“Then you’ll do it?”
Krystie blinked like a basilisk as he clipped off the elio. “I will contact Ju-juras,” he replied, knowing Mark’s quest would not be condoned but having no intention of letting the High Council deny it. Typhions and Donn had always been allies and nothing, as far as Eban Krystie was concerned, would ever change that. Besides, where he deployed his teams was his business and he would not brook interference. Search protocols for hidden Donn would be added to the standard UC-III directives as well, just in case there were any more Sams hidden out there. “Leave it with me, Captain, leave it with me.” He nodded at the door.
Mark stood, but hesitated. The ZR was a Crystal ship and Krystie had virtually offered it to the search for Sanctuary. “Crystal originally belonged to the Donn, didn’t it?”
Krystie looked blank. “What makes you think that?”
“It’s behind everything. I think it was why they hated us so much.”
“SC is a resource, and a dangerous one. Historians hypothesise it was reliance on the properties of Sentient Crystal that first corrupted the Autocracy.” That was dangerous territory. He sighed heavily, recalling his audience. “I repeat, leave it with me. Dismissed.”
* * *
The wall-length Vista View in Refreshment Lounge A was shuttered because Imperious was drilling through a Bylanes corridor. Views were always clamped when a ship was in the Bylanes, (a) it was hyperspace so what was to see? and (b) the sight was supposed to send you crazy (possibly from boredom). Imperious’ real-space re-entry would be spectacular, yet the lounge was virtually deserted. You’d seen one nebula re-entry you’d seen them all and who needed dancing ion-flares? They were just something else for the jaded Navigators to miss. Communications was busy rehearsing florid curses in Giagosian, collectively more impressed by WuVane’s epic chant at the sight of the Seven Sisters than ion-flares. The medical teams were enjoying an ongoing soap-opera as they failed to draw out the dazed diplomatic aide who’d arranged a bi-daily delivery of anti-venereal pessaries to one of the less popular Biotechs. Rumour was that Ajal Kelsey had offered a week’s pay if he confessed but the man had no memory of the loop. The Biotech had threatened to go sick unless the culprit was hauled up in front of Arwin, but if he didn’t remember doing it...
Altogether the crew was just too, too busy.
One person was not so world-weary and also, regrettably, not so busy.
Much to his disgust Tam Harris was still off sick. He sprawled across two strategically angled chairs, at his favourite table under the View half concentrating on the crossword board. There were a couple of others enjoying off-duty but they were over by the bar and he was glad. The burn flexi-skin itched and there’s nothing worse than not being able to scratch in public. Harris yawned, stretched, took a sip of tea and let his eyes droop over the latest clue. His dead wife, Lent, had been expert at unravelling the clues and had been mad keen to win the ship’s monthly prize. She’d got Tam hooked. He’d never been competitive over such things, but she had, so he was going to win it for her one day.
The board slipped from slack fingers, slithering a sloppy angle against his knee.
“Commander Harris!” rapped a sharp voice.
Tam sat up so fast his ears buzzed. “What?”
Sam Nevus sat down with an evil grin.
“No Dyssa?” groaned Harris, guessing the answer.
“Down in the medical bays running journals with the Biotechs.”
The boy had turned up soon after Harris had woken up, full of anguished apologies, and badly needing a friend. Dyssa had finally found a vocation and was busy serving a medical pre-apprenticeship, Jenson was doing his own job for once, Mark was a stern and distant tutor and Ellis was scary. That left Tam, famously gentle with nervy young things.
Harris accepted his fate, rescued the board and beckoned a nearby mechanical. “Tea?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.” Sam bubbled with news. “We got it.”
“Did we now?” said Tam, who already knew. “It’s gone public already? I’m losing track. Are you volunteering to break it to Jenson we’re nicking his precious ship?”
“No, that wasn’t on the board.” Even with the benefit of a decent haircut, clean clothes and private fresher space, Sam cultivated hunted as a look. If the wind changed he’d be stuck with that frown for all his days but Sam had never had a mother to tell him that.
Harris relented. “Nope, don’t worry. It’s sorted. He’s ok.”
Sam shot a nervous glance at Tam’s legs. “According to the lists we leave after Imperious makes H’tuin, that’s not long now.” He bit his lip, still blaming himself.
Tam would be fit. Arwin himself had decreed it and there wasn’t an injury on Imperious that’d dare defy the CMO. He changed the subject. “H’tuin? I think not. Come on Sam, we did this yesterday. H’tuin is to be re-designated under the Union Act as?”
“New Typhin,” sighed Sam, who’d never seen much need for current affairs until they were long past current and was not to be side-tracked. “It won’t work,” he said simply, voicing a concern rooted deep in his gut. “We need them both. Together.”
Something told Harris that Sam was right, they needed both the older Donn but Tam knew, for reasons he did not intend to share with Sam, it was not about to happen.
“Oh come on, think positive,” he encouraged. “Ellis isn’t that bad.” Not to Tam at any rate, never, ever, to Tam. “Someone has to hang back at the fleet in case we have trouble, and Mark is up for a promotion. Forget it. You’re going to look for your parents just as you said and that’s got to be huge, hasn’t it? It’s what Soren would’ve wanted. Yes?”
Sam did not drop his gaze. “It won’t work,” he repeated stubbornly. “It won’t work.”
* * *
In an anonymous corridor in another part of Imperious, Ellis stood, stiffly outlined before one of the smaller Views. There she watched the majesty of the ion-flares while waiting for the final door to shut her in with her aloneness. At last she sensed rather than heard or saw someone quietly approach and knew the moment had come.
“Ellis?” said Mark softly.
“I always enjoyed Altrezilian,” she replied. “The flares have hardly altered.”
“Beautiful.” He hadn’t even noticed. “Have you seen the posting board?”
“No.” Still not turning her head to look at him. “I didn’t need to. I saw Tam.”
“Oh.” His breath came so shallow it hardly moved his chest. “I came to wish you luck, you’ll need it with Sam, he’s turned out a handful. I hope you find his family.”
“Your idea?” she shrugged carelessly. “For us? A perfect solution. Ingenious.”
It was the only way they’d stay sane, apart they stood a chance. He was right.
He said nothing and backed off, turning away, face stony. Barsnip had been wrong and the weird impulse that had dragged him here died. Sometimes letting go was the only way because then the future offered options, choices. Somewhere behind that warped logic lurked the forlorn hope that if they could only return to the horrible moment when he’d stolen her Choice, perhaps they could start over again. Send her away to give her back her precious Choice. And pray he was wrong about Tam Harris and his patient quiet devotion.
“It’s probably for the best,” she continued, “but you should know one thing.”
He stopped, something akin to hope flickering.
“This isn’t about us or about the Donn. In the end it’s something much older.”
“Possible.” Inclining his head formally, he resumed his retreat. “So goodbye for a while, I wish you the very best of luck.” And privately? Be safe. Come back to me.
“Thank you,” she murmured, shiny as marble. And privately? Be safe. Talk to me.
And both together, oh so silent, oh so alone, why, why, why?
* * *
“I’ll get the 3/9-20 gig,” crowed Jenson, swinging into step as Mark walked towards the elevator leading to bri
dge access. “The C-AE is obviously a man of taste and culture.”
“Simon Lister’s Typhion,” said Mark. “He’s a shrewd engineer with years of practice.” And the new Glo-white fighter he’d come-up with was as sweet a bird as ever flew.
“That’s what I said, what with him clearly backing me for the test-flight and all.”
“That would be Terrin Stanson who always puts Flight forward for everything,” corrected Mark pedantically. “And, H, that posting is not out yet. It’ll probably stay classified for months. I put in for it too, you know, and I have an extra scale-score on you.”
“Are you going to pull Donn instinct on me over this?”
“Yep.”
Jenson glowered vindictively. “I did not have to fudge my scores on the Academy psi-tests to look human. You’d have to fly human and that’s not an easy ask.”
“Yep.”
“I am the career pilot, with two-span test experience. You know it should be me.”
“Nope.”
“Really? Even after grabbing my ZR-3 for your crazy quest thing? You owe me.”
Mark sighed heavily. “That would be Krystie’s decision.”
“I know you’ve passed the written-tests for that not so hush-hush promotion?”
Macluan stopped, one hand poised over the elevator control. “What?”
Serene and certain Jenson sailed past on his way down to the Flight bays. “Do not even dream about trying to look innocent. Your mate Timmis leaked it, so it’s a done deal.”
For the first time, Mark rose to the bait. His face hardened. “Not Timmis,” he snapped. “I don’t know where you picked it up but it was not from Ben Timmis.”
* * *
Actually Timmis was struggling.
Simon Lister, Chief of Astro-engineering, proud father of the new 3/9-20 Glo-white fighter had requested the diversion to New Typhin on the grounds that he needed to pick up supplies. He’d then listed the supplies. Openly. On a high level but declassified channel.
Kent had put it through without checking. Whoops didn’t quite cover that one.
Terrin Stanson had been over it like a rash (the list included Sentient Crystal). Once he’d read the requisition he’d called Eban Krystie and the fat had hit the fan.
The splash had climaxed about ten minutes ago.
It was cooling off now, but boy-oh-boy... There were limits even for Timmis.
Next to him Phyllis Kent, who’d shamelessly ear-wigged, bit her lip.
It had been ages since she’d addressed a remark to Timmis that did not directly concern work, not even when he’d tried out a Giagosian curse that’d almost broken his jaw. Commander Boole’s recommendation that the entire team should report to the CMO for stress assessment hadn’t even raised an eyebrow. When it became common knowledge that the only one who’d been remanded in Arwin’s custody was Harper Boole himself, Kent had merely smiled a sad smile. Timmis should suffer. It was only right after the trick he’d pulled.
But enough was enough and he’d saved her skin properly this time.
She cleared her throat portentously. “Thank you,” she faltered prettily. “Ben.”
“Lieutenant,” he corrected stiffly. The corners of his mouth deepened. “On duty.”
And so life moved on.
And on...
The Horseshoe Nail (The Donn Book 1) Page 36