“How?” he hissed. How the blue bloody hell had Ellis, a stick woman clearly in the advanced stages of malnutrition, managed to steal a stunner from Mark Macluan, a trained UC-1 agent and the last operant Donn? “How did you do it and where is he?”
In the hut Mark passed out again. Ellis could concentrate.
There was a dreadful chill creeping up her legs and arms and her vertebrae were detaching at her hips. Mark’d tried, she’d felt him try, to hide his agony, but he was failing tragically. She bleared at Jenson. His terrier with a bone act was beginning to grate.
“I left him in my room, is all. I knocked him out, stole the gun and your dock ticket.”
To make matters abundantly clear for Jenson, but with a flash of very real spite, she treated him to a vision of how she’d appeared at Tye Beven’s inn.
“Sorry, Tam,” apologised the Drudge. “I should’ve warned you.”
Using the stunner would have had less effect.
Jenson recoiled. Mark had tried to tell him but he hadn’t believed it. A Minder. The reason Mark’d grabbed the mission. She shouldn’t do that in front of us, he realised, not in front of anyone. It’s private. It’s supposed to make me feel sick. She’s doing it on purpose.
Harris sat and blinked giddily at purple nothing. After a couple of star-spattered moments he opted for early retirement, somewhere peaceful with lots of alcohol and no special effects. “I heard,” he said, “there were no Donn left except Macluan.”
“Known Donn,” Jenson corrected pedantically. “This adds up.”
Ellis shimmered back to normal, nearly as sick and dizzy as they were.
“You were the one he was looking for. What went wrong?” demanded Jenson. “If he knew you why didn’t you know him? You were the one calling for help, weren’t you? He moved mountains, he moved the boss, to get here for you. Why did you do it?”
Now that, she admitted, was the sixty-million credit question, and apart from the sickness and stress all she had to offer was that well worn phrase, shit-happens. Jenson’s accusation stung and she detested him all the more for being right. It was true; it was all her fault, a horrible mistake. The Identification between the two Donn had not sunk in, it probably wouldn’t for a while yet, but Ellis understood he was in mortal, lethal danger.
And what hurt him hurt her because somehow he’d bound them together.
How? Except for those wicked silver eyes...
Ellis! In the hut, Mark dropped out of dumb blackness and into reality.
“We must go back now,” she gasped. “It’s very bad. We’ve got to get him out.”
“Turn the ‘cat around,” Jenson spat at the bemused Harris. “Now.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sam Nevus shifted in bed, attended to a travelling circus of itches, accidentally hit icy air and ducked back into warmth. Making the first momentous decision of what was destined to be a momentous day, he cracked open a bleary eye. The green glass light seeping through the filters was reassuringly normal. Everything was normal. Normal was what you knew so perhaps this morning was just, well, a new sort of normal. Yesterday Sam’d been human, running on familiar human, well, rails was a good way of putting it, a carriage running on well-oiled normal rails. Today he was Donn, a race so endangered it was just about extinct, and there were no rails. Today he felt like runny biological gloop. Gloop, that was a good word, he’d never heard it before but it sort of summed things up. He felt all sort of sludgy and gooey and mushy inside, a bit like his world, shivery, hiccuppy and chronically unstable.
The entire Belthan system was unstable, that’s why they’d picked up the holding so cheap. Or so Soren swore when he got one of his glooms on, before he’d slink off to his rackety old shed so Sam wouldn’t see him drunk and morose. Sam had never seen a pin of a difference between Soren drunk and morose and Soren sober and morose and didn’t care anyway. Sam had always said that the low price was suspicious, he’d never seen the point of the settlers taking aptitude tests and after he’d seen those patterns last night he was even more convinced. Now he was Donn, he was sure. Belthan’s history had to be a lie. A couple of years before the end of the war there had been one massive moon, then suddenly there’d been a warp-ram or whatever and, ta-dah, seven unstable miniature moons, all made ready for settlement in hardly any time. Sam and Soren had been offered land on Belthan Six. Neither could work out why their moon was Six when, as the largest, strictly, it should’ve been One. Soren favoured the drunken-bureaucrat-sticking-pins-in-a-chart-after-a-heavy-lunch theory. Sam hadn’t been so sure, it felt weirdly deliberate. Perhaps now Soren couldn’t argue.
Sam was Donn. Sam was a Minder. Sam was different.
Like Belthan Six, Sam was all of a quake. Gloop. He wanted to check his fingers and toes in case he’d grown extra. Of course, he scolded himself seriously, if there were no physical changes, what had changed was... was... capability. Nothing would show. Perhaps he should check the cracked mirror in the fresher for changes behind his eyes. Hannah said it was his eyes that caught her attention. Clear and pale and amber brown, perhaps they’d gone all murky and languorous. Surely there had to be some sign. He was one of the last of a hunted race of mystics and rather fancied it in a cockamamie kind of way. Stretching cramped muscles again, he planned how to tell Hannah. If he did a good enough job her reaction might be pretty awesome. That was where he stalled. Yesterday Hannah Morlstin had been his girl, his first love, he had no idea what she was today. Just a friend?
Nothing had really changed for Sam. Yet. He shoved the awkward bits aside, deciding not to get up till Soren called, and forgot he’d always had to be pried out of bed.
Outside, in the main room, Soren bleared at the dawn through the dregs of an empty bottle, with most of his scrawny length still slung across his easy-chair in the front room. He’d lost muscular control several hours ago and, frankly, couldn’t be bothered to look for it. He hadn’t slept. Instead he’d more or less drunk himself sober, deciding that Sam was going to search for his parents and, yeah, so was Soren. At first Sam’d been a nuisance, but Tray Endelyon’s son had also been a drug and Soren was addicted. Sam was a shaky bomb looking for somewhere to go boom and without Soren, he’d never even realise he’d sat on the detonator. By 0630 Soren had a plan. They’d haul their decrepit speeder the twenty klicks into town and put the farm, mechanicals and livestock on the market. That should get them enough credit to buy lunch. No, seriously, it should be enough to get them started.
The only trouble was Soren had no idea how to begin a quest for the lost Donn.
Soren had no idea…
Replacing the bottle on the table, he coughed a weak, half hysterical giggle.
Where? That was his problem? Where? He had a fully-fledged Donn under his roof and he was worried about where? Just spin Sam around and follow whatever direction his nose pointed, that’d soon sort it out. Sam was his own best clue, Tray had said as much. Sam would lead them to Sanctuary, not Soren, never again Soren. All Nevus could do was advise, be a friend, as he’d been Tray’s friend. Where Soren loved all he got was cold friendship.
But at least he’d proved he was a useful sort to have around in a crisis.
Rolling majestically, Soren lumbered to his feet. There was no point in brooding when doing was needed. Sam needed routine and a reality fix, so did Soren. The boy had been rocked off his balance by the news of his true nature; he didn’t need to see his guardian blind drunk in the morning. That meant coffee and a wash and shave and some sober-pills to douse the liquor. On his way to the fresher, Soren flipped on the newscast. He always listened to the news. Sam would hear through the walls and begin the countdown till he was called.
The transmitter burped. An alarm blared. An emotionless voice announced catastrophe in tones like marble. The alarm repeated, the words repeated. Disaster repeated over and over again, and again, and again. Drum, drum. Life tipped upside down. Soren’s stomach lurched. He stopped and grabbed for the wall to steady himself.
/> It was the booze, it had to be.
I’ll never touch the stuff again, prayed Soren devoutly, never.
Hammering on his door reinforced mind-numbing terror.
Shock turned him into statue for just those few crucial seconds.
Enough time for a grouchy Sam to patter past on bare feet and open the door.
Open the door to the armoured soldiers who didn’t have any faces but held big guns. Bloody big guns, Autocracy cannons, aimed at Sam and Soren by Autocracy troopers who’d come to take them away because Sam and Soren had passed all their tests and had been very welcome on Belthan Six. Belthan Six, one of seven worlds all standing in certain need of a certain type of person receptive to a special and very certain type of conditioning.
* * *
“Any news from Harth Norn?”
Timmis already knew the answer, and so did Eban Krystie, but the Lieutenant flipped through the motions anyway. “Nothing, sir,” he reported. It was the third check that morning.
“How long?”
Timmis also knew that Krystie knew, probably to the hour, minute, second and millisecond, how long since the expected report had been overdue. Another team had gone astray. Not just any old team, either, Krystie had sent the Donn, his version of the heavy mob.
The Admiral glowered. “Too long,” he muttered under his breath.
“Sir,” agreed Timmis and settled back to wait. Being near Eban Krystie that day was like hiking up a grumbling volcano, foolhardy. The eruption was coming, the only question was when. Oh, yes, and what. Krystie didn’t usually opt for the obvious, so whatever it was it was probably something so far off the wall you couldn’t see the bricks with a telescope.
“Baron Carolli’s latest location?” asked Krystie, after another minute.
That was an old game. Chase the ace. Baron Emir Carolli was conducting a sightseeing tour of the outer systems. You might notice, as Eban Krystie had, and as, therefore, Timmis had, that Carolli’s meandering stop-off points were usually in communications black-spots outside the Bylanes walls. After that you might start wondering, as Eban Krystie had, and as, therefore, Timmis had, if the sightseeing tour was specifically targeting abandoned Autocracy way-stations. Timmis ran the trace, and then he checked to make quite, quite certain, yep, same old story. “They’ve logged a course change, Sir.”
Krystie nodded. One hand pulled at his grizzled beard. “Destination?”
Beard tugging was a bad, bad sign. “Belthan, sir, Belthan system.”
Silence hovered like acid clouds. “Hmm.” The Admiral straightened.
So the Baron was taking a tour of mouldering Autocracy space docks, ending up with mouldering Autocracy internment camps. The moons had gone full settlement since the end of the wars but the camp was still intact on the huge old planet, a massive dome, the telltale hallmark of Autocracy end of war architecture. You’d have to be an idiot to miss the ex-Autocracy common denominator but determining why and proving intent was another matter.
A sudden flurry drew their attention to an adjacent terminal and glancing sideways Timmis saw the new rating he’d been assigned working furiously. Her brows were furrowed, her eyes intense and she was nibbling her artistically tinted lips. In the middle of banging information into her board in a way calculated to give it a nervous breakdown, she caught his look and hissed something under her breath. Timmis recoiled, shocked, so pretty, such language. To be fair, the good looks hadn’t really impinged, he merely bemoaned his luck in getting saddled with another newbie. The CCO always dumped giddy girls on him; he resented it but could never fathom why. It was plain as the nose on your face to everyone else in the team. Timmis wasn’t exactly renowned for patience but he was generally held to be a rank misogynist and Commander Boole had simply made a cynical if highly practical move. Good old Timmis, though his file declared him heterosexual, was famously fireproof against feminine or other whiles, thus dependably able to whip anything into shape.
Krystie ignored the disturbance. “Timmis? A request? In your own time, of course.”
“Sir.”
“Chart me the relative positions of Harth Norn, Belthan, that second beacon we found on Pyron and – where was the original discovered? Net it up at eye-level above your screen.”
The new rating cut in. “Sir?”
Krystie did a double-take, raised a quizzical brow and stared blankly back.
“I’ve already checked those co-ordinates, sir, would you like to see my results? I included the latest five possible beacons located even though we’re still waiting for UC-II corroboration.” Without waiting, the image materialised above her terminal.
Carefully avoiding Timmis’ pained expression the Admiral concentrated on the image. One glance confirmed his worst suspicions. “If that was a longish ovoid,” he said thoughtfully, “you’d almost believe Harth Norn to be the pivot? Not so?”
“That’s just what I thought, sir,” chipped in the blonde rating.
Short pause, possibly including a glint of dark humour. “Thank you, Miss, er?”
“Second Comms Kent, sir.”
She beamed, smugness rolling off her in tidal waves.
“Kent,” Krystie committed it to his formidable memory. “Well done, Miss Kent, thank you. Timmis, I would like you to superimpose the Baron’s course, please.”
Timmis won that race. The two images slid together and twirled lazily.
The Admiral glazed. Oh yes, there it was, two similar shadows wavering about the same periphery. That was no coincidence, but his hands were tied. Carolli had influential friends on the Union High Council. “Deploy UC-II beacon searches, here,” a finger jabbed, “bring them down here, too.” Far from satisfied, he peeled off without further comment.
Counting to ten, Timmis rounded on Kent but she was ready. With a gusty sigh and a so-sweet smile that didn’t muss the lip-gloss she heaved her well-sprung bosom at him.
“Thank you so much for that Lieutenant Timmis, it was so generous.” Well-crafted shy adoration gleamed in eyes as hard as sapphires. “You showed me how to do the pattern modelling, remember? Without people like you people like me would never get anywhere.”
True, undoubtedly true.
Timmis recalled he was a gentleman, her superior officer and her mentor, though possibly not in that order. His veins knotted with the effort, his smile was tragic.
Kent batted her spectacular eyelashes, noted the reaction and took the hint to heart.
It wouldn’t do to push her luck again too soon.
Not if she wanted to get away with it.
* * *
Largely unnoticed, along the periphery and at strategic points within, Krystie’s suspicious ovoid was being invaded by squads of Autocracy Darts. One planet was already well defended. The central pivot. The waterlogged world with a hidden Autocracy flight-base already installed on its fourth moon and covert Tokker infantry mustering on its main islets.
Harth Norn.
Scattered troops are hard to hold, especially ill-disciplined, recently recruited Tokker pilots. The squads of Darts from Harth Norn’s moonbase were hot to trot. They had been given the identification of every scheduled ship destined for Harth Norn, and told nothing off that list was welcome in or out, especially anything unscheduled and possibly UC based (that included any ship in the notorious ZR series, by the way). They were flying distance sweeps in strict formation keeping well out of range of Long Island Spaceport’s detection systems.
But they were bored and twitchy; there are only so many drills you can do.
So when the freighter Myremidian III turned up out of nowhere it was first and foremost a bit of a shock and secondly an opportunity for a welcome break in routine.
She wasn’t expected so she had to be a fair target. Didn’t she?
And she was pretty far out so no one would see. No one should make the link.
Fancy a workout, boys? Well, now you mention it...
Myremidian III chugged along like a hedgehog with a headache.
One of her massive rear solar motivators had failed coming out of a nearby Renson System and she lacked the power to drill a new window into the Bylanes. She had to dock to make emergency repairs and had thus logged a new course for Harth Norn, the first civilised stop-over point. Totally unaware that she’d tripped the wire of a prospective warzone, her captain was only concerned that her damage added up to a four-week delay and ten penalty bars for ship and crew.
The end of his troubles arrived suddenly and terminally.
He barely had time to yell a warning and bang the auto-release on his Universal Distress Call before a cluster of Darts swarmed, stinging the ship to volcanic death. No one escaped. The Commercial Trader lit up like a star-fire bud as she died. Bloomed, flared, erupted and winked out, blowing her hull and cargo like seeds from a pod.
Only rusty flak and debris twirled as her epitaph.
A triad of cocksure Darts even spun a victory roll on their way back to base.
But the Myremidian III’s UDC was out and free.
And the prize prats never even checked for it.
Chapter Fourteen
It was a dilapidated shack in the middle of nowhere, perched on a shallow ridge in the forest verges like an abandoned brick. A few mauve rays of pre-dawn light stumbled through Harth Norn’s cloud barrier and fell to the sea, providing a pale backdrop. Harris, despite twisting his weak leg badly on the ‘cat, had offered to check out the rear. Walking away was self-defence as it was against regulations to smack people’s heads together if they were on the same side. Jenson and Ellis were not getting on. They waited in the trees below, beside a narrow, fairly well-trodden track that wound past the hut and up from the village below.
The pilot fumed like a lit firecracker. “Are you positive Mark’s in that dump?”
“Of course not, that’s why I brought us.”
Jenson sucked in air sharp enough to cut his lungs. “Just checking.”
Ellis scowled. “There’s something wrong, I’m not sure that the rest of the gang isn’t closer than we think. There’s something out here that doesn’t feel…” She shook her head, cursing the fog behind her eyes. “Let’s wait for Harris’ all clear. There are at least two guards in there that I can sense, maybe more and I know what they’ve done to your friend, he’s pretty far gone. He won’t walk away, Mr Jenson, it’ll take two to carry him.” She felt the flinch he hid so well. “Don’t worry,” she added. “I know the technique they’ve used. I know it very well. It was quite common. In an hour or two he’ll be fine. Trust me, I do know.”
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 9