He blinked into Eban Krystie’s shrewd green eyes.
His vocal chords shut down.
“So you’re the reason Macluan left us so precipitately are you?” One of them, anyway, allowed Krystie privately, it was a fair bet that the quest for Ellis’ key had not gone well. “Apparently you’re a mine of information about the Belthan coup, who can also contact him and tell us exactly what’s going on down there. Am I correct?”
Sam didn’t dare deny it but neither could he raise Mark.
Agonised he twisted, plaintive eyes pawing at Jenson.
Made of granite, Jenson did not respond. He was stuck on the bridge with Sam when he should have been in a Glo-white doing his job. Tam Harris was locked in medical stasis with a sixty-forty chance of survival, and Mark was trapped on a planet devastated by the explosive loss of most of a moon and infested with neo-Autocracy troops. If Sam didn’t deliver the goods he’d murder the boy himself and stand good for it in any court you liked.
“He’s still down there,” Sam ventured gamely.
Stanson strode up from the terminals and the two officers exchanged wary glances.
“Alive? Both of them?” demanded the Admiral. “You’re certain?”
Sam had never met Ellis Matheson. He’d only heard about her and he only knew they were together because Tam had said so. How would he know unless Mark told him?
He wanted to stamp and scream, if I could help, don’t you think I would? Mark’s all I’ve got left, he’s all I’ve got and he’s not answering. No, I’m not sure, but I want to be, I don’t know. The wail was as much a part of him as was his thundering pulse.
When he looked at Krystie he saw a relentless giant ready to sweep him away.
When he looked at the View he saw the looming wheels.
When he looked at the planet he saw heaving fury speckled by black insect-like ships.
When he looked for Mark, bawling the familiar signature, he got nothing.
And in the middle of it all Sam Nevus was lost.
* * *
In the Dome’s entrance chamber the sound of furious winds yowling for blood was muted. Outside the sky was ominously dark and sickly yellow and purple hurricane clouds bloomed out of nowhere playing chase across lavender skies, spitting hail and rocks and launching tornado after tornado. The ocean boom-boxed a bass-line and nowhere was safe.
Ellis shivered as static scraped her spine.
She was talking.
“Just let us through,” she reasoned. “This whole place is going up shortly. If we don’t leave it’ll take us with it. That means you as well, Minon, you’re no better off than us.”
He’s faking a Shiny Ear, said Mark dreamily, leaning heavily on the S-II.
You’ve got a gun.
I know.
“No one is leaving,” replied Minon evenly. He levelled his ten-spot at Mark.
So far as Ellis could tell if he fired at that range, at that angle, he’d get the legs again.
Mark took a wobbly pace forwards, disappointingly still using the S-II as a prop.
“This is your last chance,” he said, so softly it was difficult to make out the words against the wind-born mayhem. “I can’t be arsed to dicker and frankly we haven’t got the time. Nice ear flash. You’ve always wanted an implant, haven’t you? I can help with that. Only there won’t be anaesthetic as I ram your fake Shiny Ear into your brain. Now let us go.”
Slam Minon’s flash into his brain? Ellis never doubted he was capable of doing it without lifting a finger. She believed he would too and that was an awful lot worse.
“Don’t push him,” she begged Dandy. “Please.”
Licking his nervous lips, he stared past Ellis into Mark’s frozen eyes.
His finger twitched...
Ellis lunged, hurling him over, rolling, hopelessly tangled on grit.
Minon’s ten-spot spat, firing wild. Sparks ricocheted off the roof.
There was a hollow bang, a crack, Minon jerked, slumped, his head lolling limply against Ellis’ neck. The fake flash popped out of his ear and skittered forlornly, bouncing for a short way before collapsing like a spent coin to lie prone in the dirt and muck.
She struggled to breathe. Gravel bit her back and legs. Legs…
Blinking into vague mauve twilight she saw the dark swaying figure of a man kneeling next to her, hanging on for dear life to an upright S-II Auto, his forehead pressed against the muzzle as if at prayer. “Quicker that way,” he grunted, and she could hear his tortured spine creak. He was the same colour as Minon’s flash, dirty white, and blood trickled from a bitten lip. Gradually, fading in, Ellis became aware of an angry hum, far more urgent than the storm. The gun was alive. The trigger had activated as he’d used it to club the back of Minon’s skull. Hearing it too, Mark stared at the ticking-bomb gun in disbelief.
The hunter-mechanism had locked.
S-IIs been known to find their target through hydrogen detonations.
With a wrench Ellis sat up, shoving Minon’s limp body aside.
“Tell me he missed your bloody legs,” she gasped. “Mark?”
“Later.” Using Minon’s ten-spot he levered open the S-II’s trigger-house.
Chapter Forty-eight
Between Imperious, Harth Norn and the wheels battle raged.
The Union was not winning.
On Imperious’ bridge, between Sam and Krystie nothing happened, nobody spoke.
The Nevus boy’s hangdog attitude put Eban Krystie in mind of the first time he’d met Macluan, who’d been a pilot then and doing his level best to disappear in full sight. A skinny unreceptive young man, all height and no width, Krystie’d had to press a few buttons before he’d caught a whiff of dumb insolence cloaked in try-it-and-weep. It’d taken years to drum the underlying arrogance out of Macluan and often he wasn’t so very certain he’d entirely succeeded. This lad was no Macluan. Wing Leader Jenson claimed he had frozen under fire and blamed him for Harris’ injury. That was as it might be, but Sam wasn’t the first child to buckle when facing death too soon and fear was healthy and natural. Not everybody had the ability to shoot or even shoot straight and that was not the reason he’d been retrieved.
Sam was a trapped insect. Didn’t insects live faster than people? Wasn’t a second to a person a week to a blowfly or something? Time crawled for Sam while the bridge crew flashed past, never quite staring, every eye peeking. Imperious shuddered and he flinched. When he’d first glimpsed her from the ZR the great ship had seemed unbeatable, a behemoth, but nothing could withstand those wheels. In medical they’d had to treat Sam in a corridor, Harris’ stretcher had given up twice before the Biotech had locked it, and he could still taste burned metal and acid from docking bays that looked more like scrapheaps. The Admiral was a genial bear with sad wise eyes, and he could make a man believe in himself when nobody else did, but Sam wasn’t fooled. He needed Sam to provide him with vital data and Sam had none to give. It was too much, too much failure, too much loss. Soren was dead and since then Sam had lurched from disaster to disaster. What if he failed again? What would Soren say? That he’d died for nothing? What if Sam let all these people die? It couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. Soren had brought him up to sort out his own mess.
So Sam stared at his boots and concentrated on Mark as he never had before.
Where are you? We need you. I need you. Where are you? Please answer.
Far away, on Harth Norn’s angry blue/black globe, a spark ignited.
Something launched.
It shone and flared, shrank to a sharp dot, glowing white as it burned the whirling atmosphere of Harth Norn and drilled through the battle. Krystie spun, eyes narrowed.
On the main Communications banks relays flipped in quick succession as the CCO rapidly checked. “Projectile launched from area 24-03-58,” reported Boole.
Sam stumbled. His vision fizzed. Rock. Storm. Wet. Pain. Somebody was stabbing his hips using a pile driver to force the blade home. They shattere
d and he sagged.
A hand grabbed Sam’s shoulder. “Stand,” grated Jenson.
“My legs hurt,” Sam announced with deadly calm. “Admiral Krystie?”
“What?”
Sam’s white face creased. “They couldn’t stop it,” he burst out, shocking in his staccato ferocity. “Sorry, sir, so sorry. It’s what was behind the door with two keys. Six.” Knees buckled and he grabbed at Jenson. “Mark’s legs are shot, but he says it’s nothing to worry about, he’s a quick healer. They have to move. Fast. The earth is shifting.”
“We want that thing stopped,” decided Stanson.
“Then why aren’t you stopping it?” growled Krystie. “Sam, what is it?”
“There are rocks, lightning, the sea…”
“What is it?”
Sam lost his grip on everything but Mark. There was seawater in his mouth and it choked him, he spluttered hopelessly, dribbling and his rubber legs thrashed. “It makes them whole.” Words foamed past numb lips. “Psionic control. Wave-forcer makes them one not seven, instant reaction, collective target, no time lags, think it, do it, done. Like Donn. They’ll shoot together, seven. Too fast. Don’t let it through. Once it’s there it’s over.”
Krystie swung on the View. “That one,” he said, a finger jabbed at the central wheel.
Stanson was already spooling out rapid commands to battle weary fighters.
Glo-white fighters spun into place.
“They’re both alive.” Sam clambered up Jenson. “They are.”
“I know.” At a nod from Krystie, Jenson hauled Sam backwards, out of the way.
“That’s right,” mumbled Sam, dizzy and weak and gasping for air, shaking and leaning against the pilot. “They’re all right, I think …” Slumping he saw the View. He couldn’t fail his nose was practically scrubbing it. It was ten times worse than the ZR’s turret. The battle was his world and he was trapped in its everywhere with nowhere to run.
Six hurtled up, a comet trailing squad after squad of black ships. First stop morning, but not tomorrow, never tomorrow. Why stop for tomorrow? A Wing of Glo-whites wheeled, firing. Ranging themselves between Six and its target they made it a skeleton of macabre blue-white lasers. Darts burst. Its shields held. Sam’s tomorrow winked out of existence.
Jenson sucked in agonised breath. “No! Eleven o’clock… Eleven...”
The pilot’s need to fight was physical; Sam gagged on it.
Skimming low from the rear, two Flights of Glo-whites attacked as Six swung into the cover of a crisscross Dart lattice. They hit the capsule repeatedly, but it didn’t work. It didn’t work. The Glo-whites fell back and triumphant Darts jeered and danced as they returned fire.
Six shot on, trailing fiery plumes, silhouetted against the wheel’s hull.
Sam heard a dirty coward whimper and, shamed, knew it was him.
* * *
Over at the communication terminals, fuelled by sheer bloody-mindedness, Kent kept up a tirade about battle status that never let up and crazy kids bunging up the bridge and having snotty fits. Timmis half-listened, not sure what was wrong and not really caring anyway. Kent had her moments. She was no lady, despite the glamorous air, and she’d shown genuine talent that he’d ruthlessly cashed in upon. When he had time he felt guilty.
“There’s something else coming up from the planet,” she gasped. “It’s a Deep-Space Cruiser XT-9. It’s not ours and it’s leaving the battle-zone. It’s running away. Someone’s doing a runner... I bet it’s Carolli.” She stabbed repeatedly at Stanson’s link, using a fist when it did not respond. “Bollux, bollux, bollux. Does the boss know? I’ll tell them.”
She jerked up, ready to sprint past the battle relays to the dias.
Timmis lashed out and yanked her back.
“Don’t worry, they know,” he comforted. “I’ve already booted it on up-line, they’ll deal with it. Just concentrate on your job, Kent. Don’t worry. Don’t think. Do.”
Kent fell back into her seat, staring dead ahead with stony calm. “When this shit is over,” she announced, cold and bright, “I am going to give you such a bloody slapping.”
* * *
In its race for home Six tore into Glo-whites, slamming them against Darts arrayed to protect it like tidal spray on rocks. As Sam watched, the capsule whirled and bowed and like a lady it gathered its skirts in a stately waltz as it jockeyed into place. There it seemed to hesitate, lazily surveying its domain. Glo-whites swerved, spitting fire. All failed.
The wheel’s hull yawned a blowhole and sucked. Six vanished.
The wheel dipped.
For an instant, the furore died away.
A silent night in waiting, all was calm, all at peace…
Battle stopped.
Life drew breath.
The galaxy waited.
* * *
Sam would have recognised Six’s destination.
It was the scene of his worst nightmares.
At the pivot of the seven linked wheels an empty cradle waited.
The receptor had been primed during the final stages of the experiment, over two hundred years previously, and matched the pod’s exact dimensions. Every crease, every positron synapse, every seal, every seam, every micro-bond and psionic surface had been calculated and checked. Successive tests pronounced it flawless and perfection was eternal, as Carolli had often reassured him. The travel pod drifted into place and spider-web filaments spooled out. Six quickly assimilated the other wheels. In a matter of nanoseconds he’d interfaced with neurone pools, each with an individual role to play, each function critical.
An organ transplant, they donated their hearts to Six. The hearts were rapidly plugged in and linked by the brain. Six enabled and ruled all tasks simultaneously.
Then something inconceivable happened.
The great incoming heart skipped.
A link failed to spark, kickback whacked other channels.
Six tried desperately to compensate, to rectify...
If the wheels hadn’t been irrevocably linked at that moment...
If control hadn’t been absolute...
If, if... If Sam could’ve seen, he would’ve known...
A location matrix had been clumsily shoved into the wrong socket, and as a result the conductor mesh had fused. A conduit was blocked and energy built up with nowhere to go. The back-up did not engage either, so the entire structure failed. The link could not transmit or receive and no bypass was possible. Clogged power swelled as force intensified creating an energy clot of hideous stress. A bomb of a clot. Interfaces bulged like blocked arteries.
The swollen clot grew, blocking other channels. The gasping brain starved.
The heart couldn’t beat.
The clot swelled and swelled, pressure screamed.
And burst.
What happens when a clot explodes? Tissues rip and the heart collapses, the traumatised brain ceases to work. Oxygen starvation is rapid and final. Death is certain.
What happens when a clot explodes in the heart?
Terrible, agonising, but sometimes mercifully quick, fatal cardiac arrest.
* * *
HStJ Jenson stood on the dais and gripped Sam’s thin shoulder…
... the wheels began to shake and shudder.
Jenson watched, so cold each separate cell was ice
Without any doubt that they were going to die. Every soul on Imperious together with the ragged remnants of her War Games. The Autocracy had solved the sonic recoil problem and now the leader of the wheels was in place giving them seven times the firepower. Oddly calm he didn’t exist except in his own world, H-space. H for HStJ. H-space was preventative medicine and sanctuary from any storm. H-space allowed Jenson to fly like an angel when other men crashed. H-space was the time it takes you to blink or for a white cell to meet a red cell and say how-de-do. H-space stretched forever, it did not exist.
So safe in H-space Jenson watched.
He thought, if my ship was vibrating like that I�
��d be checking the internal conduits.
Then, no, I wouldn’t, I’d be legging it for an escape pod...
The Sisters jerked like a clumsy corps de ballet.
“What’s happening?”gasped Sam.
“Hang on tight.” Jenson pulled them behind the strut. “I think there’s going to be one hell of an explosion.” He spared infinity in H-space to pray for the Glo-white pilots trapped in the detonation. Tragedy penetrated H-space, you see, but it only trickled, it didn’t hurt.
The wheels sucked in their collective stomachs, blew out their cheeks…
Space vomited.
The galaxy ducked.
Imperious twirled, dizzy and drunk. Finally she was flung into the eye of the storm and held steady. Outside a tornado of shrieking ships was sucked into a maelstrom.
No more orders, no more fighting.
It lasted an eternity.
And when it was over, when the flak abated, the wheels were gone.
Destroyed by a chain reaction nobody could’ve foretold and nobody understood.
It was a miracle.
Chapter Forty-nine
Aftermath was a queer, thick blanket inflicting a slow suffocation.
The tattered chunks of Harth Norn’s fourth moon bobbed and wobbled on for a while, gradually degrading into an erratic orbit doomed to eventual decay. Then the planet would become uninhabitable as the last of the disintegrating mass smacked down. For many weeks after the worst of the fight had ended confused winds inflicted random fury on the pocked surface, gales whipped up oceans and some smaller landmasses gave up completely and vanished. Tsunamis savaged the larger islands yet some, luckier, survived intact.
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 34
