The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1)

by S Thomson-Hillis

  “B’henzis? You mean Ellis’ mother?”

  “Don’t you speak the Old Tongue?” asked Barsnip scornfully. “Don’t you give me the old crap about hiding since you were ten, it’s your language, learn it. Yes. And it was the B’henzis Carolli was sniffing round like a hound on heat. She was old school, an Endelyon, and they were a strong clan. She was a lady born, it’s why they called her B’henzis.”

  “How did she die?” asked Mark abruptly.

  “Wrong question,” said Barsnip. “Fell downstairs, so they say.”

  Mark looked at him through narrow eyes, his mind racing too far and too fast.

  “Why did she die?”

  “Better.” Barsnip sucked and blew a cloud. “I said Carolli was sniffing round.”

  He waited.

  “Why was Carolli so interested in Ellis’ mother?” Was that the right question?

  Apparently so.

  “Nobody knows for sure, but my cousin didn’t think he was up to any good. He had a thing about the Donn would be better if they lived longer, into all that weird stuff, and told everybody she had the right blood, daft about it he was. Tell you what, my cousin swore he didn’t have any love for you lot, too smarmy to show it though. Donn weren’t that picky at the end, they couldn’t afford to be, town was a warzone, and they took what help they were given on face value. Had to.” The pipe left Barsnip’s mouth for good as he used the stem for emphasis. “Ambassador Kai did his best but Carolli was a Consular Envoy in charge of Systems just before Kooplets fell, one of them military negotiators. Always did think that was a mistake, too much security clearance, see? And I heard Mara Endelyon couldn’t hardly be in the same room as him just before her accident. My cousin told me she upped and offed him when he asked her to dance at some function. An ambassador’s missus doesn’t do that unless there’s a good reason. She can’t, not diplomatic, see. I think she might’ve been a better judge of character than her old man, and your little girl was better than both.”

  “So Carolli didn’t like the Donn but was forced to work with them.” Mark stared into nowhere, puzzled. “What was his problem?” he murmured out loud without realising.

  “For the Donn,” Barsnip said. “Different. That was the trouble, go from there and it might’ve been just plain jealousy. Never trust a mongrel, that’s what they say, yes?”

  “Mongrel?”

  The coy confidential wink was terrifying. “Didn’t know if you’d guessed. A mongrel Donn’s got no blood ties, no loyalty. Can’t never trust a mongrel like Carolli.”

  “He’s Typhion,” said Mark slowly. Then, finally, it struck. “Latent? He’s Latent?”

  Barsnip gave him a long slow look. “A lot of races mixed up on Typhin then, Donn too, it wasn’t common knowledge, nobody would’ve cared if it had been. Typhin was a refuge world designate, we held the last treaty with the Autocracy. Who’d’ve guessed they wouldn’t keep their word?” Bitter as acid. “Lots of Psamins, Chlorysans, those that didn’t run out on us to go off to Ju-juras that is, and Dimitrions, all of’em. . It was a right mixing bowl place. The Donn were the old hands, they were the bedrock. Yeah, Carolli is Latent, and snide enough to cosy up to those he don’t like. What d’you know about Latents?”

  The entire room slowed up while Mark processed implications. “Enough,” he pronounced finally. “Donn split with another race, they never develop and very few end up sane. It’s the first rule we learn, there must be no mixed-race children. It’s so deeply ingrained… But I haven’t felt anything... I should.” Another moment passed while the enormity sank in. “He can lie to me without me knowing and he can block me out.”

  “Don’t like him, do you,” nodded Barsnip. “Nobody does. He’s wired wrong. The Autocracy got real wily with Latents. They used to send them in with prods and streamers when they could because that way no Donn would know to expect one of their visits.”

  Mark looked at Barsnip and he was haggard. “Autocracy?”

  “No proof.” Barsnip shrugged. “Not even Matheson could dig up enough and he surely did try. Oh, he did too. It was just like when the B’henzis died so sudden. Nothing ever stuck.” The Armsmaster craned forward, choosing each word with special care. “Listen up, you. Just before Kooplets Ridge, the city was barricaded off and somebody authorised a civilian evacuation. They shipped all the Latents off first, there were plenty of’em too, upwards of two-hundred men, women and children. Shocking it was, and when Ambassador Kai found out... Well, let’s just say that was when he and Carolli fell out properly.”

  “How did they get hold of the Latents?” His lips were stiff.

  “Somebody rounded them up. Someone they trusted, one of their own.” Barsnip drew a deep breath. “Once they’d got all them on board, then they filled the spaces with other refugees. No Donn, they wouldn’t take the Donn. Carolli’s boss died about then and he shipped off with them, to champion their rights, make sure they were settled properly, or so he said. Those freighters vanished, never did surface again, though he did. My cousin heard Latents were being picked up all over the system. You have to wonder why, don’t you?”

  Then he sat back and watched the cogs whir behind the silver eyes. The response was a curve ball, even though the Donn were famous for making links that others missed.

  “What about the cane?” asked Mark softly. “When did he start using that cane?”

  * * *

  Sam’s beginner’s luck ran out just about two hours after phase-shift stuttered on and off as, one by one, the Seven Sisters drilled out of the Bylanes, mustering the rag-tag collection of their neo-Autocracy fleet for the last leg of the journey to Harth Norn. On Sam’s wheel, Belthan Six, once empty passages were suddenly subject to regular patrols and ruthless scrutiny, something that didn’t actually hit him until it was far, far too late.

  He made one outing too many, as beginners often do.

  Some throbbing power conduits at the joint where the strut leading to his pod connected to the central pivot absorbed him, a footstep cracked, he looked up and...

  ...his only option was to run.

  Shooting down the passage, skidding round a bend, he clawed at a fire-frame for balance and tripped, whanged a knee on the overlay and banged his nose and forehead hard on the sharp ridge. Plastered against the wall, he used the raised frame as cover as life exploded in dull flumes of sparks and his nose dribbled blood. Two shots ricocheted and fire-cracked, singeing his boots. Guards were clumping up the passage and if he didn’t do something it was going to be the end of Sam. The corridor was blank walls punctuated by fire doors. If he sprinted for the rim’s T-junction he might as well paint a target on his back.

  The regular drilled slap-slap of feet was getting louder. He had about a minute left.

  At least Soren need never know that all he’d endured had been wasted because Sam had poked his nose into a place it didn’t need to be poked. Sam felt cold, oh yes and his nose was on fire and it was probably broken and if he lived he’d have a cauliflower nose and he’d probably dislocated his knee or slipped a cartilage or snapped a tendon and…

  His father would’ve known what to do. His father would’ve helped him.

  Oh please help me, please, please, he prayed, please help me, Kim, what do I do?

  Time tottered. There was a palpable jolt as it reeled forward in slo-mo.

  Suddenly, amazingly, a ghost perched on his shoulder, shifting, using his eyes. The ghost Kim. Kim took in the situation in an instant, calm and dispassionate, checking chances Sam missed. Look up, he ordered, there’s an over-ride, close the door and jam it shut.

  Sam choked. It was that simple?

  The hitherto unnoticed door control was about a hand’s breadth above his ear.

  He twisted, slammed his palm on the panel, counted to ten and somehow managed to fuse the internal workings of the lock so it’d take the guards ages to prise it open.

  When his heart stopped hammering, he realised he was still under orders.

  Run, get
somewhere safe, instructed the ghost, hunker down, we need to talk.

  Sam limped rapidly back to his survival pod.

  Inside he waited until the worst of the panic subsided and he could hear his breathing over the thudding in his ear drums. Then he scrubbed the worst of the tears, snot and blood off his face and onto his sleeve. His nose probably wasn’t broken, but in the shiny lid of the first-aid box he could see he was going to have a beauty of a black eye. The knee was a bruised red herring of an injury that might haunt him in later life but was easing off for now.

  Ghost Kim waited, but he was a ghost on a clock. To Sam it was like having a Universal Translator inside his head but with an added identity stamp. It soon dawned that the ghost, though the same person as always, wasn’t Kim, that his assumption had been wrong. It was a complete stranger, but someone he had to trust, someone who’d just saved him.

  The first questions were simple, who are you? where are you? why are you?

  Sam told his story as simply as he could.

  The ghost unleashed a tide of interrogation that knocked him sideways.

  Belthan? Belthan Six? Was he absolutely certain? Sam wasn’t, so as well as information, he shared the image of the wheels that he’d glimpsed from the shuttle.

  There was silence, utterly strident silence. We’ve just come out of the Bylanes, added Sam dutifully, we’re waiting for the rest of them. That was how I got caught, I think, I was poking around at the power core of my wheel. Hello? Are you there still? Hello? Oh please don’t leave me now. He stopped, shocked, that sounded so wretchedly feeble.

  It was only a heartbeat before the ghost was back but it felt like forever.

  I promise not to leave you, Sam, we’re going to get you out of there but you are going to have to stop exploring or you’ll get caught again. We will get you safely away but you must stay in that pod, use emergency rations, and wait. They will catch you if you wander.

  How can you do that when I don’t even know where I’m going? wailed Sam. I don’t even know who you are. I thought I was talking to my father. Hello? You’re fading again.

  When it spoke again the ghost sounded clipped and curt and thin-lipped all of a sudden. I think you are going to a place called Harth Norn, probably soon, and our best bet is using that pod of yours to get you down, if we’re lucky. My name is Mark, I work for the Union. Stay put, do nothing, wait for my signal and do exactly what you’re told. Ok?

  * * *

  Sam had caught Macluan scurrying through the maze of rarely used passages in Imperious on his way to Carolli’s private rooms in the diplomatic suite. He’d been taking the scenic route just to give Carolli’s trainee detective an extra work-out before dumping him. Luckily, it was a deserted corridor and when Sam’s call had shocked him into stopping he’d halted before one of the smaller Views opening away from the War Games zone.

  Reality took its time returning.

  There was something sharp jabbing into his back and the sound of laboured breathing.

  Mark’s brain went click.

  “That’s right, you superior sod,” breathed the panting aide, and the pressure in Mark’s side became a vindictive jab. “Think you’re so damn clever, don’t you? Wheeling me all over the ship while you play silly games and then you stop to admire the view?” He grabbed a harsh breath and Mark could hear his heart thudding wildly. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Captain, but we were warned and I know just what to do about you.”

  Just for a second the man shifted and Mark glimpsed what he was holding.

  It was a streamer.

  Of course, it was.

  “Can you even use that thing?” demanded Mark.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Emir Carolli exploded into his study.

  There was a compact DS XT-9 waiting for him on Harth Norn, to take him to the base on Harth Norn’s fourth moon, from where he intended to watch as the Sister’s augmented sonic lance pulverised Eban Krystie’s fleet. Carolli had seen the plans and the wheels, when completed, would be absolutely unstoppable. First, though, he needed to get down to the planet. A quick quiet exit had been harder to arrange than he’d expected. Vanguard Communications, together with infantry details dispatched by General WuVane, had already begun to trickle down to Harth Norn’s Spaceport. Arranging to stowaway on one of those should’ve been simple enough. It was not. He’d never regretted not being pure-bred Donn quite so much. A Donn would’ve just strolled in and grabbed a ship whereas Carolli had to spy out the land first. Well, done was done, but it had taken too long. He could feel his influence slipping away and it infuriated him. It was definitely past time to leave.

  A light glimmered on his desk, an urgent internal message. They’d had to use the streamer on Macluan, had they? And the docility-node on a pacifier afterwards?

  How shocking, he might weep. There was time to smirk, though.

  The study was dark. Strangely, he didn’t remember turning down the lights so very low, but it didn’t matter, no need to bother, he wasn’t staying long. It was eerie, a weird shiver rippled down his spine, and he blinked round, suddenly suspicious. A foreign breath?

  But, no, it was nothing.

  And he had no more time to care or to check. The final diagnostic systems tests were due and the only thing that mattered was getting away and down to the Dome.

  The creature was not stable, it needed help, support, guidance.

  It needed constant supervision; it needed a master.

  Leaning his cane against the desk, he swung round to consider the divided alcove against the back wall. A click of his fingers brought on the small spot illuminating the shelves, leaving most of the room in deep shadow as he strode over, surprisingly limber without his cane. Over the years he’d got used to travelling light, but there were some things only a fool would leave behind. A second Crack-Crystal, old and doddery, but still operational; several data-dots and some evidence of an interesting insurrection in the Manticulusian systems concerning Tiscus IV, the new fuel, that could prove lucrative.

  Somehow the cones had shuffled to the back and locating them took time.

  Behind him breath rustled and he stopped, listening, but, again, it was nothing.

  Finding the objects, checking and pocketing them took longer than he thought. They really were in disarray. Once, twice he paused, head up, listening, hearing nothing, and with a quick mental shake resumed his task. He was too old to bow before nerves, too near to his goal to jump at shadows, he was the shadow. Carolli was the greatest shadow ever cast.

  Scooping the selected cones into a pouch, he whipped back to his desk.

  There was a soft click and something rattled.

  The cane had slipped away from the desk and lay shivering on the floor.

  Whisking round from dark to light, at first he could hardly make it out.

  One of the top compartments had burst open and a tiny Crack-Crystal had rolled away under the desk. It was the one tuned to Minon’s frequency and he cursed, hastily stooping to scoop it up. His groping fingers brushed another object lying virtually underneath it.

  The Dome key’s secret slot had also burst.

  The vital key had spilled out and lay, rocking slightly, next to the cone.

  The implications of its loss stopped his heart.

  Then he grabbed them, made them safe, safe, safe.

  Straightening, he stared wildly about. Nothing, only fleeting shadows ringing the halo of the spotlight. On impulse he clicked on full glows, blinking in the sudden glare.

  Nothing.

  There was no time to do more.

  Switching off the light, he left.

  * * *

  Life on the Imperious’ bridge ticked over nicely. It wouldn’t last and Kent knew she was living in a fool’s paradise. Her view of the giant Vista-View was obscured by the bobbing heads of the men setting up the temporary control banks where the Astro-Engineers and some Flight researchers would be monitoring the War Games. She didn’t mind, preferred it in fac
t. Behind them Glo-whites industriously practising heroics pirouetted serenely against dark night and hazy stars. Harth Norn’s distant navy-blue globe hung at the top left and, as they closed in, hour by minute by second, it grew. The War Games were scheduled to begin at 0000 (ship time) which was about 0800 planet time (Long Island meridian). That gave WuVane and his Ground Hogs a pretty narrow window in which to establish a local operational control centre by Long Island Spaceport. Harth Norn’s Authorities had not been happy, not happy at all, but in the end they’d had no choice but to comply. That had been a challenging few hours for Kent and her peers. She certainly needed this breather.

  There was an incoming blip on her system.

  Kent took the call with a pained sigh.

  It was a private trader calling in from a back-street trade-lane off the beaten Bylanes track, which made it about eighteen hours farther out than Imperious on the opposite side of Harth Norn. Even Kent knew that private traders were a hard-headed crew so this frenzied fool had to be off his face. For starters he’d called the fleet. The Union fleet equalled law and private traders equalled not entirely comfortable with law. For a while she listened to his ravings without making any comment wondering whether to report him unfit to fly.

  Timmis looked round, vaguely irritated. “What’s the problem?”

  The trader was screaming blue-bloody murder and red/amber/red. With a sigh, Kent rammed him on hold. “Some fool of a pirate reckons he’s seen an Autocracy fleet led by seven wheels as big as moons coming out of the Bylanes and heading straight for us.”

  Timmis frowned and touched his headset. “Position?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she snapped. “You want to try?” She copied him in.

  Her stomach flipped for no reason at all as he listened.

  “Calm him,” instructed her mentor. “Verify position, enable visual data-flow.” To her horror he punched relay and bypassed Boole. “We’ll just show that to the boss.”