The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1)

by S Thomson-Hillis

  “Tardy, Timmis,” murmured a low voice from behind him.

  Without missing a beat Admiral Eban Krystie continued serenely on his travels. The bridge of the Union flagship Imperious was his empire. He was High Admiral of the Peacekeeping Fleet and nothing happened if he was not present or aware or more usually both. Someone had run a book on the number of circuits he made per shift. Timmis had won hands down and most people would’ve admitted that that was pretty much a certainty too.

  B Q Timmis was the type to count everything, anywhere, anytime, meticulously.

  He threw a glare at the Admiral’s rigid back.

  “You know what?” his shift partner muttered sympathetically. “You really didn’t need that did you? Those paranoid diplomats have been messing up your air forever.”

  Timmis acknowledged the support with a thin smile. “He’s tetchy. Baron Carolli has decided to pay us a surprise visit. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  The other man suppressed a groan.

  Waiting on the raised dais below the Vista-View, Krystie spotted the Baron about a minute before Carolli intended and sailed serenely to the ramp to await the highest civilian authority aboard Imperious. There was no room for Emir Carolli to step past unless the Admiral moved and that left him looking up at Krystie. It made him seethe. Though he was shorter than Krystie and would’ve ended looking up anyway, the point was being deliberately emphasised. His thick-barrelled, ebony cane stabbed the deck as if each tap gauged one of the Admiral’s eyes. It was an unnecessary reminder that Krystie held sway even here, though the Baron was an ambassador and the diplomatic representative of the Union High Council on Ju-juras, who in turn deployed the Peacekeeping Fleet, and so on. It looked exactly how it was meant to look, a put-down, and Carolli added another tick to Eban Krystie’s account.

  It was a long tally of wounds inflicted and payments due. Correction, overdue.

  “Baron.” Krystie acknowledged Carolli with solemn courtesy. He didn’t actually care who knew he wasn’t an enthusiastic follower of Emir Carolli but it paid him to play the game so far as his temper allowed. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  Which could be roughly translated as, ‘say what you’ve got to say and then get the hell off my bridge’, thought Mark. He was holding Krystie’s personal message board and situated just downwind of the Admiral, directly between the View and the Communications bank. The cane screeched and he winced. Why did Carolli use it? His limp was too erratic to be real, Carolli didn’t need a cane. Perhaps he needed a prop in the theatrical sense.

  “And a good day to you too.” Carolli’s soft voice was slick with a slippery dash of venom. “Call it a longing for your company – oh and one other matter. I requested copies of UnderCover activity reports from First I to Second X?” He wove a loose figure of eight on the deck with the cane and the tip screeched again. Busy, busy staff along terminal banks displayed their backs, heroically not squirming. Carolli very aware of his audience, smiled.

  “Indeed so. I admire your interest.” Krystie gave a grave nod. “And as I recall those precise orders were given and have been carried out. Is there a problem?”

  “Should there be?” inquired the Baron his innocent blue eyes widening slightly. “No, probably no problem at all I am sure, but I regret to say, there are even fewer reports.”

  “Ah! Then there really is no problem. You know, Baron, there really isn’t very much activity out here at present, we’re enjoying a bit of a lull, a very quiet sector this.”

  Carolli did not budge. You actually believe I’m that stupid? said his expression.

  No, but I don’t give a damn, replied Krystie’s. Extending a polite hand, he indicated the Baron should precede him over to the Communications terminals. “Perhaps we should discuss this with Communications? I assure you there should be no omissions in the transcripts. The bridge team is exceptionally efficient. Not so, Commander Boole?”

  Mark watched the apprehensive Communications CO, caught in the crossfire, slide into place and sent the poor man a quick bolt of sympathy. Very neat, Boss, if risky, he thought approvingly, he knows that you know that he knows that you know that he knows that you know... A sudden blip recalled him to the message board he held. There was a Code-7 signal en route, Coded Roll – distress. He spun on a coin, suddenly dealing with his own potential crossfire. No, he mouthed at Timmis, not now, I’m right in the firing line.

  But Timmis needed the signal cleared as much as Macluan didn’t need to retrieve it and Timmis held the controlling transmitter. Mark stared in agony as the Admiral and Carolli bore down on him from the dais. He glanced down and froze. The signal was clearly UC-I, origin obscure, the team Tam Harris and Sim Edger. Mark had never heard of them before yet every nerve in his body blared klaxons. In a heartbeat, he’d locked down the data but couldn’t resist the fatal mistake of checking its origin. Life went on slo-mo. Harris and Edger had been checking Solly Dennis’ beacon and that beacon had sounded the same night that he’d first picked up the cries of the other Donn. Suddenly it clicked. This was it. The link. It had to be.

  The Donn didn’t make mistakes with instinct.

  “Anything wrong, Captain?” murmured Carolli from far too near.

  Mark adjusted his eyes to the nightmare of Emir Carolli’s bland face. “No sir,” he lied, mentally consigning Timmis to red-hot hell. “For a moment or two we thought we’d detected a distress call from the outer rim but it turned out to be a T-1.”

  “T-1?” The Baron frowned.

  “Interference, a disturbed frequency, an irritation,” explained Krystie, hugely disinterested. “Nothing to worry about, probably static from old weaponry, there’s a lot of Autocracy flak still out here and not much of it worth bothering about. Shall we?”

  “Ah,” nodded the Baron solemnly and the cane tapped agreement. “T-1? How do you boys keep up with all this jargon?” He peered at Mark and it was like being ripped wide open. “I hope you’re not always so easily disconcerted, Captain... er...?”

  He knew who Mark was, he knew very well.

  “Macluan,” supplied Krystie shortly. The marble gaze that raked Mark was fiercer than Carolli’s. Krystie had steadfastly blocked the Baron’s demands for the services of the last of the Donn while acknowledging that a Minder could be useful in diplomacy. As far as he was concerned the least Macluan could’ve done was to keep his bloody head down.

  Carolli’s mobile brows soared. “Macluan? Mark Macluan?” A finger caressed the silver head of his cane. The no tap was louder than any tapping. “Our sole surviving Donn?”

  “Sir.” Damn, drummed the blood in Mark’s ears, damn, damn, damn.

  “I’ve heard such tales of your exploits, Captain,” murmured Carolli. “I understood that you were to be seconded to me this duty spell. The Diplomatic Corps has been continually frustrated not to have access to your unique... ah... talents.” Practically slurping, he turned to Krystie. “No access to UC reports? No Donn? Oh Admiral, surely...”

  “The current duty spell?” Krystie seemed honestly bewildered. “Oh I don’t think so, no, not at all. I ratified the request but the temporary secondment is not until Second XII.”

  “Second XII?” Carolli’s irritating smile faded but only minimally.

  “Second XII.”

  “That will do nicely.” Coldly appeased Carolli gave Mark a playful pat on the arm with the cane’s bulbous head. “So Captain, with regret, we part company until Second XII, a matter of a scant week or so. I shall look forward to it. I worked with your people when I was younger, you know, I was stationed on Typhin before the siege, when the last defences fell to the Autocracy. The Donn were a very special people and their passing is deeply mourned.”

  Weren’t they just, and thanks so much for raking up the extinction thing.

  Mark fingered the Admiral’s board thoughtfully as he watched the two men stroll away across the bridge. Harris’ signal was the sign he’d been waiting for. It branded. It felt like a voice calling from t
omorrow, a voice calling Mark exclusively using the name Kai. She was out there and he needed to find her. As soon as possible, he sidled over to Timmis.

  “You owe me big time for that episode,” he said quietly, leaning over ostensibly to examine an imaginary spark on the man’s terminal display. “So you just make sure you let me know the very first minute the boss can see me. Ever so discreetly. Got that?”

  Chapter Six

  “Hush.” Ellis dribbled water onto the cracked lips.

  Harris didn’t understand. He clutched her arm with fingers like drills. “Edger?”

  “Your partner?” Ellis saw no point in being gentle. It was far more important to bring him back to reality. “Dead. Very, very dead and better off that way. I’m sorry.”

  Harris slumped. Krystie had partnered him with Edger. I trust you, Harris, he’d said, you’ll sort him out for me... Harris had failed and Edger was dead, just like before, just like Tam’s real partner. Ellis’ words echoed. He was in a cave, he realised, puzzled, and suddenly twisted to focus on her. A moment later he was back with Eban Krystie and Sim Edger. He moaned and facial muscles pinched. The pain punctures helped. “Our ship?” he asked.

  “Total write-off. They were thorough.” The idiots had been too, if stupid. They’d halved their booty when they’d wrecked the ship. A motivator had sparked and one side of the hull had been a pitted shell. It was sheer luck that interior safety protocols had activated, otherwise this man would’ve been burned to a crisp. His ship, though, was as dead as his shipmate. Sitting on her heels, Ellis yanked on rough bandages she’d made to bind oozing wounds. “I got you out, grabbed the first aid kit, the survival gear and fired the rest of her.”

  “You what?” That brought him round all right. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Ellis shoved him gently back against rough rock wall. “Keep still and listen. They were going to claim salvage rights, coming back soon. They were bound to check, if I hadn’t they’d’ve missed you. There was no way your ship was going to lift off, no way, better to let them blame a dodgy fuel link. That should calm’em down.” There was jack-squat left to claim in salvage, which cheered Ellis even if it was petty. “I’ve got what we need and, sorry, but it made your partner a decent pyre.” That was important. It was always important.

  Harris stared at nothing. His mind heard words but like birds they flew away.

  “So how do we get a signal off-planet? Get help?” he mumbled helplessly and that was when it struck him he’d said ‘we’ as in her and him, as if she was his partner. His partner was dead, the second in too short a space of time and she was a stranger. “Who are you?”

  The light of the survival lamp beside him was dim and fuzzy. She seemed tall and too thin, she stank like a rough old tavern they’d visited on Thacis and that had been all kinds of a dive. Her accent was odd. She spoke Basic fluently enough but the inflection was wrong, inner-system with a crisp, old-world twang. Did it matter? She seemed as sharp as a knife. Like most field operatives Harris was a pragmatist, grabbing help where he could.

  “Who I am doesn’t matter,” she sounded curiously forlorn and then her voice hardened. “You can call me Ellis, it is my common name, so it will do. You?” Scolosian, they were easy to spot. That tell-tale plait had almost been ripped off his head in the crash.

  Harris was trying to wriggle cramped legs away from red-hot pins and needles in his bones. He glanced up unwarily, caught her frank gaze and flinched from an unexpected shock. “I’m Tam Harris, Commander UC-I, Union UnderCover Operations.”

  Interesting. She hardly had to nudge him before he’d decided to trust her. Trust bespoke trust and he’d given the most honest response she’d sensed since she’d woken. “Union? Thought as much. I checked your log before I fired the ship. There was some ID left.” Using the cave-wall as leverage, she scrambled upright. “I really do have to get back now but you’re going to have to tell me all about this Union of yours when we have time.”

  She’d known how to check the log but needed to ask about the Union? He tried to sit but his legs wouldn’t work all that happened was a sad wriggle. “Are my legs broken?”

  “No, at least I doubt it, just bent.” Ellis handed him a water cask to hold and primed a hypo from the first aid kit she’d left next to him. “You’re not going anywhere soon. I have to go back or they’ll miss me but in the morning I’ll bring you some food. Don’t try to move till then. Tomorrow you can tell me your sad tale, I’ll tell you mine, and then you can give me the message coordinates, and let me worry about finding us a transmitter.”

  She stabbed home the hypo and Harris sank back. Give him his due, his constitution was iron and there was a distinct time-lag before he passed out properly. Ellis stayed until he stopped whimpering under his breath and the drug did its work properly. It so happened that she was aware of a transmitter that might be able to send the right kind of long-distance communications and that she might, and it was only might, be able to get at it.

  It held pride of place in Tye Beven’s personal sitting room.

  How convenient was that?

  * * *

  Macluan had seen Krystie and the mission was a goer. With Jenson as his team-mate, he was burrowing through Imperious’ dim docking bays. The ship they’d been assigned was a long way from the well-lit area round the lifts, which had made Jenson deeply suspicious.

  Mark merely smirked. “Special ship, special mission.”

  That made Jenson even more suspicious. His griping turned bitter.

  “Ok. Krystie’s good nature got the better of him, Stanson owed him a favour and I heard Barsnip was flogging ten-spots in B lounge last night because he’s on commission. He didn’t make you pay because he likes you.” This was high-order sarcasm. On principle Barsnip, Imperious’ ancient Typhion Armsmaster, never gave anything away.

  Jenson could do aggrieved for hours on end. Mark tuned out the monologue, doggedly skirting the shady hulks of nearby ships. His meeting with Krystie had been interesting, not least the bit about the ship they’d drawn from the sweep. The ZR-3 had been recently refitted by the Chief of Astro-Engineering, Simeon Lister. Like Eban Krystie, Lister was an old school full-blood Typhion, his lifespan extended over hundreds of standard years, and he tended to upgrade bygone designs. The specs were unique. It was mean to let Jenson discover the kinks for himself, but it might buy Mark some peace for the first part of the trip.

  Always a bonus.

  Jenson grumbled on. “You’re going to have to give me a destination. I need to know where we’re going. I am the pilot, remember? Hang on, hang on, look there...” Grabbing Mark’s arm, he dragged them both back into the shadows and pointed towards the nearest yawning space-lock. “Where goes the villain of the hour and your beloved future boss?”

  The unmistakable figure of Emir Carolli could be vaguely made out, lurking by a Diplomatic XT-1 cruiser being readied for take-off. A pre-dawn lift-off usually meant a quiet exit, which was why Krystie had chosen one for the team he was sending to Harth Norn. It wasn’t normal for a diplomat, they preferred crash and thunder and public approval.

  Macluan had no time for Emir Carolli. “I pass, H. I don’t know and I couldn’t care less. It’s none of my business till Second XII.” It was his turn to sound bitter. Excusably.

  With a fluid back step, he broke loose and dodged further back.

  “Perhaps you should,” said Jenson slowly. “It pays to keep your enemies close.”

  The only reply was a derogative snort from a fair distance.

  “Have it your own way. It wouldn’t take but a minute to take a look-see.”

  But he might as well have talked to a wall.

  He caught up as Mark was checking the ID of a ship at the dusty end of the bay.

  “This is it,” Macluan announced. “You’re going to love this, H, our very own ZR-3, a personal present from the C-AE and Commodore Stanson. Not to be scratched.”

  And he waited, deadpan as a wall.

 
; For nothing.

  “So what?” said Jenson, flatly underwhelmed. “The ZR series is as good as ID for you lot in UC-I.” A dull chord struck. “Ok, so tell me what’s so special under the hood?”

  * * *

  Sheek looked up the bar and Sheek looked down the bar. “Where’s the Drudge?”

  “Who?” Dandy Minon leaned on the bar with his too-easy grin. “Who?”

  Sheek waved the bottle, cracking it on the tray with a thump. “Tye wanted A-vine set up in his office. The Drudge was doing the duties. Silly straddle forgot the A-vine.”

  “Oh.” Minon’s smile didn’t slip. “Ok,” he offered, far too casually. “I’ll take it.”

  It didn’t take a genius to spot he was being so noble because he wanted to poke around but the Giagosian bartender was run off his feet. Beven was striking a deal with a Trader on the floor, when he finished he’d want to chill. Minon wouldn’t find anything a Tokker could use and if he was gone too long Sheek could yank him out. Or maybe, the Giag’s green eyes sparkled, there was another reason Dandy was keen. It certainly seemed the Drudge had an athletic flair and enthusiasm for her trade, word was she was good news so long as you kept your eyes shut. Note to self, Drudge’s tariff increasing in quantum leaps.

  “Fair enough.” The Giag pushed the tray along the counter. “Have one on the house.”

  Minon smirked, levered off the bar and winked. “See you shortly.”

  Busy though he was Sheek, fingering his UT thoughtfully, took time to watch Dandy vanish through the grey baize door. There was something not right about Dandy Minon, apart from the whole Tokker thing. It was something about the way the man met your eyes and smiled as if he’d got bad news about your family and was going to suck on your misery.

  Minon wasn’t just another deluded Tokker, he was something else.

  Sheek had no idea what but he did intend to find out.

  * * *

  The shabby off-world comms-bank in Beven’s personal sitting room had been ancient when Beven had bought the place, and shouldn’t have caused Ellis any problems only that it was worn out. It was defunct Autocracy Technology and should have been powered by Sentient Crystal. It hadn’t taken her long to discover that SC was outlawed on every system in the Union alliance. Crystal’s single source had been played out in Ellis’ day, and the Autocracy substitute, Crack-Crystal, was nicknamed bastard for a good reason. For once Tye had kept to the rules, or perhaps he had real reason to hate Crystal, many folk did. The device hadn’t taken easily to a fairly amateur electro-Lithium overhaul; it wasn’t working fast enough. Every minute she waited was agony but there was nothing she could do. The transmitter was a fixed unit, breaking in would’ve made it worse. Waiting left her stranded, exposed, while it hissed and spat. Every fizzle wrecked her, every sound was too loud.