The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1)

by S Thomson-Hillis

  Cheering up, Krystie stepped up his pacing to a martial beat.

  The suggested location for the upcoming military exercises?

  Bang slap over Harth Norn.

  Where else?

  Phyllis Kent watched the Admiral and something inside her twisted. She’d signed on for a well-paid desk job with military kudos and guaranteed upward mobility at a great rate of knots. Rip-roaring war games and military gallivanting didn’t fit the script and, to coin a cliché, she had a bad feeling. Timmis paused in his organising to flip her a happy grin.

  “You’re going to enjoy this.” And he was absolutely genuine.

  Kent squared her chin. “Of course, Lieutenant, why wouldn’t I?” She thought about it for a moment. “It’s only exercises. They won’t actually be armed, will they?”

  Timmis’ grin turned wolf. “Of course not.”

  * * *

  Soren ducked, rolled, clipped his shoulder on the frame and whacked the inner door control with his make-shift club, sending sparks flying into a balloon of fiery haze. Cornering the communications banks, he smashed the first guard’s kneecaps with the club and rugby-tackled him onto the sharp edge of the instrument banks. The man went limp. Dropping the table leg, Soren ripped the man’s gun out of the limp hand and fired a stun-beam at the stupefied operator who dropped, cracked his head on the console, and crumpled.

  The next minutes Soren spent dodging shots.

  Dispassionately he noticed the guns were stubby and clumsy Stat-5-Dispersers.

  Old, he thought, quick as flickering flame, like the base, moth-eaten but sturdy.

  And very nasty.

  “Sorry,” he apologised briefly, noticed without caring they were set to stun, flipped his on to wide-beam, and sprayed a broad arc across the scattering guards. They went down moaning, clutching their bellies. Once upon a time it’d been called the Galloping Gut-Rot shot and it’d last long enough. Once upon the same time Soren had been an apprenticed pirate who’d only ever served three months, and you never forget the tricks you learn in your youth. He grinned mirthlessly. With his other hand he’d already stripped the outgoing signal-security tags from their beds on the console. Time to concentrate. He had to guess at the egress codes but, at last, luck was playing on his side. Old dog, old tricks. He prayed they’d work for an old dog like Soren Nevus as well as for a young pup like Sam.

  The door control puffed green smoke, smouldering shades of pink.

  The world was hazy, smoky, fugged up, getting worse

  The two guards woke, struggled up, firing a duet volley at the intruder.

  One, two, three, four…

  But the message was sent. Outgoing glowed green.

  Swinging sideways to his knees, Soren plunged under the console, rolling wildly for cover. Firing on your side was an art... His last shots hit the floor and slid greasily away.

  The guards were better trained.

  And their guns were no longer set to stun.

  Soren Nevus turned blue and scarlet and burned bright gold.

  There was a slight shock as his molecules disconnected. The sizzling and the popping noises started inside his head and then everything went cold and transparent and icy slow. He was strangely calm. Already dead, he knew it and didn’t care. There should’ve been something profound in his head but Soren smelled fish and was faintly puzzled. Then, amazingly, his memory cleared. It was a story he’d told Sam. Years ago he’d seen one Autocracy Stat-5 fry a fresh-fish stall during a rim-raid. The image blinded, the stench was rank. It made his nose itch. The reek had lingered for days and to be honest it’d made Soren hungry. The point was that Soren Nevus had just caught two Stat-5 streams dead on.

  Wow, he thought critically, I should feel a lot more than just numb.

  The smell of burned fish was everywhere and he wanted to giggle.

  That was all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The old world of Belthan’s pocked surface was by no stretch of the imagination majestic. Like the planet, it was just there, that’s all, and it was empty. There were no voices, no characters or plots, no singing, eating or telling crude jokes, no light and shade, no variations. Belthan was desolation and desolation was Belthan. It just was. Void, it merely existed. Even the addition of a relatively elegant silver-pimple of a Dome on its surface just emphasised the complete and utter nothingness. Belthan had no feelings, it was numb.

  Sam felt like Belthan.

  Belthan had no water left and Sam had no tears.

  Belthan had lost everything and so had Sam.

  Like Belthan he was arid, dusty and wrung dry.

  Deep inside the Dome, cowering at the back of a storage hatch drilled into the sub- level infrastructure, Sam curled into a ball hugging his pain because it was all he had left and he couldn’t stand to lose that as well. Time passed slowly as Sam faced loneliness and grew up. He had to grow up so he could understand as a child never would. Finally, he understood that he’d never understand even though he needed to. Sam had sensed Soren die. He'd felt him, he'd tasted him, he'd touched him, he’d held him and, at the end, he’d been Soren.

  He’d smelled the fish for pity’s sake. He’d never eat fish again.

  He’d screamed out the moment, flung it away...

  Trying to understand so much so fast was impossible.

  Those last avalanche moments smothered and he couldn’t breathe. He knew Soren had loved his mother, Tray, and had never stopped. He knew Soren had taken Sam in for her sake, but that everything his guardian had done since then had been for Sam’s sake. He knew that Soren had always hoped that Tray would be proud of them both. One day, Sam swore, he’d tell his mother everything Soren had done. Dull and bitter, he supposed the hot vow was a traditional reaction but it didn’t matter, it felt right; he’d vow it just the same.

  One day there would be time to grieve, to come to terms with loss, but Sam knew enough already to realise that now was not that time. Soren had believed that Sam’s survival depended on escape so Sam would escape. And so he had to get to know his territory. He’d always been able to predict what lay round the next corner even before he knew about being Donn, so extending that talent to create a mental map was no problem. Later, with his confidence rebuilt, he might dare to explore physically, but that would be much later. Instead Sam’s mind darted down corridors, noting meeting and eating rooms, chambers, and operating theatres, barracks and shuttle bays, opening doors and peeling off layers of dingy paint. The schematic was accurate. Soren would’ve approved and that helped Sam.

  Oh and there was one more thing worth noting about that dreadful time.

  The guards didn’t waste much time looking for the boy. They made a few desultory sweeps but didn’t even bother to compare the tally of prisoners against the bodies of dead escapees. There was nowhere to run. Yet, even if they’d turned the place upside down and ripped it to shreds they would never have found Sam Nevus. Ironically their careless extermination of one insurgent had kick-started the very force the Autocracy had worked so hard to erase. The Donn had great abilities, great powers, and though Sam didn’t understand his talent, instinctively he used it. He’d broken through the barrier to operancy and Soren’s real legacy had been to set him free. The guards didn't find Sam, couldn’t have found Sam, because Sam wasn't ready to be found. They’d have looked straight at him and not seen.

  Adversity is a great teacher. So is grief. So is necessity. Sam learned fast.

  * * *

  The Autocracy Darts patrolling Harth Norn, steering clear of detection from the planet, couldn’t believe their luck when the bright star for which they had been waiting so long finally burst onto their horizon. They, very properly, relayed the news to their base on the fourth moon. Before he lifted off, the Commander of the Spitter very primly responded.

  “We have positive ID. Our ZR-3 is about to breach visible corona, we have an official go and are on intercept and destroy, formation amber-zero-tank. Fire on sight.”

  There w
as pause like a hung screen.

  It was a bit like telling starving lions the sacrificial goat had trotted into the arena.

  Unnecessary.

  * * *

  Consciousness ebbed and flowed unsteadily. It needed to be grabbed by two skinny hands and anchored by sheer obstinacy. Ellis knew something was very wrong. What?

  Then she remembered the hypo...

  “Don’t do this,” she pleaded, plucking at the tight bands that restrained her, binding her helplessly to the medical gurney. “Don’t do this, I can help you. I came to help you, I don’t belong here, let me go.” Kai, Kai! Her world was the shiny metal laboratory of the Dome. Ellis was trapped in the Dome’s medical facility being prepped for stasis.

  Who was Kai? “Stop babbling,” snapped Mark. “I'm just making you secure.”

  There was a bang and the deck rippled.

  His head snapped upright, eyes focusing inwards, before he whipped back to Ellis almost as quickly. “You're going to need it. I think we're due for some trouble.”

  Incredibly the jolt flipped her back to today. “Oh crap.” Impossible not to recognise him once her head began to clear. “Please don’t tell me it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

  * * *

  Jenson stared at the warning blips jigging across front screen as if he didn't believe his luck, which he did. When you worked with the Donn, Lady Luck reckoned you had enough going for you and shipped out for a snooze on a pretty permanent basis. He’d already found what looked like the Crystal cone for a cloak, but it was too late now. They’d hooked on.

  He activated the targeting cones. “Harris?”

  Tam looked up from the second’s seat he’d just slid into. “I see them.”

  Blocking their way was a cluster of black dart-like ships in triad formation. Did they look familiar? Should that be dart with a capital D for Autocracy Class-I single man swing-fighter? Harris called for identification and analysis. Then wished he hadn't bothered, it just took up time they didn’t have and gave the overworked CPU an extra task to worry about.

  “At least they’re ahead,” Jenson remarked thoughtfully. “You know, I believe that a simple left turn might suffice. Initially, of course,” he added, also thoughtfully.

  Harris’ eyes rolled left and widened. “That would have to be very steep,” he advised seriously. “More of a U and a bank, but feel free. We should run and left is good.”

  “Think positive, we’ll make those Bylanes.” Jenson punched in commands.

  They should’ve been veering and they plainly weren’t. “Left?”asked Harris.

  The pilot hit full-speed-ahead. “Ok, here we go.”

  “You were about to turn left,” ground out Tam, seeing a patch of clear space vanish.

  “Nope, changed my mind, the no-left-turn sign is red and I don’t do complicated.”

  Give Harris his due he didn’t try for a smart remark. Saying nothing, he carried on working his board. He said nothing so loudly that Jenson felt an explanation was in order.

  “I travel with the Donn, have done for years,” he said earnestly. “If Mark has ever taught me anything it’s that complicated never works for me. Us. Me. Never.”

  “And turning left is complicated?”

  “Absolutely. You ask this ship, she just didn’t want to go left.”

  * * *

  Having decided that the fleet was about to practice battle-tactics and where, Krystie sent a message to the Baron, recalling him to Imperious for his own safety’s sake. At the same time he dispatched an entire Flight of Glo-white Fighters as an honour escort.

  Haplessly pulverising a strong desire to reduce Krystie to flak, Carolli calculated probabilities. It was still too early to show his hand. Until his ally on Harth Norn was installed his plan was probably vulnerable to Union intervention. His presence was not vital to Belthan only preferred, though disappointingly, he’d miss the metamorphosis. It would probably be less risky to return than to turn stubborn and force a showdown. Krystie was clearly suspicious but still observing political niceties, and, as the Admiral was famous for not being a political animal, it would take him longer to see what was going on if he believed he’d won. On balance it was probably better to play nice and return to the fleet.

  Carolli conceded as graciously as he could.

  It was Timmis who fielded the Baron’s reply.

  He struggled, oh he did struggle, with trying not to look smug. How long would Carolli remain at liberty once he was on board? Any credit you like Krystie would find an excuse to confine him to his quarters (for his own safety) during the War Games. Absorbed in the response, when a nearby board shrilled an alarm from the nets he jumped out of his skin.

  Kent jumped too, fielding the incoming signal. Badly eroded, it was in a root code once used by rogue traders from the rim and had been sent days earlier by a man called Soren Nevus from the refugee Dome on Belthan. The crackling encryption was barely distinguishable from interference and it would have been a bitch to work. Kent glared at it, debating. They’d already wasted ages creating specific files and protocols for Belthan and root-codes like that were murder on her time. Thousands of panicking and/or hysterical signals had flown out of that system in the first hectic days of the evacuation, showering the team with furious debris. The rogue should never have reached the bridge in the first place.

  “Belthan settler with a grievance,” she sighed. “I’ll shove it on down-line, shall I?”

  * * *

  So, seething, Emir Carolli took a U-turn and came home while the relentless processing continued on Belthan without him. It was all so inevitable, so logical. If you had a coating or two of irritating muck you shook it off like a wet dog after a winter’s walk. When the time came the seven moons of Belthan did just that. They shook off the extraneous muck.

  As they did so, they changed.

  The superfluous tat, the unnecessary camouflage, settlers’ homes and bodies; the dirt and Tru-herdies; Oro and Genny-calves; the marauding predators, along with myriad flora and fauna died as the atmosphere dissolved and the residue spiralled off into space and dissipated. Life floating away. Solid waste was incinerated in engine flare; some eventually dribbled down to the planet below. The preliminary stage of the Autocracy’s final and most desperate experiment in sonic weaponry shifted into end game after years of waiting.

  It must have been a relief.

  In place of seven moons, seven gargantuan wheels emerged preparing to take on a crew of processed settlers. They became what they’d always been meant to become.

  Meet the Seven Sisters of Belthan parading in the awed silence of space.

  Their menacing silence was ironic, if entirely natural, considering their sonic arsenal.

  Seven massive ships, seven immense wheels lazily orbited the old planet.

  It was an impressive sight. The threat stopped you dead. It was meant to.

  They were bound to hammer through systems to end with the Union High Council’s headquarters on inner system Ju-juras, but the first stage of the Sister’s journey would finish at Harth Norn. There they would take on additional cannon-fodder, currently stored in concealed cryogenic plants. The shining glory of Harth Norn, though, was the heart and the brain of the Sisters, the soulless thing that made them into one entire unstoppable weapon.

  The creature waited impatiently on Harth Norn behind twin locks.

  The twin locks waited impatiently for twin keys to turn simultaneously.

  Carolli held one key; Ellis Matheson the other.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jenson charged forward.

  Mark and Harris drew a turret each, buying him the time to make the calculations needed to drill a window into the nearest Bylanes corridor, as well as to dodge the barrage.

  Running to the Bylanes, apparently, was the simple alternative to turning left.

  It was years since Harris had gunned second turret in a dogfight, and he cursed his luck. The ZR-3 series sported four turrets, situated below the main gu
n batteries. Using turrets for defence kept small ships busy while the pilot focused on steering and/or locating a decent getaway window; they were more accurate at close quarters as their manual targeting beam was narrow. They had their advantages, ok, but nothing would change how much he hated working them. Being stuck in the 360o visual field for necessary close and accurate shooting always made him feel exposed, as if his head was poking into space. Once in place, Tam let instinct kick in, his hands worked even if his brain was still sulking. There was no time for anything but shooting, not aiming or second-guessing battle tactics. Just shooting.

  Mark, working first turret, let reality dissolve about him.

  At first they were distinct, Macluan and the ship. Then lines blurred and he no longer worked the turret’s guns, they worked him. The ship was everywhere and he basked in the glowing embers of its fiery heart like a bright coal. He was conscious of Tam in the second turret but it was the ship’s semi Sentient Crystal CPU that drove him. Krystie had warned him but no warning could cover it. It was not enough, words could never be enough.

  The ZR had only been partially converted but the feeling was everywhere.

  Mark was Donn and inextricably linked with Crystal.

  They were the same. So was Ellis and the ship felt her too. It recognised them both.

  But Ellis was a ghost, a ghost that was fading.

  There was nothing he could do but fight.

  Ramming home the cones to find them a window, Jenson concentrated on the kind of flying he hadn’t done in years but that had once been second nature. On Autocracy terms it was a typically fair fight. At least one squad of Darts plus back-up, versus a lone ZR-3. He reckoned, counting on his skill, the odds were fairly even. Gung-ho? Who cared? On round about the third enforced spiral under the largest moon he noticed something. Mark normally targeted an enemy’s position before the enemy got there and Harris had struck him as a useful type, but he’d have been much happier if either of them had actually hit something.