The entire bridge stopped breathing. You can’t breathe when your heart stops.
Seven golden wheels spun languidly in the darkness. Seven golden wheels, slowly, lazily, inevitably challenging them. There were so many words to describe that sight that none fitted. Words like flamboyant, malevolent, magnificent, obscene and powerful were all shunted out of the way by what they were. It took a while before the dancing dots occasionally flashing across them became an escort of Autocracy fighters. Some were dented and dishevelled but some could’ve been brand new. There were fighters of every shape and grade, from Mark III Haulers to triad formations of Darts, to vicious Command Spitters.
Somewhere, someone whistled and loosed a singsong, atonic chant. People jumped, startled, heads turned to see who it was that had broken the spell.
It was WuVane, his UT inactive, commentating in native Giagosian.
“Amber alert,” ordered Krystie calmly, swinging back to the dais. “Boole? Let me know when they’re within hailing distance. Timmis? We need those scrambles decoded.”
Kent was limp and shaken.
“We never were playing games,” she whispered hoarsely. “Were we?”
Chapter Thirty-six
It was decision time in the ZR-3. The volunteer diggers had been returned to sender with suitably tweaked memories while the ZR had made a short flight to a new location, slightly nearer to the Dome. Damage was minimal, though the SC core-cone had been badly knocked, interrupting communications between defence and cloak and leaving the cloak blinking like an hysterical stop-go light. They could have an intermittent cloak or fire at the enemy, but not both simultaneously. Jenson declared that with him at the helm the ZR could outrun any Dart, cloaked or not. Harris wasn’t sanguine, more wry about the irony of his concern over reinstating SC based systems. Hull integrity and life support together with I-scan and normal flight systems were operational. Once they were settled, Harris updated Imperious via ECR saying they’d decided to remain on Harth Norn for at least one more day to search for the second key. And thereby hung the latest and greatest team punch-up to date.
It was worse than the Autocracy Wars.
Harris usually preferred life democratic but not this time.
Ellis was dead certain the second key wasn’t in the Dome. If Rocket had stolen one then why would he leave the other behind? If he didn’t keep it, he’d’ve passed it on at the inn for cash or credit or both. It was probably decorating one of the stage acts or one of Tye’s waiting staff or, worst-case scenario, part of Sheek’s infamous treasure trove. That seemed logical, even to the obstreperous Jenson, which was a deep relief to Harris. The solution seemed so simple to him. He and H checked out Beven’s inn while Ellis used her Donn expertise on the SC core-cones and, with the ZR’s help, tried to mend the cloak.
Like Jenson, Ellis glossed over the cloak problems, though she wasn’t about to bet on Jenson’s skill and got very scathing at one point. She argued that the ZR’s SC should compensate for any damage in time so there was no need for her to twiddle. It was clear she was desperate to go back to the inn. At first Tam couldn’t understand. Then he remembered the other casualties of the Dome and how fixated she’d been with helping them. Never before had he tried to force her to do something she didn’t want to do. She wouldn’t accept that repairing the ship was the best way to help the captives and the barrage was shell-shocking.
In the middle of a thunderstruck silence, Harris ended the debate. He leaned back in his couch, glared at the top control-boards and the consoles overhead, linked his fingers on his chest, stretched out and crossed his long legs at the ankle, and spoke.
“This,” he announced oh-so softly, “is the way it is going to be.”
Two baleful stares never even made him flinch.
“Jenson, we do the tavern. In my experience, Ellis, and by your own admission, two scruffy men will be less noticeable than you would be. Don’t,” throwing up the flat of his hand, “even mention masking, ok? I need you here to mend the cloak. Yes? That’s it.”
Her mutinous glare was unnervingly flat. “You don’t know where to start.”
“We’ll manage,” he assured her. Did she imagine he’d never played and won that game before? He’d got by, successfully, without Donn back-up for many, many years.
“We’ll give you a deadline,” promised Jenson rashly. “If we don’t make it, call home, no coy shit, take orders, call Mark. Our diggers today had local ears; they might pick up our frequencies. Tokkers are getting smarter and Tokkers is what this is, so no links for us.”
With a hard done by sigh Tam’s eyes fluttered shut. Fingers flexed slightly and were forced to relax. He hadn’t needed Jenson jumping on the bandwagon. Specifically he didn’t need Jenson jumping on that particular bandwagon and riling Ellis all over again.
“Sheek’ll know Jenson,” Ellis snarled. “He won’t forget that night or that nose.”
“I am a very memorable experience,” concurred Jenson serenely.
“It’s not as big a risk as losing the cloak on the way home and being blocked by those Darts. That’s the biggest problem we’ve got and we definitely don’t need it.” Tam sat up, dangling his hands on his knees and kidnapped her fuming eyes. And then Tam Harris pulled the clincher. He used the magic word. Twice. “Please,” he said. “Ellis, please.”
* * *
Sam lay in his pod and stayed calm by counting the number of times he breathed in and out. His breath steamed. Mark had said it would and if it clouded up the visual-port too much he might need to use the screens. He’d been told how to activate them; the switch was above him, orange button, one-two-three, up there. The detail was appreciated by someone whose confidence had just been badly rattled. This time, when his mentor had called, a chastened and crestfallen Sam had been one hundred and ten percent receptive. The instructions on how to activate external shields and release the pod had been ruthlessly committed to memory and a suitable destination programmed into the guidance tablet located by Sam’s hip. For a grizzled General, Mark seemed to have an intimate and up to date grasp of survival pods. Or anyway, Sam hoped he did, because he was all Sam had left.
He’d blotted out the episode at the big expectant bowl at the centre of Belthan Six.
It had never happened. It wasn’t Sam. No sir, fifty other people all looking like Sam.
It was almost time to go. Unbelievably, soon, he was going to be on solid ground. A signal would be sent and he would trip the launch key; he’d be on his way.
One short jaunt in his comfy, cushioned pod and he’d meet his first Donn.
Wouldn’t that be thrilling?
He could hardly wait. He did wish his nose would stop dribbling, though.
* * *
Ellis worked and fumed in equal quantities. It took her about five minutes to discover that the defence and cloak cones had only been shaved. Re-growth had already begun and the Crystal interfacets were healing, she’d been right. Tam was also right; they would not be at full capacity if they had to take off fast and ran into any trouble. The only possible way to improve recovery speed was to shove on a patch to be found in the ship’s stores. There was nothing mysterious about it and Jenson could’ve done the job. The ship still needed thirty-six hours for the fundament to meld before it could run cloak and defence simultaneously.
It took time to heal Crystal and nothing Ellis could do would change that.
Fuming, she whirled through the repair.
It was mind-bogglingly stupid.
She could’ve scouted round that inn in a heartbeat and told them if the key was there or not, and where it was if it was. Why waste that? How brainless could you get?
Flinging herself into second’s place, fiddling with the key she kept strung around her neck, she curled up tight and watched as evening faded into a misty olive dusk. Days were short on Harth Norn, as short as her fuse. Ellis felt like static electricity with nowhere to earth and she didn’t need to brood. Being on her own brought her face-to-face with her Rejection a
ll over again and traitor emotions still clung to hope stretched thin as a spider’s web. Nothing made sense; she wanted to howl and punch things. She repeated, I should’ve gone to the inn it should be me, in a litany of resentment that kept her sane. She knew the turf, knew the people to dodge or use and she knew exactly what she was looking for. Beven’s inn and the Dome people were unfinished business and the need to help them saved her.
The key bit her clenched fist.
Inland, negotiating some surprisingly dense forest belts, it was half an hour before Sam was due and Mark was making his way to the pod’s predicted landing site. It was a long way from the Dome and the port; there were a few fishermen’s huts ahead on the shore and a rickety village. Now he’d had time to think, he was worried sick about Ellis and the key and that Carolli had left Imperious. There was only one way to warn Tam and Jenson and collect Sam. Clamping down every emotion, he called Ellis. While they were apart he could cope, it was contact he dreaded. Ellis? Are you there? This is urgent. Sounding so detached, made him briefly proud, cool, airy and in command as he always had, as if nothing had happened.
Ellis froze, staring blindly at darkened screens. Yes, at the ship. 24-03-57 by the Dome, we had to move in a hurry. He felt close, on the island? Where are you? Each word was a miracle of performance. That Glo-white rogue, was it you?
It was. I need to get a message to Tam.
You can’t, they’ve gone to Beven’s. I’m fixer. You bounced us around a bit.
You’re what? They’ve gone where? Mark sucked in freezing night air and was grateful for the ice in his lungs. Her location put the inn between him and the ZR and both of them were too close to the Dome. Sam had a long walk in front of him. Why?
Ellis hesitated, selecting her words carefully. My key fits an Autocracy double lock at the pivot of the Dome. It takes two at the same time to open it. The second key is…
Missing, he cut in grimly, seeing the picture in a flash. Would it surprise you to know that the second key is being held by your old friend Emir Carolli? I’ll bet he’s on his way down. They’re wasting their time at the inn. Get them out of there. Can you lift off?
We can. No need to worry him with the dysfunctional cloak.
Good. Get them back and wait at the ship for me.
Now that, that could be difficult, but it did give her a perfect excuse. I can’t call them, H wouldn’t take a link. He thought it’d be detected, the locals are networked.
It was turning into a very bad day, a very, very bad day. The inn would most likely be bristling with Minon’s people but it was between him and the ship, and he could pick up Sam on the way there. Inevitably the Baron was already on his way to the Dome, it was like a blind date you couldn’t duck, Mark just knew it. The Donn were always told there was no such thing as luck but here Mark begged to differ. Loaded dice rattled.
Right, he growled, stay there. I’ll collect them from the inn on my way. Ellis?
Yes?
You have your key?
Yes.
Keep it safe, with you. Wait there, don’t move. Promise me.
Of course. She was already shucking on her coat; checking and firing up the security cordon. What else? I’ll stay put, prime the engines, check the Auto-chef is functioning, do the dusting and have a nice, hot meal ready for when the hunters come home.
* * *
Imperious’ bridge jittered. The Seven Sisters weren’t inclined for conversation. They hung over Harth Norn, dumb and insolent. The View was open, Krystie liked to see what they were facing. WuVane and the last of his Groundhogs were ready to lift-off and finish establishing a beachhead. Harth Norn’s Authorities were still shouting, loudly resenting what they saw as an unnecessary and troublesome embargo on planetary communications and travel. They hadn’t seen the wheels yet, though Krystie would bet any money you liked there were Tokkers down there who were expecting them. Emir Carolli had not yet been located, the hunt was ongoing. They’d held onto the last batch of Groundhogs and run relentless additional searches and he had not been found in their ships. It was small comfort.
The scrambled messages were still scrambled but only Timmis still worked on the strands of data. The others had other priorities. Boole’s Communications team, together with the Astro-Engineers geared up to do their own jobs. Invisible clockwork clicked and whirred.
Tick-tock... Tick-tock…
It scraped...
The Sisters watched the fleet.
Disdainful, scornful, scathing.
Kent wasn’t even hungry or thirsty any more.
Timmis worked like a fiend. Every time Kent glanced over, he smiled and silently mouthed soon. He was the famous B.Q. Timmis and, with an unfamiliar flush of loyalty, Kent swore she’d murder the first man who so much as breathed fail and Timmis in the same sentence. After that she’d scream. She’d scream out the tension and use it like a whip.
Tick-tock... Tick-tock…
Minutes and seconds, each taking an hour to pass.
So there sat Phyllis Kent on Imperious during the countdown to a war she’d believed over years ago. She willed Krystie to shut down the View but he didn’t.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Bleep. Bleep?
It was Timmis. Without any expression he stared at the scrambles on his screen.
They were free. Kent watched them unravel like a loosely knitted blanket. Snaking out a hand that did not shake Timmis pressed replay for Krystie. The Admiral scanned the signals, read again, swung on Harper Boole and held out his board. “Copy this to Ju-juras. Authorise a further ship-wide security alert on Baron Carolli, arrest him for treason.”
Kent gasped. Everybody heard that, everybody.
“He’s long gone,” Timmis mumbled hopelessly. “Long, long gone.”
His face was mouldy putty and Kent knew he blamed himself.
Krystie spared him a brief look.
Something flashed between them, she never knew what.
“Let the Groundhogs go,” Krystie turned to Terrin Stanson. “One Squad cover.”
Cover, gasped Kent, escort was one thing but cover?
Tick-tock... Tick-tock...
The Sisters watched Imperious watching them, tranquil, unconcerned, detached.
Then, suddenly, the catalyst.
One of the Navigation staff, gruff, dry as a desert, “What’s that?”
Kent stared hopelessly at the View. What was what? Where?
Tick-tock... Tick-tock...
“Identify.” Krystie watched steadily as a tiny spark flared and died.
“Escape pod.” It was a different voice, hesitant, young, strained and perplexed. “A Standard II Survival Pod, Autocracy issue. A rear wheel jettisoned a pod but we can’t detect any fault or reason. It must be a rogue, they’ve not taken damage, and nobody’s fired.”
“Tag that wheel and let the pod go,” ordered Krystie. “No concern of ours.”
Yet the pod must have surprised the Seven Sisters for they reacted.
A Dart wheeled round in a stinging U and gave chase. As the accelerating pod began to glow umber then orange with friction, the Dart fired. There was a diamond flash as the survival pod skimmed atmosphere before resuming descent. The Dart swung back to the battlefield still firing and scored a Glo-white. Somewhere, far away, a warning woke.
As one the Seven Sisters turned their faces to Imperious. They looked hungry.
Suddenly there was no more waiting, no more peace.
“Forward shields full to ten,” announced Krystie calmly. Facing the View, he instinctively braced against the coming conflagration. “Tell the gun crews – fire at will.”
Tick-tock... Tick-tock…
The hour struck softly as Imperious went to war.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The interior of escape pods stopped short of piped muzak but only just. They were designed to reassure an occupant under stressful circumstances. Once you left the pod and saw the thing from the outside you stopped being reassured and started being grateful to b
e alive because a pod was just a reinforced coffin. Sam crawled out scared witless. He could hardly remember a time recently when he hadn’t been frightened of one thing or another but this was extreme. There’d been a bang, a bone-smacking jolt and he’d actually blacked out. When he saw the extent of the scoring on the pod’s battered hull it hit home that survival was a miracle. He’d come down on the edge of a forest and the trees were smashed and…
Sam launched into nearby brush, sank to all fours and began to pump vomit like a dog, his sinus pounding like a hollow bathtub. His stomach was empty but the retching didn’t seem to get the message. Finally there was a slight respite and, gasping and shaking, he hung like a floppy mattress suspended by a limb at each corner.
“Are you feeling better?” enquired a mild voice. “We’d best get it over and done if you’re going to be sick but I have a feeling this place will be crawling very shortly.”
With the help of a sapling Sam scrambled to his feet and swung to face it.
A man was faintly outlined by moon-glow, not a grizzled warrior in anyone’s book, which was most disappointing. He was youngish, fairish and slightish but definitely tall and shabby. Wearing a long, dusty wet-coat over baggy trousers and a warm shirt that was far too big for him, he obviously shopped cheap and second-hand, apart from some pretty heavy-duty flight boots. There was nothing military about him. Implacable orders wouldn’t marry such a wistful smile and his hair was too long and dishevelled for any barber doing a service-cut. Also and especially, there was no sign of any weapon, which was disappointing given the implications of his comment. The soldiers Sam had met, admittedly not many, had been clean-shaven and cropped and erect and, well, a lot more military. Even the stance was wrong, soldiers stood straight, unyielding; this man was so loose-limbed he was rubber. He was the kind of person you’d walk past twice in a crowd and not notice even if you were looking for him. Two minutes ago, Sam was certain he hadn’t been there.
This made him seriously good at sneaking up on people while they were puking.
He opened his mouth to ask if the man was Mark only it came out, “Ugh.”
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