The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1)

by S Thomson-Hillis

  Everybody knew that. Why didn’t Ellis?

  She stared blankly. “Vile? No. Not so. Never Crystal, not real Crystal. Crack was foul, but it wasn’t real.” The ZR-3 had an SC CPU and she recalled vividly how the ship had hauled her out of oblivion. Banned technology (plus H’s skill) and Sentient Crystal had saved their skins. How come Tam didn’t know? “Sentient Crystal is wonderful. They abused it.”

  Tam got busy receiving his drink and applying his thumb to the tab. “It was banned and rightly so. We don’t use A-tech. The Union hauled us out of that dead-end.”

  The injured silence stretched and stretched until it begged to snap.

  “So,” he cleared his throat, “how did you bust out?”

  “I stopped a sensor from reporting by channelling psychokinetic energy. It was on the blink already, see? I got the uniform from laundry and will return it, no one the wiser.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.” Ellis shoved away the nuts. “I need facts, Tam. Knowing virtually nothing about my current situation is making me very insecure – especially as they’ve arranged this meeting tomorrow morning. What about this Admiral Krystie, Tam, is he your boss? The Union? UnderCover? We never did get around to that. Now I think we must.”

  And even today everybody knew how Donn got their information.

  His chin rose. “I won’t be forced into giving you classified data.”

  “No,” she agreed calmly. “And I wouldn’t do that to you. I stick to the rules.”

  That dreaded parental look settled on his face again.

  Damn, but he could’ve given Kai a run for his money. “Mainly,” she tacked on.

  Harris relaxed, minimally. “Ok. Fire away.”

  An hour and three glasses of something extremely alcoholic later, Tam felt as though he’d been pushed through a Bylanes loop forwards and yanked out backwards by his ears.

  As the conversation tailed off the pale skin under her eyes had turned mauve and Ellis slumped, with her chin buried in her knees. Tam was more bewildered than ever by the strange gaps she was trying to fill. It was as if, somehow, she’d missed the end of the war. As he waited for the next, probably prohibited, topic he got that strange feeling he was being watched and glanced around. A quick look showed him Jenson was still over by the bar, deep in conversation and definitely not watching. Nevertheless Tam felt over-exposed.

  “No more questions, Tam, I owe you.” Her voice was low and he had to strain to catch the words. “Information is a two-way switch, I know, and you deserve to have the story. Sorry, Tam, but I’m only going through it once. You’ll have to trust me till tomorrow.”

  “I do.” He’d been taken to task for just that reason. “Worry about the others.”

  “No problem.” It seemed to amuse her in a dry way. “I can’t lie. You people have a grade-A lie detector working with you. Macluan will be there.” When he looked puzzled... “Posh version? Our EM fields are on the same meta-psychic network…” Tam looked more confused than ever and she let him off the hook. “A Donn can’t lie to Donn. He’d know. It’s the same with a mask, it’ll screw you up something rotten but he’d see straight through it.”

  “Does he know you’re out and about?”

  “No and he doesn’t have to, does he?”

  No, true, he didn’t, but Tam’d be happier if he did. He’d read two full pages on how the Donn dealt with potential rivals, including how possessive they could get and how easily they jumped to bizarre assumptions. “You should be talking to him.”

  She rose abruptly. “I have to go. I’m pushing my luck already.”

  “Ellis...”

  “I won’t mask this time, so you don’t have to look away like you did before.”

  “Ellis, wait, there’s something else. I read up on your customs and…”

  “Rituals? That was shrewd Tam, very shrewd. Congratulations, well done.”

  “Ellis...” He groaned pathetically.

  Leaning over, she pressed her finger to his lips. “Don’t go there,” she advised. “I’ll catch you tomorrow, bright and early. Your boss isn’t a great one for breakfast, is he? Or do you eat and meet? They used to do that at home. Gave everyone terrible indigestion.” Without warning she peeled off, plunging towards the exit by the bar. “Goodbye Tam,” she flung over her shoulder without turning her head. “I thank you, really I do. Good night.”

  Harris tracked the fiery head as she wove her way through the bar, only relaxing when he was certain that Jenson hadn’t noticed and a vengeful Macluan had not materialised.

  Jenson blinked down the mucky neck of his glass. It was the hair. Redheads were very rare in that time and place and Ellis had attracted some curious looks as she left. Draining his beer, he watched furtively in the mirror behind the bar as Harris left the dais and left.

  * * *

  “Mark?”

  Mark glanced up, saw Jenson’s face, read storm warnings saturated in alcohol, sighed; put his head down and doggedly kept walking. “Not now, H, I’m really busy.”

  “What would you do if you caught Ellis with another man?”

  “What? Who?”

  No reply. The pilot had crashed into a consequences pile-up with no names available, earning an over the shoulder look that would’ve flayed a dinosaur.

  “Tam Harris is a good man,” said Mark, “There is no problem. Remember that, ok?”

  “Yeah, but...” Leaping along to catch up and keep up.

  Macluan had been in the Archives’ star-map stacks, trying to trace the mysterious and elusive Sanctuary world supposedly located in the Epiniron belts. He’d failed, though he believed he’d found a tenuous link to the missing source of Sentient Crystal. Hunting for the Donn Homeworld kept him busy while he tried to convince himself that his future had not vanished down a drain. He’d always trusted his instincts before... “Leave it,” he growled.

  There are old friends and then there are frank and tactless old friends best avoided when a person is running on a short fuse. HStJ Jenson was in a league of his own. “I read,” he began thoughtfully, keeping pace, “that until the... the contract...” belatedly aware of swimming alone in deep water without a life-raft or a helping hand... “is... er... ratified by both parties, the,” with a shifty sidelong glance, “the interested male is inclined to...”

  “Excuse me?” Flinging out a hand, Macluan braked for them both. “You mean am I likely to pummel the living shit out of any poor sod I accidentally catch talking to her?”

  “Yes,” said Jenson, blunt as a club. “Sorry, but yes.”

  “No,” said Mark. His eyes narrowed dangerously. “I want you to listen very carefully because after this the subject is closed. You go that way, I’ll go this and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened. Understand?” Kai, hissed a traitor in his head, who is Kai? And H is right, Harris is too close to her too. Instinct had never lied to Mark, or it never had before. Damn that bloody, bloody book. And now here was HStJ Jenson. Being helpful.

  Jenson nodded. Biology or psychology? It didn’t matter that neither Mark nor Ellis was human. He was a human being trying to relate human things to nonhuman people.

  “The only difference is that I don’t get any false alarms or second chances. We do not have that option.” Slowly Mark began to walk again. “Do you remember Merroon?”

  “Merroon?”

  “Merroon, first year practical field-posting. The native girl you romanced for two days solid? We were billeted on the family holding. When she finally turned you down, and she was kind about it too, you threw one hell of a wobbler. One hell of a wobbler. You camped out on her hacienda, got totally blitzed and ended up trying to serenade her.”

  A wince. Mostly Jenson remembered being told about it afterwards.

  “And when her boyfriend turned up,” resumed Mark, “you challenged him to a duel, a traditional duel with their Skra knives. He wouldn’t fight so you decked him. We had to cart you up to Medical, mainly to keep you out of his way. Is that
behaviour stable?”

  Silent squirming.

  “Then I rest my case. Compared to that, anything I do is normal. Now go away.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  A bright new day had dawned on Imperious. Ship’s time, it was just before 0930.

  Emir Carolli sauntered along the companionway leading to the conference room designated for Krystie’s meeting. The through-window conversation had been cursorily cancelled, Carolli had no further use for the High Council but he did need to be at Krystie’s meeting. There were two main issues. Firstly, only a fool would’ve trusted Krystie’s reports and he needed to gauge the optimum time for his departure. Secondly, he needed to sweep the Donn from his game-board as he’d promised his ally on Harth Norn. And part of that was, of course, her: Ellis Matheson, the voice that haunted, the dead woman walking.

  He needed to see her, to breathe her air before he could believe.

  Luck had come down on his side. If Imperious’ very fine rumour factory was accurate, then he could remove both Donn at one stroke hardly breaking a sweat.

  The tapping of the ebony cane echoed down the corridor and the two guards on either side of the door winced with every rap that brought it closer. They dared not look so they concentrated dead ahead. They had their orders. Oh yes, and a list of those cleared for Krystie’s current meeting. Emir Carolli wasn’t on it. Neither fancied barring him.

  “I don’t like this,” mumbled guard #1.

  “No?” replied #2 bitterly. “Pop in and tell the boss to do his own dirty work, then.”

  The Baron, in all his arrogant glory, stood right in front of them.

  “Well, well, now isn’t this splendidly secure?” Carolli’s pale eyes twinkled. “Good morning. I understand the High Admiral, amongst others, is awaiting me inside.”

  “Yes, sir,” chirruped #1 involuntarily helpful. “Uh... No, sir.”

  “No?” The silk voice rippled. “Am I wrong? Is this not the Admiral’s briefing room?”

  “It is,” admitted #1 wretchedly. “Sir, I…”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  Guard #2 caved in and thumbed the release. “Sir,” she said woodenly, standing back.

  “Oh, well done, good work,” Carolli said. “Remind me to make a note of your ID.”

  * * *

  Somebody had once suggested that a man should believe three impossible things before breakfast. They’d left out a health warning about mental indigestion. Eban Krystie noted that his colleagues were also suffering. His gaze rested thoughtfully on Ellis. Matheson? Typhin? A Donn fighter pilot recalled to the siege of Typhin? The name rang bells or did it? And, with a nostalgically wistful pang, he hadn’t heard that chipped-ice accent in years. The Donn used clan names so there could’ve been hundreds of Mathesons on Typhin then, the tag would’ve been a sub-cluster of one of the five main clans. It was so long ago. Her story could be checked even though records going that far back were sparse. Typhin, Krystie’s Homeworld, had fallen over two hundred years ago (standard) and the siege had been one of his first postings. The Donn had stood shoulder to shoulder with the Typhions against the Autocracy and that was hard to forget. He turned to the others. Commodore Stanson shrugged, a nonplussed cherub, while General WuVane returned a stare like a windswept grass-box.

  “Humph,” pronounced Krystie.

  Rank or not, to Ellis he was just another grizzled Typhion. According to her father they were an honest breed but baulked at subtle fences. Liaison had been Kai’s main task and from the Donn Embassy he’d dealt daily with Typhion Commanders, while at the same time running covert operations. She looked at Eban Krystie and the bitter tang of the years she’d lost tainted everything. Only yesterday she’d been flying home to a planet that had been blasted to hell over two hundred years ago. The Autocracy Wars were over but Ellis was still fighting. Or perhaps she never had been much of a respecter of authority.

  Reflected in the satin sheen of the table between them lay the Dome key.

  “We have to go back,” she said, tapping it with an imperative finger. “I have to go back. We need to know what’s kept behind the door that key opens. There’re the other survivors. What are you going to do about them? They never signed up for War Games.”

  On her right, Jenson coped badly with a pounding headache and applauded her efforts while deploring her timing and style. Sharp breath hissed. Mainly he prayed she’d shut up so he could get himself a cup of coffee. Pressuring Krystie was never the best way forward.

  Next to Jenson, Tam Harris understood perfectly why she had decided that once was enough for her unbelievable tale. Setting aside incredulity, she was right, they did need to return to the Dome and Krystie’s War Games put Imperious in exactly the right place.

  Nearest the entrance, Mark stared woodenly ahead.

  His mind raced but he still hadn’t, quite, managed to process the truth.

  Normally he was a terrifying quick study, the bane of tutors, but not this time.

  He’d stuck. If Donn were hard-wired to find the best-match how come she was two hundred years older than him? Krystie was Typhion, one of the few pure-bloods left now races were merging in the Union melting pot. Typhions lived tens of hundreds of standard years and he knew that Krystie, along with Barsnip, had been stationed on Typhin, famously making the disastrous stand at Kooplets Ridge, but Ellis claimed to be Typhion Donn and that was very different. Donn lived the traditional four-score years and ten. In the natural scheme of things she should have died about two centuries before he’d been born.

  Age gap? It was ludicrous.

  He’d bet the Ritual didn’t often leap generations – unless it had to?

  Was that it? Survival. Basic necessity?

  Mark glared at his linked hands resting on the polished table before him. They blurred as he clenched them. It was time to forget the personal aspects. If he concentrated on duty and the prospective mission, emotion faded. That was better, good. Yes, they had to go back, and he had to be part of it, but he’d heard Jenson’s swift inhale and knew why. Krystie’s eyes had turned into two glassy green stones and that was never a good start to negotiation.

  “Miss Matheson, when we have made a decision you’ll be amongst the first to know and the plight of your peers, of course, is a prime concern. First, my people need to take a quick look at this artefact.” Eban Krystie clambered to his feet, flicking the key with an inquisitive finger, and leaned heavily on the table. “I believe you but...”

  At which point, right on cue, the door opened.

  Krystie looked up directly into Emir Carolli’s eyes.

  The key vanished up his sleeve. You’d’ve blinked and missed it.

  Mark didn’t.

  The room, except the senior staff, dragged to its feet.

  “Welcome, Baron.” Krystie was nothing but mildly surprised.

  “I was given 0930,” Carolli’s gaze swept the room. “I was misinformed?”

  “My apologies, as you’d already said that you’d be satisfied with the verbal transcripts and had another appointment, I saw no need to trouble you when an earlier slot was suggested this morning. The transcripts will be delivered exactly as we arranged.”

  “Too kind. As ever.”

  “My pleasure. As ever.”

  Carolli nodded a cool greeting to his mesmerised audience. “I’m positive the accuracy will be up to your usual standard, you are always so dependable.” His eyes hunted.

  And there she stood.

  Kai Matheson’s long-time missing daughter, gaping at him in naked horror.

  He’d expected to feel something, hatred, pity, something, but there was nothing to feel except the comforting warmth of ancient loathing. She was a history lesson, that’s all. If his sources were correct, and they probably were, then her alleged relationship with Macluan was about to save him a lot of trouble. Perhaps that should be tested before he made any assumptions. It was as well to be certain. The faded blue gaze never faltered.

  “And thi
s is the young lady from Harth Norn?”

  “Yes,” replied Krystie, aware of a mystifying change of tack.

  Ellis was carved of stone. Her trigger had locked. She couldn’t move, she was petrified. It was worse than cryogenic freezing because she was awake and there were nightmares. And they moved and they spoke, they breathed and they smiled.

  Sensing turmoil, Mark focused inward, on her. What is it, Ellis? Tell me.

  I can’t. She was back in the Donn Embassy on Typhin. Carolli was a filthy-minded, pretentious pervert and Ellis’ mother, tall and proud, a leader amongst her clan, was staring up at him defiantly. Afterwards they’d told Ellis that her mother had accidentally fallen to her death later that night but she had never believed it. There’d never been any proof of ill-doing, no matter how she’d looked, no possible doubt to cast on the word of Emir Carolli, sole witness. The lost years piled up and the Carolli of today made no sense until she looked into his eyes and caught the unmistakable flicker of the poisonous reptile behind.

  Muscles in Macluan’s jaw tightened, absorbing Ellis’ shock.

  No one would’ve noticed. Carolli did.

  Unmistakeable, linking. It was true, Macluan and the girl had Identified, shock the female and the male staggered, and vice versa. Now he was certain. Donn in the throes of Ritual were risky wild-cards, thwart the Ritual and one way or another they’d self-destruct. His plan was tantamount to mental kneecapping and was simple, keep them apart. In a matter of hours, days at most, their ability to reason rationally would disintegrate into a soggy, maudlin mess. They’d be a liability. And he’d never have to lift a finger. Perfect, pure poetry.

  “Ellis Matheson,” he said. “I have read the reports of your rescue, are you quite recovered?” She was thinner than he remembered. “Ellis? Quaint, but not the name I knew, though I’m sure I heard it used.” His pale eyes quizzed her. “Of course, I knew you by Kai’s name for you, didn’t I? Mellisand? Ellis is the common version, not so? Suitable for outsiders. You don’t remember me, my dear, do you? I was a military negotiator.”