The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1)

by S Thomson-Hillis

  His half-caste status was the bitter root of his hatred for Eban Krystie.

  Krystie was purebred Typhion while Carolli was purebred nothing.

  The young Krystie had also been on Typhin fighting against the Autocracy.

  It was where they had first clashed, the polished diplomat and the brash marine.

  The person who’d sent that rogue signal spoke Basic with a pure Typhion accent.

  Her voice raked up everything Carolli most wished to forget. He felt sick. It couldn’t be her, he told himself, it could not, but someone knew enough to call for help. Survivors from Krystie’s original team? A risk, and at this stage any danger had to be eliminated

  It shouldn’t be difficult, a Tokker cell had recently been established on Harth Norn, the base and heart of the plot, and though the message showed up a distressing lack of the desired results in dealing with Krystie’s initial UC intervention, here came Dandy Minon’s second chance to shine. The Baron’s team on Imperious had just confirmed that Krystie had already dispatched a second team and Donn involvement had upped the stakes considerably.

  Carolli pressed the top of the two concealed panels above the trigger in the handle of his cane. It was a sturdy affair with an ornate grip and he wasn’t the first man to use a hollow handle so, or even a cane as a weapon. Inside two tiny Crystal cones nestled, communicators tuned to Harth Norn. Carolli’s Crystal slivers were both Crack-Crystal, the Autocracy developed substitute for the real thing, and they both pre-dated the siege of Typhin. Carolli accessed the larger Crystal first. It ran an enhanced scrambler, a high-grade specialist Autocracy encryption system that not even the XT’s interceptors should detect, though it was still restricted by the time-lag effecting communications over long distances and the signal would not arrive for days. Using this, Carolli sent a message that began with a pithy tongue-lashing about the problems of incompetence, and made it clear that Harth Norn had to remain off the grid until the time came. He gave up Krystie’s new team, including images so further mistakes could not be made and added esoteric techniques on how to incapacitate a Donn, a hangover from his days on Typhin. Security was down to the on-planet team and was crucial.

  He then replayed the vocal transmission he’d caught leaking off-world.

  The identity of Beven’s old transmitter had been easy to isolate.

  Instructions were explicit. Fetch, check, get rid.

  Transmission closed abruptly.

  Carolli then swapped to the second, smaller Crack-Crystal.

  This was combined with a modified Universal Translator and a far more sophisticated device. It automatically hunted for snake windows wriggling down the Bylanes corridors thus enabling short bursts of virtually immediate voice contact. At the hub of the Dome on Harth Norn ambient temperatures far below zero were being maintained, but the creature’s thoughts, existing as electronic impulses sparking special circuits, were free and always had been, though speech took more effort, hence the adapted UT. The time-lag, augmented by its nature was therefore, minimal. The captive creature thrashed in frustration. I told you, I told you, it accused again and again. I can feel such things, I can; it is my destiny. I heard the cry of a lone Donn, wailing, wailing... Horrible, horrible, kill it, crush it, kill it, crush it, kill it...

  Its tantrums could be terrifyingly obsessive and the plan required it to stay sane.

  Or as near sane as it could ever be.

  The Baron sighed. He should’ve expected this and cursed his clumsiness.

  It was getting worse.

  With each emotional outburst the thing in the Dome became more unstable.

  “Don’t worry,” he soothed. “My people are absolutely efficient. Our forces were only waiting and I am ensuring final defences are in place. We are safe. The beacon malfunction merely brings forward the processing slightly. It has been triggered. We are ready.”

  And with that it had to be satisfied.

  * * *

  Yet another Commercial Trader landing unexpectedly at Long Island Spaceport had round about doubled Tye’s trade. A varied collection of smart private Aqua-cats and cheap squat Trugs overflowed from the natural harbour and spread far into the bay. The fame of

  Beven’s haul had scooted round the nearer islands, which was a mixed blessing so far as Tye was concerned. Trade was on the up, fair enough, but on a personal level, he much preferred a lower profile. Ellis, on the other hand, thanked her lucky stars for a crowd. Minon’s beating had all but finished her off and even walking took more effort. Morning and night began and ended with vomiting and if something smelled off, then that meant puking too.

  Harris had healed fast and thought faster. They’d decided to use the influx of Traders, nicknamed Commies, as cover for their escape. It was tonight. The meet was by the dock.

  This was to be Ellis’ final performance as the Drudge.

  Sheek tended to watch her more carefully since Minon’s intervention, just as he was now. With barely an hour left before the rendezvous, she was as jittery as a fire-fly.

  Stopping by the pick-up station to dump empties and reload from the order-log, she jumped as Sheek whacked an extra order down on her already overloaded tray.

  “Hey!” she protested without thinking. “I can hardly lift it now.”

  “Tough,” he snapped. “I’d weep if I had the time or inclination. That’s table twenty-three and step on it.” Then he realised who was arguing. “If you have a problem I understand Mr Dandy Minon is available for delivery of motivational training. Your choice.”

  “No.” Ellis bit back a retort. “I got it, table twenty-three.”

  Pettishly she shunted table twenty-three’s order to last. It was probably not the wisest move she might’ve made as it enabled one of the two men sitting at table twenty-three plenty of time to carefully observe his beer’s convoluted progress across the room.

  “Score,” said Mark. “This is it.”

  Jenson wrinkled his nose. “No, that’s probably the drains.”

  “Describe the waitress over by the stage.”

  It was an unusual request but, hell, why not? “I think,” the pilot offered after some length of time, “that the drains are potentially the most attractive feature of this place.”

  He waited for a snigger, looked sideways and stopped.

  Macluan had clearly spotted an angel replete with golden halo, platinum wings, robes of silver mist, attended by trumpet voluntaries played by a regimental band of cherubs. The Donn looked through a different window on the world but this wasn’t different, it was extreme. It was wrong on every level. Mark was famously fastidious with women.

  This time he was singing with a heavenly choir. “That’s our girl.”

  Whatever else she might be, in Jenson’s book that was no damsel in distress. He sniffed doubtfully at a half empty tankard but it probably wasn’t hallucinogenic so perhaps it would be safest to just play along for the time being. There’d been no other signs of recent psychosis. “We’re not scanning the same point on the map, are we? What do you see?”

  Hovering over table nineteen in the middle of a spiteful altercation with an idiot who naively believed his bill was negotiable, Ellis got that bristly feeling. It didn’t take her long to spot the problem, she was being watched. Four tables along, directly underneath the cabaret sat two men who didn’t fit. Oh, they looked scruffy enough, down-at-heel enough, but to a trained eye they just didn’t belong. It was a relief when they stopped watching her and got involved in a heated private debate. The beaky-nosed man was not happy about something and the aesthetic blonde was smiling the come-on-then-try-it kind of smile expressly calculated to wind people up. And they were, she checked, oh crap, they had to be, table twenty-three. It was Murphy’s Law and there was no dodging that chancer when it struck.

  Gripping her battered tray like a shield, she marched over.

  “Ten.” Overcharging was automatic and she could’ve bitten off her tongue.

  Thank the stars nobody argued.
<
br />   “Ten?” Beaky nodded firmly. “Great. There. Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.” The bars bounced, but Ellis caught them.

  The daft prat deserved to be ripped off. She backed off hastily, nerves singing with relief, but made the mistake of glancing at the other man. Meeting eyes so pale grey they were silver was an electric shock and Ellis’ traitorous gut somersaulted. This was no drunken lecher, no way, and he wasn’t fooled by her mask, he could actually see who she was.

  Only Donn or Latent Donn, half bloods, could pierce Donn masks. A Latent? Here? Now? The moment lasted forever before she broke away, spinning back to the bar.

  Macluan gave her a short countdown, scraped back his chair and stood up.

  “Oh no, no, no,” groaned Jenson, shaking his head. “Are you insane?”

  * * *

  Dandy Minon loomed over the overcrowded bar. “Where’s the Drudge?”

  “Upstairs.” The passing Sheek skidded to a halt. “Doing what comes naturally.”

  “You sure? When?”

  “What’s it matter to you and sure I’m sure.” Something made the Giagosian decide to stop and chat a while. Minon hovering, then Minon called away urgently and now Minon fresh back and stressing about the Drudge. “One of the Commies paid for double time. That’s his partner by the band, the hangdog with the nose on twenty-three. Looks lonely, don’t he?”

  Dandy swivelled and gave the solitary Jenson a considerate stare.

  He blinked very slowly and smirked a smirk that belonged on a snake. “Ah well,” he said. “So be it. A man needs a friend these days. Came in with a stringy blonde, did he?”

  Sheek nodded. “Upstairs with the Drudge.”

  “Really?” Almost a grin, almost a leer.

  Giving up, Minon left.

  A moment afterwards his clique mysteriously evaporated.

  Here we go. Sheek raised martyred eyes to the Tri-D of the lusty blonde, the Dimitrion and the Psamin. A man shouldn’t press a finger against that Shiny Ear of his like that and then collect his gang and leave so abruptly, if he was pretending not to be a Tokker.

  What was this, amateur hour?

  Chapter Nine

  Ellis roared up Tye’s rickety stairs, got dizzy on the first landing and had to stop on the second because the world went black. The timing was appalling. Latents had psych profiles like spent lightning rods and cliché or not, there was only one tried and tested way to deal with him, a heavy brick, preferably a pair clapped together, against genitals or head depending on which was first to hand. Cliché’s, she decided, on home ground and checking for the nearest blunt instrument, became clichés because they worked. Weighing the water jug she prayed his skull wasn’t as thick as his skin because she didn’t have time.

  There was a soft knock on the door.

  Ellis slid into position behind the door. “Come in.”

  The latch clicked. She tensed, poised.

  Nothing happened. For what seemed like ages nothing happened.

  Hardly daring to breath, she dared a probe and hit a blank space where she should’ve sensed the mind of another living being. A vanishing act, a mask that never wavered. It was impossible. Only adepts ever dreamed of that level of control and then only for a few seconds. Never this long. She waited, holding her breath and counted to ten, for the mask to crack, and it didn’t. Did not. Nobody could do that. It was inconceivable for a Latent.

  Unless he was some kind of mutation, a freak.

  She took a hesitant step...

  The door whipped back, slamming her against the wall. When stars stopped popping, she was nose to nose with a sleek, fully primed and activated ten-spot. She wasn’t the only one playing clichés that night. The power cell buzzed like a hungry insect.

  “Now how do you suppose I guessed you were going to try something so stupid?”

  Ellis met the silver gaze squarely. “Your friend? He looked a bit twitchy to me.”

  He nodded at the jug. “Put it down.”

  Her arms, still above her head were trembling with the effort, and she lowered them gratefully. The stunner’s muzzle indicated a point in the middle of the floor.

  “Put it down. There. Very slowly.”

  His aim stood steady as she carefully set down the jug, raising her hands to show them empty. He’d played this game before, though not, she hoped, with a desperate Donn. It wasn’t over. While she had a pulse, she could win. On the other hand, he had the stunner.

  “Perhaps you’d like to kick off the explanations?” he suggested.

  Ellis scowled at the stunner. “Are you going to deactivate that?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You know, I think your mask is fading, and I doubt the management would be pleased with your customer services.” He had the brazen nerve to try out a smile.

  It was a sweet smile but a poor attempt to wrong-foot her. She knew that not once, not even for a heartbeat, did the arrogant sod contemplate losing control. That was her chance. With relief she dropped the mask and was impressed that he did not flinch. That was hard to do, even for a Donn, a Latent or even a human should’ve been badly fazed. “Better?”

  “Much. Now may we talk?”

  He gestured over at the bed and at the same time kicked the door shut. The latch didn’t click home. It bounced slightly, leaving the old-fashioned door ajar. Had he seen?

  “It is difficult to hold a reasonable discussion with that.” Nodding at the ten-spot.

  He hesitated, debating alternatives and not liking any of them. With an imperceptible shrug he deactivated the stunner and slid it into a shoulder holster under his jacket.

  Ellis lowered her hands, rubbing blood into cold fingers. “What do you want?”

  “You,” he said. “I can see you, I heard you. Think about it, we need to talk.”

  Unlikely. Tam was waiting, her stomach was bad and he was playing silly games.

  Like him, she smiled. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  And exploded.

  Rammed a straight-fingered punch into his gut, grabbed the jug and whacked it onto his temple. He doubled, winded, with a shocked woof. Clubbing him again, she kicked his buckling legs from under him. His head hit the wall and he buckled, lying still.

  Breathing hard, she bit back puke; then whirled back into action.

  Dragging his surprisingly heavy body out of the way, she shut and locked the door, quickly clicking on the in-use sign. Grabbing the stunner out of what she should have recognised as a UC service holster, identical to the one she’d recently cut off Tam Harris, should’ve meant something. But no, Ellis saw nothing but escape. Instead she checked the charge, and then frisked him for anything else useful. She found loose credit bars and a mooring ticket for an Aqua-cat down at Nicksies Wharf. Good news. Water transport was now ready and waiting for Ellis and Tam. No need to scour the docks for something to steal.

  Finally, she darted over to the rickety window.

  There she paused.

  This felt wrong. Why did it feel so very, very wrong? It was right, it had to be.

  He was in the way and she had to get out. End of story.

  “Sorry.” It was a weird pang.

  Because he really did have, no really, very beautiful eyes, absolutely amazing eyes.

  * * *

  Sam Nevus fiddled with the capricious seismograph in the corner of the cluttered living room. Like most of the equipment littering the room, it was on its last legs. He mumbled a greeting but didn’t bother to look round as Soren came in, back-kicking the door, which regularly jammed, and stamping his feet against the cold of the oncoming night. On a shelf high on the wall, a small metal bottle was startled into a sideways suicide dive onto the muck and dust of the shelf below. Neither man paid it any heed. Bumps and grumps were common on Belthan Six and neither was a fussy housekeeper. Things ended up where they landed and vice versa. Helping himself to the coffee bubbling away in a pot on top of a dumpy stove, Soren cupped the mug for warmth and slouched over to pe
er over Sam’s shoulder to see what task occupied the boy so much he hadn’t even said hello.

  “What’s got you so foxed?” he grunted between sips, sniffing heat gratefully as his nostrils defrosted. Days might be moderately temperate, but nights would freeze the cockles off your undercarriage within minutes. Soren always had trouble with his nose.

  “Quakes,” answered Sam shortly. It was his pet theory that something unnatural had happened when Belthan had suddenly produced six extra moons to keep company with the much diminished singleton. He’d never believed the gravity spiral or matter-collision theory and hated the maths. Even when his tutors yelled Sam stubbornly claimed it made no sense.

  “Quakes? Where?” Nevus was instantly alert. They’d been stepping up lately. Belthan Six could be a vindictive bitch when she was crossed, which was most of the time.

  “Out on the new 7/9 where I was fencing last week, remember? I told you everything was weird out there but you took no notice. All those watch-stakes were down when I went back. There wasn’t one left in one piece, you can’t blame that on me being clooty.” It had been creepy. The virtually immovable markers hadn’t simply toppled over; it looked as if the land had chucked them up in the air and minced them up when they’d crash landed.

  “That can’t be right.” Soren looked at Sam as if he didn’t see him.

  The seismo flared into life. Over Sam’s shoulder Soren saw the display and briefly shut his eyes. It had never showed that pattern before, something had changed. Sam was right. That was a mechanical model and could confirm to any fool that the moons weren’t natural. Only Sam had known before the new pattern registered, he’d known enough to check despite disagreement. Nevus had quashed the truth for the boy’s entire life but suddenly he was too tired to fight. There was no point in dodging the truth just as there was no possible denial. That projection was the straw that broke the camel’s back and the camel was exhausted. Nevus never thought to wonder why the vendors had lied to the settlers about the nature of their land, he saw only that it was time to tell the boy the truth about who he was.