Naked, Trin roamed the frieze-covered halls of the Palazzo until he found his way to Franco’s private bar. In the darkness he poured himself a measure of his father’s prized cognac and tossed back the contents. There, papa!
‘Lostol cognac is the finest—the most expensive. It is meant to be sipped, Trinder.’
He froze. The intruder’s voice flowed around him like an embrace rather than a reprimand. In the flare of a spark he saw Luna light a cigarillo. The pungent smell of chang-lo leaves caught in his throat.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded accusingly.
Luna unfolded her exquisite limbs from the shadows of a smoking chair and glided towards him. The muted light enhanced her beauty, as if he were dreaming perfection.
She placed a cool hand on Trin’s bare chest. ‘We didn’t finish our dance.’
Desire flooded him. It intermingled with anger and made his skin feel hot. ‘Do you know what your flirtation cost me?’
She smiled at him—a glimpse of pale teeth. ‘I have expensive tastes and Franco will not be here for ever. Perhaps when you are Principe you will remember how it is between us.’ Her hand slid down the length of his naked torso.
On reflex his hand reached for her breasts. They were heavy and soft beneath her sheer costume—a woman’s breasts. Trin wanted to have her; have Franco’s property. But as Luna stroked his back and murmured suggestions in his ear the fear rose. He had no bravura with him.
Sensing a cooling in his response she knelt, cupping him, her head bowed with intent. ‘Let me pleasure you, young Principe. A taste of things to come.’ She breathed warmth onto his groin and licked the fine hair matt of hair that covered it with her sharp tongue.
Trin’s fear climbed higher and higher in his chest until he found himself gasping. ‘Get up!’ He tried to pull Luna to her feet but she resisted, fixing her lips to the tender most part of him.
Trin felt his shrivelling response. ‘No!’ he whispered.
Luna’s lovely neck arched back; her eyes widened with coy surprise. ‘What is it, bambino Principe? Are you afraid of women?’
He pushed her to the floor and left.
* * *
Are you afraid of women? Luna’s taunt hovered in Trin’s conscious thoughts the next morning as he pored over her records.
Like that of the Fedors Luna’s pedigree was eccentric. Unlike the Fedors she had no claim to special pilot talents: only womanly ones. Unsurprisingly, she came from a line of gifted coquettes; her mama had been Aldo Pellegrini’s first mistress, the famous Shelba Lanzano. Luna had not only chosen to discard her mother’s name but, according to Customs records, she had spent years travelling off-world. Little wonder that Trin had not known about her.
When the organic had sifted all Luna’s data, Trin was shocked to learn the enormity of her gratis. What drove Franco to keep his mistress better than his wife, he wondered? Pellegrini men had a reputation for licentiousness—not stupidity. Scanning further, the records revealed only one other notable item: Luna’s ownership of a small underground mine called Juanita, located between the vast Pablo tunnels and Pellegrini B.
Next, Trin delved into the export register and found that the Juanita mine produced very little—yet it was ranked in the top tier. He could find no documentation of its mineral content.
When he had exhausted his information search on Luna, he turned his attention to Marchella Pellegrini. Yesterday’s idle game of spying had acquired new purpose. If his position as the next Principe were to be challenged by his tia and if Luna il Longa chose to entangle him in her own games, then he would not be played for an idiot.
But Marchella’s records were scant and uninteresting apart from one detail—her outright ownership of the lucrative Pablo underground mines. Strange that Franco had allowed such a thing. Perhaps he had paid his eccentric sorella to leave Pell?
The mine was certainly the best provided for on Araldis. Marchella’s gratis log showed that an extraordinary amount of her earnings was spent on stocking Pablo with provisions for the small workforce she employed there. Trin found this puzzling. Perhaps she merely had a misplaced sense of philanthropy—and no head for economics.
Aside from this inexplicable dispersion of her earnings, his maiden tia had no ready secrets to un-closet. No illicit bambino to protect. The record of her current residence was imprecise. She moved too often for anyone to keep track. Her gratis was drawn on from Dockside to Chalaine-Gema. The only fact that Trin could substantiate was that she rarely came to Mount Pell. Why now, then?
Unable to arrive at an answer, Trin moved on to Franco. What do I wish to learn? Everything... a man who would dissect a woman for her genetic code so that his son might have her talent... and nothing... and yet cast that son from his home without the means to survive.
Trin instructed the organic to chart the Principe’s personal expenditure but it refused to display that information. Frustrated, he tried a lateral approach.
‘Compile the safety violations incurred by Pellegrinis and the higher-caste familia—and their outcomes,’ he told it.
Trin discovered a surfeit of offences: safety issues, claim jumping, unfair trade, tax disparities, exortortionate machinery hire and conveyor tolls—yet almost all the cases had been dismissed by OLOSS’s visiting judiciary. He could see only one explanation for such repeated leniency: his father was bribing the judge.
He searched more stored data, meticulously copying every useful scrap of information to his own sponge.
Rantha called him up at midday. ‘You wish to eat?’
‘No. I’m busy,’ he said, annoyed at being interrupted.
She frowned and signed off.
Trin didn’t think of her again until a few hours later when she stood before him with a plate of overly soft linguine. The sauce had stained her fellala. ‘I thought you might be embarrassed to eat with me, so I brought food here.’ Her face was puffy from crying.
‘No. I was busy,’ he said, truthfully.
‘Busy? Here?’
He rotated the deskfilm so that she could see Scali’s data tree. ‘These records of all these things are logged but rarely used for anything.’
Rantha shrugged. ‘So?’
Trin spoke her name to the deskfilm. Tabbed reports overlaid each other. ‘See? You are pure-bred Cipriano. You have three fratellas and your gratis rating is seven. It would be higher if you did not spend it all on out-sys texts.’ He wagged his finger mockingly. ‘You are not contributing anything much to our cultural development, Rantha Cabone.’
‘Cultural development? On Araldis? This place is for men and ginkos.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I do not think Signor Malocchi will like what you are doing, Don Pellegrini.’
Trin’s smile faded to a scowl. ‘He put me in this worthless position. What are the point of records you cannot use?’
‘It depends, I suppose... on how you use them.’
Trin stared at her. Rantha was clever enough to know that he was planning something. Perhaps he had showed her too much. ‘Grazi, for the meal. We could meet tomorrow in the refectory?’ he suggested.
It was her turn to stare. He was offering her a tradeoff—to keep silent about his delving in return for his company.
‘Si,’ Rantha said slowly. ‘You mean sit together?’
He nodded.
She smiled and Trin glimpsed the gentle young woman beneath her touchy manner. But he had no wish to get to know that person—who, he knew, would need honesty and devotion.
* * *
Trin returned to the Palazzo late and had dinner in his room again. Despite Rantha’s caution about Malocchi, he was determined to continue delving. Not only from determination, he realised: he was also enjoying himself. Secrets attracted him far more than ideals.
The next morning he reviewed his data sponge, seeking out patterns and connections. The low productivity and high returns of Luna’s mine bothered him. He sensed it was in some way connected with the large gratis that Franco awarded he
r.
Trin attached a number of archival sponges to the organic and requested the trade reports for previous years. One caught his attention—a visiting dignitary who had requested a lotion bath at a meeting. Intrigued, Trin sent a shortcast to the trade department residente, Lotte Perrone.
‘Your access has been downgraded along with your gratis, Don Pellegrini.’ Perrone barely concealed his smug satisfaction.
Furious, Trin flew his AiV down the mountain to the trade building in Dockside and strode to the front desk.
‘Don Pellegrini.’ The pretty ragazza at the desk stopped him cold with her simpering delight.
He recognised her—a cousin of the Silvio twins—and in a breath he switched from angry to charming. ‘Bella...’ He grappled for her name until he saw her ID. ‘... Christa.’
She dipped her head coyly. ‘I heard whispers that you were working with Signor Malocchi. Something discreet and important, si?’
Trin thought of his malformed office. ‘Si. Confidential. In fact, that is why I have come to see you...’ He told her what he wanted.
The girl’s smile wavered after she had searched for the file. ‘Pardone, Don, but that is privileged. Sealed by your own tia Marchella. Lotte Perrone would chew me up with his morning pastrami if I let you see that.’
Trin nodded sympathetically at her while he tried to think of another approach. Marchella Pellegrini again. Why did Franco or old Principe Aldo put Marchella in charge of a trade negotiation? Why are the transcripts privileged?
Unwittingly Christa Silvio gave him a lever. She cleared her throat and smoothed the outer folds of her fellala. ‘Do you know Joe Scali?’
‘Si. Mio amico intimo,’ Trin lied. ‘You should accompany us to Riso’s or Panchetta’s some time. He is loco company.’
Her face lit up. She was more beautiful than Chocetta and Lancia Silvio and Trin’s groin tightened involuntarily.
‘When?’ she asked.
Trin leaned across her desk so that his breath fanned her neck. ‘Just as soon as you’ve copied that transcript for me.’ He drew away slowly, giving her a moment to digest what he’d said.
Christa’s eyes widened as she weighed the risk against the reward. How much did she desire Joe Scali? As she began to unlock the file, Trin detected the faintest sheen of perspiration on her forehead. ‘Can you take it with you?’
He pressed his data sponge into her hand.
She attached it to her organic and copied the transcript, glancing nervously towards the other offices.
When it was finished, Trin retrieved the sponge, slipping it beneath the folds of his robe. ‘I will shortcast you tomorrow when I have spoken with Joe.’
She nodded, her eyes watery with fear. ‘Don?’
He nodded in a reassuring manner. ‘I will not forget.’
Heart pounding, he returned to Centrale and hurried to the refectory to keep his promise to Rantha. She was not there but the bain-marie ragazza waved him over. ‘Don Pellegrini, your arnica Luna il Longa was looking for you,’ she said as he drew close.
Trin’s heart contracted but he forced his tongue to work. ‘I have no arnica. Unless you would you like to be?’
The ragazza giggled.
‘I want minestrone,’ he said casually. ‘Could you bring it to my office?’
The ragazza’s hand shook as she poured the hot, meat-laden liquid into a beaker and snapped the lid shut. Trin thought the tremor was a result of his teasing until a voice spoke quietly in his ear.
‘There are no Palazzo privileges here, Maestro Pellegrini.’
Trin stiffened. Jus Malocchi stood at his shoulder. ‘Are you too busy to attend proper meals? I wonder what keeps you so occupied?’
Carefully Trin waved away the soup. The ragazza met his gaze briefly. He saw sympathy in her eyes, and a warning. Malocchi did not usually come to this side of the refectory; he ate in his own private dining room.
Trin gave a polite bow and mumbled an apology. Once out in the corridor, he ran to his office. With trembling fingers he began killing off his newly grown programme. While it destroyed itself he left a shortcast message for Joe Scali. ‘The cave is closed due to a rockfall.’ He then encapsulated his data sponge and slipped it into the courier’s chute.
By the time Malocchi and his elite guard arrived Trin was playing lupa on his deskfilm. They ransacked the office and found nothing, but Malocchi didn’t look convinced. He swept the deskfilm onto the floor where it flickered and died. ‘It seems I made a mistake about you. You should have something challenging to do.’ His words were mild, innocuous, but his voice held an edge of threat.
Trin lounged back in his chair, feigning surprise. ‘I hesitate to accept, signor. I am so unpractised at working.’
‘Accept?’ Malocchi frowned. ‘That is an intriguing word.’
Trin cocked his head. ‘How so, signor?’
‘Are you mocking me, Pellegrini?’
‘Most definitely not, signor.’ You bastard cazzone!
Malocchi walked the three steps to the door. ‘You will be sent to Capitano Christian Montforte at the Loisa Carabinere branch. Fake nothing from here. You will be body-searched before you go.’
* * *
‘Your father wishes you to attend, dinner this evening,’ said Tina Galiotto as she packed Trin’s clothes. The tears running down her plump cheeks fell unchecked onto his bed.
Trin had no words of comfort for her as he dressed in the formal attire that she had laid out for him. Her show of emotion embarrassed him.
As soon as he could, he escaped his room and walked down the helicoidal staircase to Franco’s private bar. The smoking chairs loomed large under the flickering light of Lig candles. The wax-scent of the three-legged Ligs pervaded most of the residences on Mount Pell, their odour a welcome deodoriser against the rising fumes of Dockside.
Franco waited for him, cupping an empty balloon glass. He wore a gold-thread semi-formal fellalo and casual silk slippers.
‘I had no knowledge that she was your consort, father.’ The words burst from Trin without forethought.
Franco froze in the act of pouring. His face tightened into something unreadable. ‘I do not wish to speak of this.’
‘And I do not wish to go to Loisa. The border towns are primitive.’ Please don’t send me there.
‘Capitano Montforte will teach you about respect.’
Trin quivered. ‘So I am being punished.’
Franco almost drained his drink in one swallow and turned to his son. ‘Malocchi tells me you were abusing your position by seeking out sensitive information. What were you looking for, Trinder?’
‘He gave me no office and no reason to be there. I had to find ways to amuse myself. Besides, what could be too sensitive for a future Principe to know, papa?’ Trin countered.
‘Despite what you think, Trinder, Principes earn their position. I have no intention of denying you your birthright, if you see reason. You have too many of your mama’s weaknesses in you. You must outgrow them.’
Mama. Always that. ‘So am I not worthy because you wed a weak female, or because I danced a fucking song with your woman?’ Dangerous to goad Franco but he couldn’t stop himself now. The righteousness, the anger, welled in an uncontrollable spurt. ‘What of the special talent you would rip from Mira Fedor’s flesh? Am I still worthy to receive that?’
Franco’s hand trembled, spilling the last few drops of the cognac. He stared at his son. ‘Mira Fedor has eluded the Carabinere.’
‘Eluded?’ Trin gasped and then laughed. ‘A familia woman has eluded you?’
‘When she is located you will be recalled and we shall proceed with the gene transference.’
‘What if I have no wish to be Pilot First? What if I do not want to have her genes mingled with mine?’
Franco didn’t speak, nor did he break eye contact, his gaze as remorseless as the Araldis plains.
Trin wavered first. He reached for a glass and poured the rest of the decanter into it. Quick,
fierce sips relieved the pain of his insecurity.
Thankfully, Jilda’s thin voice wavered into the angry space between them. ‘Trinder, are you in there?’
‘Si, mama,’ he managed. He stepped out of the bar into the familia dining room. Jilda saw his shaken expression and went to him, wrapping him in her arms and her wine-perfume. Trin stood stiff in the embrace.
Behind his mother a woman in a worn ochre fellala gave him an amused smile.
Jilda relinquished her hold. ‘Trinder, you remember your tia Marchella? She does not visit Pell very often nowadays.’
Trin took in Marchella’s intelligent face and ragged, unbound hair. She was not that much older than him but her manner was weary and aged. She drew on her rolled tobacco and held his gaze. Familia women were not permitted to smoke but his tia, as he’d heard many times over, lived outside such customs.
‘Bonjourno, Trinder,’ she said. ‘They tell me you are gifted in the art of dalliance—just like your father.’
Jilda clicked her tongue in a disapproving manner and beckoned them to their places at the table. ‘Marchella, you trouble-make still. How is it that you never learned manners? Franco is a Pellegrini and Principe. Of course women will want him. And his son.’
Trin couldn’t drag his stare from Marchella as she moved to her allotted place at the table. Does she know about Luna?
‘I have manners, Jilda. What I did not learn is the art of submission,’ she said.
Before Jilda could reply, Franco joined them. He sat at the head of the table, offering no customary familia embrace for his sibling.
Tina Galiotto moved silently around them, removing Franco’s and Trin’s slippers and unfolding napkins onto their laps.
Marchella refused her help and performed the rituals herself. ‘Yes. Infidelity is one of those traditions that our men adopted when they stole our choice to have children.’ Marchella stared directly at Jilda. ‘Tell me, Jilda, do you have amicos?’
Dark Space (Sentients of Orion) Page 8