“I remember you,” she spat. “How could anyone forget the likes of you?”
Mark could taste her loathing, he bit it back, swallowed it, eyes front...
Carolli saw those correctly focused eyes glaze slightly, a mere hint of mist.
“Ever the Ambassador’s daughter,” he chided and the point of his cane screeched on the floor. “You will be so alone without Kai to guide and care for you, won’t you? I was there, you know, when he heard the news of your loss, he was so distressed.”
Correct to a rigid fault, this time Mark did not react.
Carolli deftly twisted the blade. “Kaiser Matheson is gone, my dear, it’s too late to mourn for he’s long dead and buried. I was with him at the end, I saw him die. I’m sure it will help to know he was with a friend like me as he passed on. If you wish to know the details I can help, but I wouldn’t advise it, it was not what you might call an easy passage. I had him buried and I could show you where, though his grave is nought but a heap of rubble.”
Both Donn stared at him, eyes of grey marble, shot with green.
That he’d dragged Macluan’s gaze towards him was enough.
More than enough. It was beautiful.
“Forgive me,” he bowed his head. “I forgot the unique way your people take the passing of a loved one, your Death Reverberation. I sought only to offer comfort.”
Krystie remembered, once again, why he’d always loathed politics and diplomats. Ambassador’s daughter? Yes, of course, and now he remembered. Ambassador Kaiser Matheson had been famously been one of the first Donn to openly cross the line to work with the Typhion rebels. That would be why the name sounded familiar. That should be simple to check, the Archives should carry those records, or transcripts, if they still existed.
Swollen with victory, Carolli switched fire.
“You must be overjoyed, Captain Macluan, to meet another Donn after spending so long in isolation. Refresh me, how old were you when your family abandoned you?”
“Ten years, standard, Sir.” They hadn’t deserted him. It wasn’t like that. Behind a perfect facade, a child stamped his foot in defiance and raged furiously. They didn’t abandon me, you snide sod. They never would, they never would. We had to take our chances. We split up. They died, one by one they died, I felt them die, but they never abandoned me.
“So young,” mused the Baron sadly. “So very alone, and Donn customs are so very different to ours. You will have forgotten how to be Donn out of sheer necessity. Miss Matheson will have to help you reclaim your birthright. How exciting for you both.”
This time his smile was purely for Eban Krystie.
“In the meantime, though, we must endeavour to keep Macluan gainfully occupied. Admiral, may I remind you that he was to be ceded to my division this duty spell?”
“Second XII,” Krystie nodded curtly.
“Good,” Carolli smiled. “Ideal. Then perhaps the good Captain will do me the honour of taking up his new duties immediately, after all the post is very much overdue.”
And then, completely satisfied, he stood back to follow Mark out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Sheek absently tapped his UT and made a random sweep across Beven’s bar. He didn’t spike any particular conversation but liked to check, just in case he’d missed something potentially useful to be jotted down in the tidy green note-pad in his head. The UT was so much a part of him that sometimes he even forgot he was wearing it and then made up with hurried sweeps. Sighing in satisfaction, he leaned his massive fore-arms on the counter that he’d just wiped clean for the nth time and surveyed his domain. The Giag was never content but in those moments he came close. His private retirement plan, the credit he’d surreptitiously milked from Beven and stashed outside the inn, was piling ever higher and life was ticking over nicely. Even Tye might have admitted to a certain glow. He and Sheek had similar feelings about the great god avarice that meant there were no problems as long as they were both dealing cards from the same (loaded) deck. The inn was a goldmine.
Yep, life was almost as good as it could get, thank you kindly.
The loss of the Drudge, initially a worry, had worked out, after all.
A day or so after she’d vanished Dandy Minon had sauntered in, all casual, and announced he’d found her body polluting the washes near the old South dock in Nicksies. Sheek noted dryly that only Minon had seen the body. Convenient, decided Sheek, especially once you recalled Minon’s special interest in her. So who cared about the obvious taste bypass? Mind, it was interesting that somebody else reckoned they’d seen Minon’s crew manhandling a body down the back stairs wrapped in a rug. Interesting, but oh so very, very sad. Tye didn’t care enough to make it an issue, and neither, frankly, did Sheek. There’d soon be plenty to step up; entire levels in the Dome were stacked with potential employees just waiting to be defrosted. At least the authorities wouldn’t start poking about and she wasn’t mouthing off in the wrong place. Minon would keep her quiet. Minon liked quiet.
But for now only four Domers survived to work at the tavern and one, Dyssa, had ended up on the stage. Even for a Domer, Dyssa was weird. Not quite right, she was, what was the word, fey? Otherworldly? Gave folk the creeps. One night a singer had gone sick and Dyssa, in her meandering way, had simply wandered over, desultorily picked up the rhythm and begun to croon in a sweet, wistful voice. Early on when folks were sober or late when they were mushy, she went down very well. It was good enough. She earned her keep.
“Hey. You. Any danger of a drink?”
Sheek whipped round with a growl, recognised the gabby customer, saw one of his bartenders lunge and lapsed back into pensive inaction. Dandy Minon. Minon ordering beer. Minon not happy. Minon never happy. Dandy Minon troubled Sheek more and more.
You got all sorts in here. Mostly Sheek let’em come and go and the best he could say was that most left him minimally richer and maximally unmoved. Minon was different. Beven’s customers traditionally looked after their own, but there weren’t many who’d speak for Minon except his own clique. There were a lot of strangers in that gang, lots of newbies, bunking out and around Nicksies at that hut. Sheek smelled Tokkers gathering.
“Dandy, my boy, how goes it?” The Giag slid along the bar towards Minon.
Minon wasn’t playing.
“Not good,” he shrugged. “Not bad either. Pretty average.” He raised his glass and toasted the barkeeper. “This stuff helps,” he told him, “but not much at your prices.”
Sheek gave the Giagosian version of a wry grin. “Keep trying, it subsidises the hired help and they are good.” He moved closer, still smiling, chummy, chummy; chummy.
“I’ll bear that in mind.” With a curt nod, Dandy backed off.
Drawing him out just didn’t work, did it?
Sheek tracked him with the beam of his UT but Minon and his gang were sitting just out of range, by the stage, just like they always did. They always found a blind spot. So and so, some you win, some you don’t, thought Sheek, an arch-pragmatist, and some types of rotten fruit just took a bit longer to fall off the tree. There’d be other chances, other nights; other ways. Sheek didn’t let go once his suspicions were roused and Minon was marked.
Minon had far more than women and booze on his mind that night. The final reveille was due within days and Tokker regiments were gradually regrouping under his authority, which he was taking very seriously. Two additional squads of Autocracy fighters had landed with a couple of Command Spitters on the backside of the fourth moon and Harth Norn was all set to be the vanguard of the neo-Autocracy. People who were not afraid to wield real power would wield it, people not afraid to stand up for what was right and put reasonable use of technology back on the agenda instead of throwing life backwards a thousand years.
One thing soured him.
Losing the Drudge and the Union agents hadn’t gone down well.
Carolli had made it abundantly clear the neo-Autocracy hierarchy had even less use for incompetence than the old order.
Minon had been looking forward to promotion, hoping to be part of the neo-Military Junta. The Baron quickly disabused him of this fond ambition.
If he screwed up again he’d be dead and it wouldn’t be a clean death, either.
The Donn’s escape had been bad for Minon and he would not forget it.
It was something he had in common with Carolli, they were both obsessive.
Carolli and his hatreds and Minon and his grudges.
Like Sheek, on a grander scale, neither ever let go.
* * *
Mark sat at the tiny desk in one of Carolli’s external offices and stared blankly at his desk. He couldn’t actually believe it. It was insane. He had been dumped into invoicing in Medical Supplies and Administration, a backwater, given the lowest-level clearance and pretty much left to his own devices. It was a shared office and he was, obviously, never on his own, but the other inmate was just a clueless administrative clerk, there was no spy, not even a spy-eye set in the wall. It’d taken about three seconds and one glance to establish that. So why was he here? Why the hell had Carolli gone to so much trouble to haul him onto diplomatic service and then dump him? It made no sense and it made him angry.
Anger was an old friend; a familiar shield. His weak spot was Ellis, and he couldn’t bear to be near her now he realised how foul his crime had been. She’d had a partner, and that man, Kai, was dead. That solved the two-century time lag problem, Mark might have Identified but it was impossible for her. As far as the Ritual went the Donn shot their bolt once, she would never feel the same way again. Not being near her screwed him up too, but at least he could think. For some reason she was desperate for him to contact her. No way.
He needed to contain his anger.
To control it, channel it and hone it so he could fight back.
The trick he used was the one that had so disconcerted Ellis at Beven’s inn. A complex mask devised in the orphanage on Genta Prime and put into good use many times since then. In technical terms his electro-magnetic field dropped off the meta-psychic network. In laymen’s terms, he winked out like a light and simply ceased to exist.
Nobody, nothing, pierced those shields and, far off, a desolate Sam suffered too.
It was fairly obvious which enemy had declared war. Ellis clearly had history with the Baron and now so did Mark. Now it was a grudge match. Now it was personal.
Emir Carolli might know the Donn in general but he’d seriously underestimated Mark Macluan. He’d taken an arch-survivor who’d successfully navigated Autocracy purges and forced him out of play by herding him off from his team. Shoot down a loner by making him work alone? Carolli hadn’t really thought that one through, had he? All he’d achieved was to wind up an angry man. A man who made normal control freaks look like bendy-toys.
Time ceased to exist as Mark stared sightlessly at the next invoice. There was a link between Carolli, Belthan and Harth Norn and he was going to find out what it was.
Separation bought him time, opportunity and motivation.
He’d strip Carolli bare.
Whatever he was up to, Mark would stop him, stamp on him and watch him weep.
And he’d been brainless enough to give Mark systems access.
Even seriously limited access. Medical invoicing, for pity’s sake?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
* * *
Imperious was hardly a day and a night short of Harth Norn.
Harris’ favourite table in Refreshment Lounge A was crowded.
“He just switched himself off.” Ellis had no idea how bleak she looked. “I can’t even feel a life-force this time. That’s the best vanishing act ever.” She stopped, biting her lip, and then attempted a feeble smile. “It should be impossible,” she allowed with reluctant admiration. “He’s very, very good. The only way he can do that is to blank his EM field and that’s supposed to be too hard to maintain.” Her eyes sought Harris’ and then quickly dropped at his ready sympathy. “Very good. It was beyond most of my generation.”
“Surprise me,” said Jenson. “He’s the last and the best.” He shot a sideways glance at Ellis and thought – but no longer the last – and scowled awkwardly at his feet.
Tam Harris contributed sweet reason. “He’s got to get some off-duty. Check his cabin, H, he’ll talk to you. You’re right. He should know we’re lifting off in an hour.”
“Yeah?” Jenson snorted, recalling his recent dismal lack of success. “Don’t bet on it, people, Carolli’s boys don’t get breaks. Rumour has it they’re zombies and the old man has a brain a day for breakfast. The diplomatic suites are closed, nothing in or out, and Timmis reckons the muddies they use to code signals are buggers. You don’t think Carolli will let Mark out of his sight, do you? Nasty piece of work, oh yes, but brainless, not so much.”
In Tam’s opinion moaning was a waste of time and energy. They’d lost Macluan and Jenson had better just accept it. He assumed that with Mark stuck up here, Krystie intended to use the Donn for a secret communications channel in an emergency but couldn’t figure out how. They’d been supplied with ECRs, war-zone adapted Enhanced Coded Rolls, the one’s field-ops had used in covert-war missions. They were to get in and get out. No hassle. Invisible. All Krystie needed to know was what was behind the locked door in the Dome.
“Did the research team find anything new about your key?” he asked Ellis.
She shook her head. “No, but I was right. It’s an integral part of some sophisticated security feature, and the master-codes are definitely Autocracy. Apparently they’re a little bit nifty. The researchers are taking copies and going to give me back the original.”
“We knew you’d got it right,” Tam nodded. “Donn intuition?”
“Strictly it’s psychometry,” she said. “We studied it in our second year at grade school on Typhin. Compared to some of the others, I’m not that good, but thanks.”
Jenson twisted to face her. “We’re taking it with us? The real key?”
“We need to know what’s behind the door. We can’t risk a copy triggering alarms.”
He tutted. “The boss always liked thin-ice. Not at all scared you’re going to lose it then? I don’t fancy your, our, chances down there without Mark backing you up.”
“Ellis knows the ground” Harris retorted coldly. “Give it a rest.”
“Oh yes, of course, good, great. It only took her two hundred years to get off the bloody rock last time and putting money on anybody who’s crazy enough to spit in Carolli’s face in front of all the high brass in the fleet is not smart. I’d like to live, thank you.”
Tam felt something inside Ellis go ping.
“We could lose you too,” she said. “Your boss might change his mind about wasting such a great pilot on UC Harth Norn. He could recall you for these War Games.”
They squared up like a pair of bookends and Harris cursed, rapping the table sharply. “Stop it, both of you. We’re lifting off in an hour, we have to work together. So we will.”
Jenson glared but Tam returned fire steadily. He was Mission Commander designate and had rank on his side, but most of all Tam Harris had Tam Harris on his side.
“You’re right.” Abruptly the pilot jumped up. “I’ll see you on board.”
Ellis watched him stalk away before turning to Tam. “Sorry,” she apologised. “That was childish and I don’t usually bite. I’m a little thin-skinned at the moment.”
Her cheeks were hollow, with deep purple traces and her eyes were bruised. Harris remembered again how he’d felt after his wife had died. But that was the big difference, wasn’t it? Lent had died; she’d never walked away and left him dangling without saying why. Macluan’s attitude made no sense but he didn’t have to rack his brains for long to come up with Chapter Three, Traditions and Etiquette and a text beginning – the interested male.
“Ellis,” asked Harris, “who was Kai?”
“Kai?” She was startled. “My father. Carolli said so at the meeting. Why?”
Ta
m blinked and breathed deeply. “No, no, he didn’t, he just said that you were an Ambassador’s daughter and that Kai Matheson was very upset when you went missing. The inference was wide open. You’ve been yelling for Kai for the longest while.”
“In default, you’ll do.” She grinned impishly. “You’re the best substitute father I’ve met. You’re very like him in some ways. You’d’ve liked him, I think he’d’ve liked you.”
“Yes, but...” Not the required response, nor his point. The point was that when he’d been courting Lent he could’ve got jealous of a brick. “It wasn’t said as though he was your father, Ellis, and Macluan might’ve... you know, got the wrong end of the stick.”
A century later he cut into a silence as thick as the now regretted brick.
“It might be why he’s blocking you out. He might’ve assumed...”
Ellis’ eyes narrowed to twin lasers. “Don’t talk rubbish. He forced Choice on me because he was in need, now that need is done, he walks away. So be it.”
Chapter Thirty
Many long days had passed since Sam had last been human, since his guardian told him he was Donn and that his intuition was real. Soren Nevus had not died trusting Sam’s Donn senses so they could lie, nor yet his eyes. In the shuttle, hidden amongst the brain dead troopers, Sam dared not move; he dared not react. When he risked a peek out of the corner of his eye at the unbelievable sight outside the shuttle, instinct swore that it did, in fact, exist but he wanted instinct to lie so much that shutting down that longing nearly killed him.
Outside...
The Seven Sisters of Belthan trembled in pre-flight, gearing up for their journey. Seven ships, seven mammoth wheels outlined against the far distant Epiniron nebula.
After jockeying, the shuttle docked with the sixth wheel out from Belthan Prime.
Sam had returned to Belthan Six. Hey Soren, I was right, I’m home...
And then the taunting smell of burnt fish drifted back to haunt him.
Belthan Six was no longer an unstable little satellite. It was a gargantuan spherical wheel with its rim linked to the thick pivot by spindly struts, spinning around a pale hub into which the shuttle docked. All seven wheels rotated ceaselessly and occasionally they talked to each other, as if they crooned bizarre love songs. Sam could hear the hum. The shadowy black shuttles shunted a zombie crew up to each of the seven ships and it seemed they’d never stop. Up and down, up and down. There had to be enough crew soon, very soon.
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 20