There was a loose pack of data-dots on the desk. Grabbing one he did the deed.
“All right?” asked his nuisance neighbour.
“Fine thanks.” Mark smiled, straight into his eyes. “When’s my break?”
That was when life became very vague for the minor clerk in medical supplies.
* * *
The ZR skimmed low over the turbulent navy-blue waves and craggy outcropped islands of Harth Norn so close to the ocean she was surfing. Avoiding each blustery pile of rock was a minor miracle and the roller-coaster effect wasn’t popular with the crew.
“You complained about my driving,” gasped Ellis.
“You didn’t steer that ‘cat,” said Jenson. “It steered you. Look and learn, Killer.”
“What did you call me?”
“Outside the hut? Tam told me all about it. Way to go, Killer.”
“Nobody died.” She glared at his uncaring shoulder-blades. Tam had his eyes shut so there was no point wasting time glaring at him. That chat was parked for later.
“I know, shame about that, my one regret.” Broadsiding a giant wave, they crested with a twirl and Tam opened his eyes in time to physically duck. “This is fun, not so, ladies?”
“I hate to nag,” snarled Ellis, apprehensively checking. “But you promised us one devil of a defence screen, Jenson, and I’d use it right now if I were you. I’ll bet this bunch has something extra special rigged as well as Harth Norn’s normal Air Traffic Control.”
“Sure they have,” said Jenson. “So do we.”
“Infra-scan,” muttered Harris. “It’s a new trick our Chief Astro-Engineer pulled off for low-atmosphere flying in a UC craft.” He shot Ellis a spiky look. “It would be all our own work by the way, not Crystal-based tech. The fleet doesn’t tote an AE Research Buggy around for nothing. We’re not only cloaking, this low we’re using our shields as reflecting agents, bouncing any probes back on the same frequency. Even if they spot a blip it’ll fire right back at them. Good, eh? They’ll think they’ve got a system glitch.”
“Impressive,” approved Ellis, wriggling in her webbing to lose sight of the choppy ocean. “So we’re going straight back to the Dome with no need to hire a ‘cat.”
They thought they detected a certain element of regret in her voice.
“No,” said Harris, after a sticky pause. “No need.”
“I can’t swim,” tacked on Jenson.
He was grateful when no one replied.
Mark always accused him of flying like a bird and landing like a rock, and Jenson freely admitted he preferred going up to coming down. Low atmosphere flying was not his favourite occupation and the ZR handled easier in deep-space. He needed to concentrate on the final landing sequence. They’d have to decide whether or not to keep the cloak operational once down and, if he got the location right, Jenson favoured not. Flight personnel were trained to conserve energy and the ZR’s repair and refit had been speeded up to make this trip. Autocracy Sentient Crystal processing cells generated massive energy but they were still finite. Infra-scan was home-grown tech, so was cloak, but they sucked up huge amounts of power. Finally he found a place where the ZR-3 would be concealed on three sides by rocky lips and steeply banked sand dunes. It would do. Running a speedy scan, not really expecting trouble out here at this time of night, he shut down the cloak, marginally satisfied.
The motivators ceased thrumming.
“And here we are,” he felt impelled to point out. “Killer? You want to tell the folks at home we’re down and doing? I’m sure your boyfriend would be most interested.”
“Nope.” Ellis shut off her screen and sprang her webbing. “We aren’t yet and there’s no need, we use those Enhanced-Rolls like we agreed. Tam’s already done it.”
Without further comment she left.
“Quicker to talk, might break some ice.” HStJ shrugged carelessly and stretched, blissfully unaware that his target had vanished and he was baiting thin air.
Looking round for applause he met Tam’s reproachful gaze. “Ouch?”
“Much ouch,” confirmed Harris. “You have all the tact of a Spitter.”
“Rubbish,” snorted Jenson. “Badinage and me, we’re keeping her going.”
More possible then probable. “There’s something you should remember.”
“You’re the boss and you don’t like me winding up the hired help?”
“No. Well, that too, definitely, but also remember that if Mark is the interested male then Ellis is the interested female. They’re Donn, you don’t cross Minders, and the female of any species is supposed to be deadlier than the male. You said it. Killer. Think.”
For a moment Jenson did, staring moodily dead ahead. “You too?”
“What?” Harris leaned over the second array and checked the cordon boundary.
“Traditions and Etiquette,” gloomed Jenson. “Chapter Three. You’re right, ok. It’s the final section that’s the heaviest... Harris? Why are you breathing down my neck?”
Harris only stared harder and pointed. “I thought I… Over there, up the shore...”
Jenson peered and then shrugged. “It’s your imagination. Travelling with our little Killer’s made you paranoid. The Donn tend to do that to you. It’s a survival reaction.”
“I don’t know,” Harris straightened up, frowning. “I reckon we do nights with the cloak off and keep it on during the day. There’s something out there makes me nervous.”
“Yeah,” said Jenson. “It’s called a thumping great Dome.”
* * *
About ten steps after he left the diplomatic suites Mark realised he was being followed by a very clumsy tail. It had to be the most tragic trainee they could whip up and it was an insult to assume Macluan wouldn’t notice. Ten seconds and a smile was all it would have taken him to send the poor sod bye-byes, but there are times when someone to bait can ease the bleeding soul and it became a bit of a game. He took the long way round to the Archives out of sheer cussed badness. A matter of a couple of extra lefts, a few rights, some U-turns, two trips in the lifts between levels via the exercise suites and he was scooting down the final passage to the Archives while the wheezing trainee probably needed oxygen.
Now, eyeball to eyeball with his favourite Dimitrion, he wondered if the pillock tailing him was going to come in or wait outside. If he stayed outside he could always pick up Mark’s activity from the records but it wouldn’t be so fast – or so much fun.
The Archivist had spent his morning dealing with Eban Krystie’s crew who, within a few short hours, had managed to demolish an intricate system he’d spent ages evolving. He wasn’t happy to begin with and Mark’s arrival didn’t improve his day or his outlook.
Ellis had been a Typhion pilot and for over five hundred years (standard), there’d only ever been one Military training school that majored in flight.
The Autocracy Military Training and Core Development Academy.
Nowadays the Union Military Training and Core Development Academy.
“Academy Personnel Records,” Mark ordered, counted to ten and added, “Please.”
“Of course,” snarled the Archivist. Why not? Everybody else had. “Have we got a precise window?” If it was the same date… It had to be, didn’t it? “Specifically?”
“Autocracy Military Academy infill, Personnel Entrance/Exit Records, Flight, three through two hundred years previous to present date.” Mark even raked up a smile.
“Rear desk,” sniffed the Archivist. “They’re old codes, you’ll need that Archeo-elio-scanner and I’ll bring them over.” It was a comfort that the cones were still muddled from Krystie’s men’s attention and he had not yet had time to re-sort them. It only took a minute before he dumped the jumbled bundle on Mark’s desk. They were so out of order you’d have to be a genius to work them out, it would take Macluan forever, and there was a strong chance that while he was at it he’d sort them out and save the Archivist a chore.
Mark was a Donn in a hurr
y. Sequence made no difference to him.
The old and whispering cone had been last updated when Ellis had left the Academy and was sparse. Firstly there was her racial name, a potted genetic history, a bit like a barcode which ran to more than a few lines. His parents had left him at least that much, Mark knew his racial name and it was almost as long as hers. The date of birth confirmed that she’d been born two hundred and fifty-three standard years before him. In real time he was four years her senior. Other details skidded past, race, planet of origin and her preferred common name. She’d been born with a platinum spoon in her mouth. Her father was the Right Honourable Ambassador and First Counsellor, Kaiser Matheson, elected Donn Representative of Typhin to Central Autocracy State Parliament on Ju-juras, the Prime world. Her mother held a string of titles in the Donn old tongue, which Mark barely recognised. By the time he’d been born the Donn had been more interested in staying alive than preserving their ancient language. Despite the fancy titles, Ellis’ mother’s common name was quite plain, Mara Endelyon. Mara had died suddenly during Ellis’ final year at the Academy and they’d delayed her finals for compassionate reasons. The delay had made little difference, she was a clever girl, and, Mark felt oddly proud. She’d scored a grade average of 1-Alpha-2 across the board.
Wait a minute, the Archives mizzled – what was her father’s name?
He backtracked.
Oh yes, and given his rank there was a strong chance Kai might’ve been her CO if she’d been regrouping over Typhin before the last stand of the siege. Of course she’d been calling for Kai – who else? It was dazzling bright. He thought he’d never stop grinning.
This probably wouldn’t happen until he’d stopped kicking himself.
Let’s blame that book? Huh? And let’s get back to work, shall we?
Mara Endelyon had died on Typhin while working with the negotiating team.
There was the link.
Carolli, that shit-stirring bastard Emir Carolli. Carolli who had wanted Mark out of the way. Carolli who’d admitted he’d been a military negotiator. He had taunted Ellis about her father so one to ten he would’ve been attached to the Embassy. Yep, there it was. But the story wasn’t complete, was it? Academy Records or even the Baron’s official Archived records were unlikely to give up personal information. It was the kind of thing you needed to talk about. He needed an eye-witness account from over two centuries ago. From a Typhion.
And he knew just the Typhion to talk to.
An old friend who’d often helped Mark wile away hours of off-duty.
Full blood Typhions were a rare breed and most of the remnants were busy barracking the High Council for a new Homeworld. Krystie had been a young marine; he wouldn’t have got close to the Embassy. Simon Lister, the Chief Astro-Engineer was Typhion and there were at least three others on his team, but the engineers had been left back on Evermore busily compensating for the Union’s much publicised disgust of Crystal and A-tech.
That left only one Typhion on Imperious. It was a long shot, but hey.
Not even bothering to unplug the reader, Mark left the Archives at a tight gallop, ignoring a savage snarl about the mess from the dismayed Dimitrion as he passed.
Carolli’s waiting aide, lurking outside, had hardly had time to catch his breath.
* * *
From the shadows where Nicksies Marsh spilled into dunes, and melted into the old docks, a man screwed up his face against Harth Norn’s cutting winds and piercing rain.
He hadn’t wanted the job of lookout. It was cold out here, it was wet.
But look.
Dandy was right.
A ship had landed that fitted the bill and he’d scooped the big one.
Very slowly, the lookout backed down the side of the incline until he was sure that he could not be seen from the suddenly visible ship that’d just landed on the dune rocks. Then he whipped round and speeded up with sure-footed haste into a mile-eating jog-trot, heading straight back to Minon’s shack on the forest edge of the Marshes. Once he stopped, tapping his ear, calling urgently ahead, reporting the very news Minon needed most to hear.
A cloaked Union ship had come down virtually on the Dome’s doorstep.
Chapter Thirty-two
Barsnip the Typhion Armsmaster had come with the ship. Rumour had it he’d appeared on the day she’d launched and no one had the nerve to ask about his papers so he’d stayed. When he wasn’t on duty in the Armoury he favoured Refreshment Lounge C. It was small, dark, snug and confidential with a relaxed attitude to modern society’s more uptight rules and regulations. Barsnip was partial to water-Snoo, the traditional glass and iridium tower water-pipe was almost as big as him, and Wharm-tea, and liked it even better when the tea was bought for him. Mark waited impatiently as the Typhion sipped, nodded satisfaction and arranged his pipe more comfortably. Taking a long bubbly pull he watched Mark shrewdly. In his book it paid to think before you made hasty decisions, value judgements or assessments. Snap judgements tended to be fatal when you dealt with weapons on a day-to-day basis. Barsnip had no friends, he was far too old for that liability, but he’d spent time with Macluan because Mark appreciated weapons for what they were, not what they were for. They shared a love of weapons’ design; arms weren’t just killers, even the collection of Autocracy prods and streamers hidden at the rear of the Armoury together with other more esoteric selections. Mark respected them and Barsnip respected the attitude, he knew the mindset of old, a Donn peculiarity. The Donn drew a weapon only when the job demanded it; it made no difference to ability. They didn’t need weapons, they had other ways. The Armsmaster loved his guns and lasers and spear-chucks and stunners, no matter the power and the spot, he loved their feel and look and warm sensual touch. He believed it was a sin and a shame that such beauty was condemned to maim and dismember. What’s more, Barsnip took a perverse pride in issuing the right weapon to the right operative. You’d ask for a ten-spot and Barsnip would look you up and down, check his records, take a puff or two on his pipe, and say, no, you want a jimmy-spot. And that would be that. As a result, receiving your first weapon from Barsnip had turned into a kind of initiation ritual on Imperious.
Mark watched. It took forever for Barsnip to make up his mind to speak.
“Kai Matheson?” he prompted. “Typhin a couple of years before the siege, I know you were there and wondered if you’d heard of him? We just found his daughter.”
Barsnip stared at him. Romance had ended for the old Typhion when his wife died almost eight hundred standard years ago but he knew Donn customs very well and the whole ship was dancing to the tune of Macluan’s business. Here was the living proof. The boy had never been so twitchy. It was the Ritual, right enough. He’d seen it all before when he’d worked with the Donn on Typhin but he’d never expected to see it again. Mark was so brittle you could snap him and his control was far too tight. There was controlling so you kept hold of your wits and there was deliberately sitting on a bomb hoping it didn’t blow your arse off.
The pipe simmered. “Yes,” Barsnip replied eventually. “I knew Matheson and his family. Matter of fact, I had a cousin who worked at the Embassy.” Taking the lip of his pipe out of his mouth, he tapped it out on one wrinkled palm. “You want to leave this until you sort out that girlie of a diplomat over there? The one pretending not to watch you?”
“Later.” Mark snorted disparagingly. “What about Matheson’s family?”
He got a look so old it was skeletal. “Don’t get too smart, boy, those farts are as twisted as their boss and I’ll go ten-to-one he’s waiting for you to go down gibbering.”
“What?”
“Donn in your state aren’t known for thinking straight. Mind-mush, we called it.”
Traditions and Etiquette, Chapter Three... It wasn’t a long leap to make. “They believe my...” short pause, “situation will distract me? They think I’m going doolally?”
“Not going, are, should be sitting there sobbing, so you should. Took you long enoug
h to work that out so I’m not sure they ain’t right.” The old Typhion sat back. “They’re counting on you running mad for your little girl and not running after them.”
It explained a lot. “They’re crazy,” Mark snapped. “Not me. Now, Matheson?”
“Just remember,” warned Barsnip. “You can’t sit on a bomb too long.”
“Matheson,” repeated Mark stonily.
The Armsmaster shrugged, sighed and sucked. “There was some kind of pantomime and the wife died young, while your girl was still off at training or some such like. Real shame that was, it left Ambassador Kai in a right stink-hole. The girl would’ve been about five Typhion turns then or thereabouts, twenty-ish standard years, bit older maybe.” Barsnip reached for his drink and eyed Mark darkly. “That the kind of thing you’re after?”
“And Emir Carolli was there?”
“Ah.” Barsnip wondered if he should tell Mark that Krystie’s men had popped in earlier. He’d corroborated Ellis’ story, right enough, but they’d stopped there and gone no further. Rampant hormones bunged up normally keen brains all kinds of ways, granted, but this one seemed sharper than most. The lined face split in a grin; the pipe gurgled like a drain. “Oh good boy, so you’ve made that connection, have you?” He sucked greenish vapour with relish, tarring his lungs with yet another coating of Snoo. “Can’t recall what your lass was called in those days, but Ellis’ll do us. After the B’henzis died Ellis went off to the wars, so she did, just as soon as she got out of training. My cousin reckoned her daddy packed her off to get her out of the way of something, see, ‘cos why else? They were that close. Carolli was mixed up in it somewhere, but nobody really knew. Political immunity, he had.”
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 22
