The world was lathered in tornadoes but at first it was curiously hit and miss. Some places didn’t suffer badly. Inside the storms pockets of calm and patches of delayed reaction remained serenely free of nature’s rage. They were the speculative eyes of the storm…
…and they often opened onto gasping survivors – or not.
* * *
Tye Beven floated on his back in the thin slurries of his drowned inn and faced the new born sky through its shattered ribs. The accrued sum of a lifetime’s greed sank about him in the murky water. He could never weep for its loss. For the first time in over sixty years of life he faced morning with his unseeing eyes open. Beside him, cuddled in an enduring and lecherous embrace huddled one of his priceless Dome women. In her bloodless fist she still clutched the broken bottle that had ended his life. With a broken jaw and a crushed skull, she smiled complacently and fixedly, nuzzling his gashed and bloated neck. She’d won.
* * *
A score of wrecked boats intermingled with kelp in the clear shallows over a strand of rippling sand. A pale seaweed tinted Giagosian, viridian eyes wide with shock, swayed languorously twenty centimetres beneath the gentle waves. Sheek dreamed, drowned, pinned down and betrayed by his full pockets. Civilisation had ruined him years ago but this was an end he’d never foreseen. Each restless wavelet sent more golden credit tumbling from the tattered robes on to sea-silt. Perhaps Sheek’s Trove would be a tale swapped in bars. He’d’ve liked that. Well, he’d’ve cashed in on it, which for Sheek was much the same thing.
* * *
One side of Long Island was completely submerged but steeper slopes by the Dome and Spaceport rose above the tides under skies that were clear and blue. WuVane’s Groundhogs moved in procession, wading through ruin with no orders ringing in their ears. Lifting tired hands, grimed with pistol shot they snagged the whipping wind. Shoot to kill they’d been told but what was left to kill? Temporarily they were at peace. No one, as yet, had spotted the solid wall of water pushing towards them, nor identified the menacing rumble beneath their feet for what it was. Their aftermath for the most part was not profound or meaningful, only hushed and devastated and terrifying and very, very short-lived.
* * *
Ellis woke up bit-by-bit, crabby, bruised, aching and alone. Crawling painfully to the lip of the cave, she peered blearily out and flinched from bright sunlight. It was a wonderful morning. It was morning, no matter the hour. The air smelled and tasted of the kind of shiny morning at the start of a holiday when young and eager children sneak out to explore before their parents are up. The light glanced off a white scoured beach that stretched down to a flat ocean. Overhead in azure skies a small flock of white birds wheeled, screeching, presumably for the sheer joy of being alive. There hadn’t been a beach last night when, half-drowned, they’d dragged themselves into the low cave for shelter. They were lucky to be alive.
Ellis was cold, snippy and sore. There was a bruise where her back used to be.
Those were noisy squawking birds and she detested them.
If she’d had a gun she’d’ve shot them.
Bang-bang-put-your-wings-up-you-noisy-SOBs-BANG! Dead.
The fight was over. Their side had won. She knew the Union had won.
Absolutely nothing had changed for Ellis Matheson. She was still a loser.
The working together thing was nothing but a handy illusion.
Once he’d got what he wanted out of her not by one word or deed had her Ritual partner indicated his feelings had changed. It was a fair bet that if ordered to sort out the situation, he would have rescued any blithering idiot who’d put the Union at risk and nearly let Emir Carolli reinstate an Autocracy stronghold. Personal matters were the last thing on his mind. He’d been desperate to get through to Sam. Right after the ardent declaration that Sam and the others were ok, he’d smiled that vague wistful smile of his and mumbled, shit, I’m tired, my legs are killing me, give it a rest, curled up like an exhausted puppy and passed out. Something, possibly adrenaline, probably hope, had carried Ellis that far but this morning it was as dead as the life she’d once known. She had been Rejected. After all they’d been through together she’d expected more but she was awake and alone and where was he?
She shaded her eyes and squinted.
Fuzzy in the glow, a stick figure stood far away where the sea met the shore, ankle-deep in foaming wavelets as though wading was all he’d ever wanted out of life.
And he’d felt the minimal brush of her query, for he turned his head.
Ellis clambered down the rocks spilling from the cave’s mouth with as much dignity as she could muster, which wasn’t much, and looked for somewhere to sit. The sea had played bowls with the beach and hadn’t cleared up. The strand was littered with the storm’s detritus. It only took a breath to find a handy rock with a relatively dry top, and perch on it like a prim china cat. Back like a ramrod, she sat, chin on drawn up knees, arms linked round calves, stiff and correct, ready to repel importunate borders. Unassailable barriers shut out the exuberant morning as well as anything the man who’d Rejected her might do or say.
Paddling in fresh shallows, salt water and sand zinging between toes that worked properly again, there were no words to describe how Mark felt. His legs carried him, they were pain free, so was his back; he let the wavelets wash away any final tingling cramps. It was pure unadulterated heaven and life was good. They’d won. Carolli had escaped, but the Baron couldn’t hide forever, he’d surface one day. The boss would have some very strong words about this episode, there were some parts that verged on the disastrous and Mark was very aware that luck had been on their side, yet on the whole life wasn’t too bad.
He looked up and saw Ellis on the rock.
The sun turned her hair gold, she was as still as a statue and as welcoming.
Unease turned to disquiet and disquiet to terror. He opened his mouth to call and abruptly changed his mind, not daring to challenge a silence twanging like tortured catgut. Instead he plodded back, stooping to scoop up his boots on the way. It was about sixty meters across the sand to greet her but it felt like a hike over exposed territory. She wouldn’t even look at him. With every step Mark iced over. The frightened little boy who couldn’t afford to trust was back, shoving him into a bolthole from where he snarled defiance at the world. If she had been any other woman he’d’ve told her to lighten up. If he hadn’t been so certain of his Ritual theory or so conscious of his crime, it might have been different. Her decision was clear even after what they’d survived together. Surely that was worth celebrating and he was due more than a pale jade stare that made him feel slimy and about as welcome as dirt?
It occurred to him they needed to talk but what could he say to make it right?
Why would she listen anyway? What was the point?
Ellis mattered too much, excruciatingly, achingly, far too much.
And after being alone all his life he couldn’t deal with it.
That wasn’t just any woman looking like a dyspeptic cat, it was Ellis Matheson. She was the aristocratic daughter of the last diplomatic Donn emissary to lost Typhin, a B’henzis’ daughter, whatever that meant, and he would find out, he would find out. She was brilliant in a tight spot, had tip-tilted green eyes that turned his legs to goo as well as a sly, crooked smile that made him grin when he should’ve wept. She was the reason he’d kept on going for all those deserted and lonely years. She was Mark Macluan’s only chance to be complete.
He was Ellis’ only chance to be complete but he didn’t think of that.
It was then that he made his decision. He couldn’t lose her.
But to keep her he had to give her back the Choice she deserved.
She should have her Choice. To regain it for her he had to let her go.
It was the only way to wipe out his crime and give them a chance.
He’d screwed up once and he wouldn’t do it again. Mark wanted to make things right for her so much that it twisted inside him and s
trangled any natural sensible instincts. It was a sick serpent shinning up his spine. The last few metres to sit next to her felt like a death sentence he needed so much it burned. He had no idea what to say. “Ellis? You’re ok?”
Ellis tutted scornfully. No, she was still spark-out where he’d left her, stupid man. Oh he was going to have to work so hard to… Then she realised again there was nothing for him to work at. It was over, she was a Reject. There was no point in hoping for reconciliation. It was all screwed up and there was no going back. There was nothing to go back to.
“Fine, thanks. You?” As fond greetings went it was a decent brick wall.
All kinds of alternatives struck Mark but they rolled away, much as the waves had ebbed from his toes. He even considered asking if she’d ever kicked waves and inviting her down to try but the silly sentence died and his mouth wouldn’t say it. “Fine. The pick-up won’t be long, or so Sam says. It’s a lovely morning for the seaside but I don’t think its going to last, I think we’re pretty lucky here,” he said, so correct and stilted he could’ve bitten out his tongue. Gingerly he lowered himself onto the other side of the rock, careful not to touch her or get too close. He didn’t look at Ellis. He looked at the morning and didn’t see it.
“It stinks,” snarled Ellis, graphically describing her personal world.
Despite everything, hoping against hope, she waited for a contradiction, for one of his wry comments, a reproach for her surliness, a smile, or touch. Something. Anything.
“Not as bad as it could be,” mumbled Mark. And sat like a carved stone.
They didn’t look at each other.
Eventually she said, “We’re probably better off apart.”
“Yes,” he agreed gravely. And there it was. Out in the open. Decision decided.
Emir Carolli would’ve been downright proud; he would’ve cheered when he’d stopped laughing. Turned out he’d been right all the time. Messing up the Ritual did send you crazy. Lifeless as the grave, the last two adult Donn sat side by side and waited for rescue.
They never shared a touch.
Neither one said another word.
Except, of course, to discuss the weather.
Chapter Fifty
The Union High Council on Ju-juras dispatched emergency aid immediately it received Krystie’s signal, which wasn’t fast enough. Imperious lay by Harth Norn until the worst of its lunar storms had cleared, coping as best she could with her own repairs. Her teams assisted where they could and treated many who needed medical help. Traumatised authorities on Harth Norn were grateful. With Imperious handling the bulk of the injured, they got on with burying their dead. Communications fielded messages hinting that some Harth Norn survivors would pay enormous sums of credit for a ride off-world before the official Union teams arrived. An anonymous communications rating reckoned she’d heard Eban Krystie had muttered something about not running a taxi service for nervous villains. It may or may not have been true but was a snigger-worthy quote. As the Union clean-up brigade rode over the proverbial horizon, Krystie and his battered fleet began their slow trek to rendezvous with the Imperious’ sister ships, Endeavour and Endurance, and pick up the Astro-Engineers’ Research Buggy, Evermore, to lead their necessary final repairs.
Skeleton crews patched her up as best they could with what they’d got. In short Imperious slung that famous sticking plaster over the leaks as her crew bade their own farewells. In that chaotic post-Autocracy era there was no time for protracted goodbyes. Living in space and dying in battle was pragmatic. Remains, if any, were incinerated and a name carved on the shrine in the tiny multi-faith chapel as friends and comrades took their leave. For a time the shrine was chock-a-block and so were the refreshment lounges, not to mention CMO Sri Arwin’s notorious stress-therapy sessions. Yet most people had learned to get on with life while it was still there to live and that was precisely what they did.
The communications team learned (and leaked) that the engineers (always quirky, always quirky) were drooling at the prospect of a refit and planning to slip all kinds of upgrades into perfectly adequate systems, including the Glo-whites. That juicy titbit seemed to be corroborated when, at the C-AE’s request, the fleet’s next muster point changed to H’tuin, soon to be designated New Typhin, causing Navigation some nervous moments as they drilled in and out of Bylanes. No prizes for guessing why the change. It was the celebrations. Imperious was Typhion built and Eban Krystie had long campaigned for a new Homeworld for his people. In some ways it was an uneasy ride, for the High Admiral hated having his Chiefs of Staff on board when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. His public reason, a hangover from the wars, was that a pre-emptive strike could wipe out the senior officers at a stroke. The truth was that each boss liked to tread his own turf and there wasn’t enough turf on one ship, however big. Imperious was Krystie’s home ground. WuVane was as anxious to return to Endurance and Stanson to Endeavour as Krystie was to get them there.
So Imperious limped doggedly to New Typhin to rejoin her fleet and life went on.
* * *
The High Admiral’s bridge briefing room was sometimes known as IIa or the office, though no one knew why, and had been the scene of many emotive briefings. Today it was cold, detached and empty but for the Admiral and Mark Macluan seated on opposite sides of the shiny desk. By Krystie’s hand lay an elio playing a live data-dot containing the sum of Mark’s research on his lost people. A holographic system map whirled between them.
Finally Krystie leaned back.
“Are you quite certain?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Mark considered, his face composed. “No one can be certain.”
“But you’re as sure as you can be?”
“I am.” Mark nodded curtly at the image. “My people are there.”
“On this mysterious Sanctuary world? You have turned up precious few clues to its location and the Homers were good at muddying the waters. They had to be.” Krystie gave up wasting time trying to read his officer’s face. No, the arrogance had not vanished and sometimes led the Donn to actions that might later be regretted. Macluan proposed a mission to find his people unaware that it would not sit well with the High Council. His choice of a useful crew for the initial searches was interesting. “Well?” the Admiral pressed.
“I cross referenced old texts,” expanded Mark, “Looking for the Lost World and Philosophical Treatise on the Emergence of the Donn with the Formal History. The Homers definitely believed they headed towards our old Homeworld though they obliterated references to location. They were efficient,” he added ruefully. “If they left any clues, it would be in the heads of those they left behind. Not me though, not me, we weren’t Homers.”
“Sam Nevus,” nodded Krystie. “That’s why you think he should go.”
“Yes. His need to find his family will lead him, his guardian apparently told him he was his own clue. I think the world could be somewhere near a binary system in Old Space, possibly modern Epiniron, it got lost in the first human expansion, but I also think he’ll need to start on the more recent Homer worlds, like Saracen, to trigger any knowledge his parents planted. Matheson should go with him because of the time-lag. Two hundred years ago, when she grew up, there might have been some clues left and she might recognise them. She’ll be able to help Sam too, she grew up Donn.” He paused, frowning into nowhere. “It’s far better that Tam Harris should lead them, he has previous experience with,” another short strained pause, “this deliberate type of investigation. He’s very patient. I also believe...”
You rushed that fence, thought Krystie, understanding very well why Macluan had deliberately ruled himself out of the mission. The Admiral had lived through the siege of Typhin, dealing daily with the Donn. He knew the people. Their mysterious Ritual had never previously impinged but he seemed to recall, from the deep mists of time, someone telling him that a Rejected Donn suffered agonies. Time and distance might cool matters down, he guessed, and by all accounts the two should never
have been able to work together and wind up sane, so this pair was already impressive. He roused. “Macluan? Believe what?”
“Tarsis,” Mark sounded puzzled. “That name appears in some of the older indices together with a race known as the Rhouon, sometimes they’re referred to as Sui Generis in our old tongue, so far as I can tell.” A brief smile didn’t light his eyes. “Barsnip tells me I should learn the language, and he might be right there, older references are in Donn.”
“Watch out for Barsnip,” grunted Krystie. “He’s well out of his depth on anything that isn’t a weapon. Now there,” cocking a happily quizzical brow, “he’s the expert.”
For a moment Mark stuck. Barsnip was a mine of incredible stories, including that Donn Crystal ships had flown time. He hadn’t really listened. It had been just after the Armsmaster had given Mark a hotly embarrassing moment telling him not to be a high-handed arsehole and to get on with sorting out his life before it was too bloody late.
“Tarsis,” prompted Krystie, rolling the strange name on his lips. “Macluan?”
Mark shook off the doubts. “It triggers something in my head but I’m not sure what. I think it may be linked with Crystal, part of the missing source myth, but I have no proof. Barsnip said my people ran Crystal ships, and Jenson reckons Matheson did too.”
“We knew that much,” Krystie snorted. Terrin Stanson and the C-AE, Simon Lister, were currently debating that very issue. The High Council on Ju-juras had stitched themselves up so tight they could not back any search for the mythical source, though they’d be glad enough to find it. He wondered if Macluan realised that H’tuin, soon to be New Typhin, held a tiny seam of Sentient Crystal. The last one. “They’ll want that ZR, no doubt.”
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 35
