go out to play. You’re lucky to be still with us.”
Sam sipped and gagged but Harris was pitiless and he gulped and dribbled.
“Nice,” congratulated Tam.
Dyssa sprawled on the opposite bunk strapped down by secure webbing. An empty hypo and a scattered box of medical capsules were witnesses to an epic fight and the cabin looked as if it had been the epicentre of a tornado. Sam eyed the wreckage sheepishly, hoping he hadn’t caused the mess while he gingerly prodded at gaping holes in his memory.
“Is she ok? I’m sorry,” humbly. “Was that me?”
“No,” Tam straightened up, replacing the beaker in the dispenser. “It was your friend there. I’ve knocked her out but I don’t know how long she’ll stay that way.” His face was flat. It had taken Harris and Jenson to hold her down while they pumped her full of enough sedative to stop an army. “Perhaps we should move you onto the bridge now you’re awake and feeling better,” he pondered out loud, worried about consequences if Dyssa woke and went berserk again. “What do you reckon? Easier to yell when Mark calls? Sam?”
But Sam, acting on nice Mr Harris’ advice, was taking a nap.
* * *
Life for General WuVane was full of Zombie-like Autocracy troops laying claim to his patch. The communications situation was heart-breaking. The Operational CO seemed to believe his people knew exactly what they were doing but, oddly enough, it didn’t look that way. For a few fragrant moments not so long ago the link with Imperious had been close enough to clutch and the harassed team-leader had been euphoric before it had simply slithered away again. The signal was slip-streaming, frustratingly not quite catching, and the nets they repeatedly cast couldn’t be maintained long enough to catch and hold it. They needed Imperious to boost the call sign through various micro-steps and modulated frequencies but had no way of letting her know. Silence left them fighting blind.
They’d recently picked up on-planet relays that suggested two main Tokker muster-points. The first consisted of neo-Autocracy squads forming a defensive perimeter around the original Dome and the second was for revived Dome people and they were heading...
“Here, Sir,” pronounced the anguished CO. “They’re coming here.”
The General looked at him and whatever the Giag felt it wasn’t escaping.
It had once seemed such a small beachhead...
Air outside the comms-array pounded with synchronised marching, quiet, deadly. Somewhere close an S-II Auto fired a staccato barrage with a whooshing zoom.
There was a crash, the raucous noise of shouts and feet and more pounding fire.
WuVane did not waste his time swearing th
is time.
“Tell me when we’re through to base,” he snarled and returned to his command.
* * *
Dandy Minon was upset. This was the classic scene where two of the guards held the first prisoner and Minon goaded him or her just for laughs, while the other two guards held the second prisoner who caved, weeping, vicariously tortured by the damage inflicted on his or her partner. The trouble was that he was the only one who’d read the script. Patently it wasn’t working and, frankly, Minon was terribly disenchanted with the performance.
He revolved thoughtfully to Mark, one heel digging grit.
“You’re very cool, Captain Macluan,” he grated. “I was told that pair-bonded Donn were insanely over protective. It seems not. Are you not concerned for your mate?”
Minon gained the distinct impression that Mark’s attention was swirling back from a distant galaxy. “Of course,” he replied vaguely, as if Minon had asked him to pass the salt and he couldn’t find it. There’s something wrong with Sam, he’s not replying.
I’ve got Minon, you get Sam. “Hey! I’m not an animal. How would you like to be called mated?” For a second Dandy looked down at Ellis as if she was an insect, a very suspicious, insignificant insect, then his gaze slid back to Mark. “Or perhaps,” she added quickly, “that’s your problem. You never did get the chance to find out, did you?”
It wasn’t the snappiest riposte but it carried the sting of truth.
The stony eyes returned to Ellis.
She should’ve known better, should’ve realised. A sallow matchstick, with a false Shiny Ear, no hair and raging halitosis, he was as much of a Reject as Ellis. How was Minon to know that taunting Mark wouldn’t work beyond triggering common decency? If Macluan’s irritation and barely polite indifference was just an act, it was a good one.
Ellis started to feel queasy.
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 30
