Dark Space (Sentients of Orion)

by Marianne de Pierres

  Christian smiled in a way that made his face puff

  out. ‘You are my aide. This can be interpreted in any way I choose.’

  Trin’s stomach began to ache, whether from hunger or displeasure he could not tell. ‘When will they bring my food? I have had no breakfast.’

  Christian folded his arms over his taut rounded stomach. ‘No one will bring you food here, Pellegrini. You must become accustomed to different ways. The food you will procure for yourself from the market.’

  ‘Procure? With the ‘esques and the ginkos?’

  ‘Si. I will advance you some lucre to purchase what you need. It would not do for Franco’s only son to starve.’

  ‘But it is reasonable for him to perish in the hot nightwinds?’ Trin retorted.

  Montforte affected a carefully puzzled look, the thick flesh of his forehead folding into deep creases. ‘You speak in riddles, young Don. Now, you should bathe and change. Then you will proceed to Villa Fedor and interview the Baronessa Faja. Her sorella, Baronessa Mira, is to be detained by us at the earliest possible moment.’

  Trin stared aghast at the Capitano. Surely Montforte knew of the circumstances—the reason—behind Mira’s disappearance.

  ‘Would another be more suited for such a task? I am—as Signor Malocchi has stated—uninitiated in the manner of Carabinere work,’ said Trin.

  ‘Two of my most experienced men will accompany you. They will assist with any difficulty you may have.’

  You mean spy on me, you cazzone bastard.

  ‘When you have bathed and changed, present yourself to the depot next door.’ Montforte nodded and disappeared into his office, closing the door.

  Trin washed in a small cubicle and pulled a clean fellalo from his reticule. He fumbled his way into it, the folds tangling without Tina Galiotto’s patient hands to assist him. What sort of a poor fool cannot dress himself? he thought bitterly. What sort of fool allows his papa to decide his life? He could hear, almost, his tia Marchella’s laughter.

  He called Joe Scali from his pouchfilm.

  ‘Don Pellegrini, is that you?’ Scali sounded nervous.

  Trin smoothed his tunic down. ‘Nobile. Did you receive the gift I sent you?’

  ‘Si. I believe so. M-many thanks.’

  ‘Perhaps you will you bring me a return gift at your earliest convenience?’

  Joe nodded, understanding his meaning. ‘Er... of course... and are you well entertained? I hear you have left the Enclave.’

  Trin’s chest tightened. ‘Yes. I am with the Carabinere in Loisa. I am tolerably entertained. And you?’

  ‘Actually, Don, I have a new arnica.’

  ‘An arnica?’ said Trin, surprised.

  ‘Si. Rantha and I...’ Joe tapered off sheepishly.

  For some unfathomable reason the news displeased Trin, as though Rantha had in some way betrayed him. ‘I must be going. Come and visit me sometime. The view is splendid.’ He held the tiny screen to his window so Joe Scali could see the cluttered service yard behind.

  Scali’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Are you content?’

  ‘Of course, Nobile,’ Trin replied with little conviction.

  * * *

  ‘Vespa and Seb Malocchi?’

  A group of men in dusty fellalos looked up from where they sat on crates. Their faces were as deep crimson as those of the miners who came to Dockside, and as parched of moisture. Each one sat before an equipment bag, checking the contents. Trin wondered if their deliberate care was a method of time-wasting. Though they were shaded by the workshop’s high roof and fanned by the huge engineering coolers, his robe thermostat told him that the temperature was unforgiving. Yet none of the men had sealed their hoods for assisted cooling. He resisted sealing his own although the perspiration was already streaming down his body.

  ‘I’m Vespa,’ said one in surly tones. ‘What of it?’

  Trin set his jaw. ‘I am... Pellegrini, Christian’s new aide. He has told me you will accompany me to Villa Fedor to interview the Baronessa.’

  ‘Don Pellegrini? An aide?’ said Vespa. He glanced to the others who barely bothered to hide their smirks.

  A man at bottom of the circle with a more agreeable expression stood up and extended his hand. ‘I am Seb Malocchi. Take no notice of my rude fratello, Don Pellegrini. The heat makes him soffice here.’ Seb tapped his head. ‘Better than here, I think, eh?’ This time he cupped his groin. ‘I for one will be glad to escape this stinking heat and visit the cool of Villa Fedor.’

  In spite of the vulgarity, Trin felt a moment of gratitude to the man. ‘Buono.’ He gave a stiff smile.

  Seb waved his hand towards the hangar bay. ‘Choose your chariot—any except this one.’ He pointed to Trin’s sleek, liveried AiV, which had been towed in and placed in a diagnostic gripper. An analytic hand probed inside it, blasting an air-water mix into the engine cavity. ‘Some loco soffice ran the cooler all night with it stationary: seized the motor. Apparently he was afraid of the hotwinds.’

  The circle of men roared with laughter.

  Trin felt the rush of bloodheat to his face. How foolish of him—Seb Malocchi had meant him no kindness at all.

  He walked away from them, straight-backed, fuming. He would leave here at once. That notion propelled him into the first Carabinere vehicle he came to, but he faltered when he saw the controls. Unfamiliar icons danced on the display—a more complex selection than his personal AiV. He slipped his hand tentatively inside the pilot glove, feeling again the frustration of his own limitations.

  ‘It is not permitted for you to be unaccompanied, Don Pellegrini.’

  Trin located the voice at the cabin door. A Cavaliere stood, leaning inwards with his hand cupped around his rifle. His tone was unapologetic.

  ‘Am I your captive?’

  ‘Only if you try to leave here alone, Don Pellegrini. The Principe has ordered it so.’

  Trin’s fingers curled to a fist. ‘Remember who the next Principe is, Cavaliere,’ he said clearly. ‘For he shall remember you.’

  The Palazzo guard released the grip he had taken instinctively on the door frame and straightened to make way for Seb and Vespa Malocchi.

  Seb climbed straight to the front of the vehicle. He slapped Trinder playfully across the back of the head and slumped into the second pilot seat. ‘Now, now, Pellegrini,’ he said with impertinence. ‘Don’t be like that.’

  * * *

  ‘Baronessa Fedor? It is Don Trinder Pellegrini. I have come to pay my respects.’

  ‘Carabinere, Baronessa,’ said Seb, speaking over Trin’s shoulder. ‘We have questions to ask you.’

  The masked woman moved closer to her viewer. ‘What nonsense is this? Since when do the Carabinere call on me? And since when has the young Principe been one of the white ones?’

  ‘Let us in, Baronessa,’ said Vespa.

  Faja Fedor released the gate and met them halfway down the path to the villa. She was dressed in a full velum. ‘What is it you want?’ Her voice sounded thin through the velum’s amplifier.

  ‘To be invited inside, Baronessa, would be a beginning,’ said Trin.

  Reluctantly she beckoned them through the coldlock into her parlour, a largish room—though not by Palazzo standards—decorated with soft sapphire drapes, winding ornamental candelabra and hand-woven rugs that bore the Fedor crest. Each must have come with the familia from Latino Crux—such things could not be procured on Araldis. Nor could the inlaid-pearl occasional tables and the slightly shabby ceremonial chairs.

  Trin recognised them as copies—valuable in their own right but not comparable to the authentic Pellegrini originals. For a time in Latino Crux it had been a fashion to duplicate the valuables of the patricians.

  A thin, unsightly humanesque woman brought them cups of cold Latino-bean coffee and Pan di Stelle biscuits on a tarnished silver tray. The stars were misshapen and the chocolate pale for lack of cocoa.

  Trin noticed the little signs of impoverishment. He waited until the
woman, after serving the refreshments, had left before he addressed the Baronessa. ‘Where are your familia servants?’

  Faja Fedor unfolded her mask so that he could see her face. He was struck by how little she resembled Mira and by how much more typically Latino in bone structure and colouring she was.

  ‘My circumstances are my business, Trinder Pellegrini,’ she replied.

  ‘Not when we have an order to detain your sorella,’ said Seb Malocchi. ‘Your business has become ours.’

  Faja raised her eyebrows in shock. Trin noticed they weren’t thinned in the artful manner of the court women—their masculine breadth lent her face strength.

  ‘What can you mean by “detain”? Mira is not a common criminal, she is a patrician, blessed with the Inborn Talent.’ She turned to Trin. ‘Is this a graduation hoax, Don Pellegrini?’

  ‘It is most serious, Baronessa,’ said Seb swinging his legs up to rest on a pearl table.

  ‘On what charge do you propose to detain her? What has she done?’ Faja stood, hands clasped as if one restrained the other.

  Trin shifted in his chair, wishing he was somewhere else. Was it possible that Faja Fedor knew nothing of Franco’s declaration? Had word not filtered through to her of his intention?

  ‘It is what she has not done. She has been ordered to surrender her Inborn Talent to the Principe. Instead she has chosen to evade his direct request. Your sorella is a runaway, Faja Fedor,’ said Seb.

  Faja unclasped her hands and curled them into two fists. Her voice trembled. ‘You would steal her genetic right? How is that possible?’

  ‘The Principe has technology that can make it so.’ Malocchi was enjoying himself.

  ‘Then that would be the crime, signor. Should I see my sister, I would praise her for fleeing from such a transgression of justice.’

  Seb Malocchi leaped to his feet in a lightning movement. ‘What would a woman know to speak of justice, Baronessa? Should I inform the Principe that you contest his judgement?’

  Trinder saw Faja teeter on the brink of a dangerous retort—one that might see her arrested. The Carabinere provoked her with a practised tongue.

  Instinctively he intervened on the woman’s behalf. ‘Have you seen or heard from Mira Fedor, Baronessa? That is all we would know from you.’

  Faja sagged back down onto her chair, visibly fatigued. ‘My pardon, Don Pellegrini. I am shocked, as you can see. The answer to your question is no, I have not seen or heard from mia sorella.’

  Trin stared at Seb Malocchi. ‘I am satisfied with this.’ He glanced to the corridor. ‘Where is Vespa?’

  Seb sat down again and reached for the plate of biscuits. ‘Searching the villa, Pellegrini. Join him if you like. I am sure Baronessa Fedor will entertain me.’

  * * *

  Trin escaped from the parlour into a cool, dark corridor that ran the length of the villa. But it did not deliver him from his discomfort. Fedor ancestors gazed down upon him with as much accusation in their faces as Faja. In the wavering pixel of each Pilot First’s depiction he recognised the same thin, strained appearance that Mira had inherited.

  Of the women, though, he saw only the traditional robust Latino figures and fleshy faces. Mira Fedor truly was a genetic peccadillo. More reason not to have her DNA mingled with mine. What miserable providence has brought me to her home—as if I was complicit in Franco’s plan?

  Noise spilled from a partially open door further along the corridor. In what should have been the villa’s formal dining area, two pale-skinned young humanesques played with shuttles, while others sprawled casually on the old-wood table. In one corner a large scaled creature with a birdlike head squatted, chewing rhythmically. They glanced at Trin briefly, but with little interest. Vespa Malocchi had spoken of Faja Fedor’s penchant for taking in aliens and bambini. ‘Ginko lover,’ Vespa had called her. Then he had spat on the floor.

  Trin followed the corridor through the villa to the rear coldlock. He let himself out to the portico. He had not the taste for Seb and Vespa Malocchi’s bullying game—the stifling heat was preferable company. He would wait there until the Carabinere had finished their dealings.

  But the view onto Villa Fedor’s dry-garden disturbed him more: thorn bushes, a flaking-dry algae pit and irregular tufts of dried red Lostol grasses leading to a squat, dust-stained outhouse. Trin craved for the sight of the Menagerie’s controlled environment, its lush vine-growths, mauve faux-trees, and the idiotic purrcocks that he hunted for sport when he was bored.

  Discontentment took hold of him and dark thoughts shadowed the ungovernable brilliance of the day. He left the shade of the portico without sealing his hood. If he perished in the sun, perhaps that would be deliverance of a sort. His mother would weep for him—but she would be alone.

  Then he heard a strangled cry.

  Trin stepped in among the thorn bushes, searching for the source of the sound. In the thickest clump he found a naked sulphur-skinned ragazza with pale blood leaking from a wound on her head. An aqua species, he thought. He had seen them before in Riso’s Bar. This one had pebble-like breasts and layers of external skin-folds covering her pubis. He stared at her madly fluttering neck gills. ‘What has happened?’

  Peculiar sounds poured from her mouth. She reached out a finely webbed hand.

  Trin had never touched ginko skin before. Instinctively he retreated but the ragazza’s desperate, imploring look filled him with guilt. Still he hesitated, wondering if she were contagious with something—or loco, perhaps.

  Before he could decide, the intensity drained from her eyes and she fell back, unconscious.

  Dead? He could not tell. She didn’t appear to be breathing. He considered leaving and pretending he had not seen her, but her vulnerability prickled his conscience.

  Trin lifted her awkwardly, holding her against him.

  To his shame, the pressure of her naked body stirred excitement in his groin. He leaned his torso away from the contact and stepped out of the thorn bushes, shouting for help.

  The humanesque servant peered from the coldlock along the portico. When she saw Trin’s burden she cried out and beckoned. ‘Come. Carry her to the infirmary.’

  He followed the woman inside and up the villa’s central stairs. By the time he laid the ragazza on a bed his arms were shaking with the effort.

  ‘Her name is Djeserit. Her familia left her behind on Araldis. She had become too difficult to manage is my guess. Miolaquas mature early,’ said the woman. ‘Please, signor—while I examine her wound you must restrain her. If she awakens she will become violent. May I suggest you remove your gloves or they might become stained with blood.’

  Trin stared at her. But what of my hands? What of her alien blood on my skin? Yet he could not say the words. The woman’s solicitous care shamed him. ‘Is she alive? I see no breath,’ he said.

  ‘Si, alive, but not breathing.’ She pointed to the ragazza’s neck gills, which lay firmly shut. ‘She is in shock and her body is using stored oxygen. I must persuade her to land-breathe again.’

  ‘You know healing... er...’

  ‘Istelle. And si, I know a little healing.’ She gave him a gentle smile, which transformed her severe features into something more comely.

  The ragazza stirred, her legs suddenly flailing.

  Trin stripped off his gloves and held her. Djeserit felt lean and papery under his hands—there was nothing soft about her, unlike the familia women. His body betrayed him again, responding to the touch of her. He pressed himself flat against the bedside to disguise his growing erection but Istelle was in any case distracted by her ministrations—murmuring quiet reassurances while she treated the wound.

  Djeserit began to breathe with her lungs again in noisy, carking gulps.

  Trin released her in surprise, stepping back.

  ‘She is crying. Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Istelle. She stroked the ragazza’s thin hair tenderly. ‘Djeserit, it’s Istelle. Don Pellegrini found you and carried you inside,’ she whis
pered into the ragazza’s smooth earbud. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Djeserit opened her flat-lidded eyes and blinked several times, swivelling her head like a confused checclia. Suddenly she seized Trin’s hand and kissed it.

  The sensation of her lips on his palm set his blood throbbing.

  ‘Djeserit, what happened? Why were you outside?’ Istelle urged.

  But Trin didn’t wait to hear the answer. He fled the room and the sensation of Djeserit’s mouth, like a fresh burn, on his hand.

  * * *

  A squealing sound woke Trin before dawn. At first he thought it was the uuli as he tried to free it from the containment field in Riso’s. Then, heart pounding, he realised it was the emergency shortcast.

  ‘Fire... grain stores... shootin’ up like a twister.’ A man’s voice: guttural—’esqe but not Latino.

  The station relay told Trin that the message was originating from the northern edge of Loisa. He located the grain silos on the town map and verified the correlation. Following the procedure that Christian Montforte had left for him, he coded the alert through to the duty crew in the compound. Then he called the Capitano.

  Christian appeared on his viewer, scowling. ‘Si?’

  ‘An emergency call has come in. The caller says the grain silos are on fire. It has come in from the right vicinity.’

  ‘Can you smell anything?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Get outside and sniff the air. Can you smell anything?’

  Trin left Christian’s impatient glare and walked the few steps to the rear coldlock. He cracked it open and waited for his senses to stretch past the nullifying blast of the heat. Yes. It was there. The acrid taste of smoke settling on the back of his tongue like burned food.

  He returned to the shortcast. ‘Si. I can taste something.’

  Christian swore in another language. He lifted his arms above his head and stretched himself awake. The movement of his body revealed a figure in bed behind him. Her armour-like skin and neck frills were unmistakably Balol. Trin had seen such females at Dockside, in the transit lounges, and once, as he procured bravura in the oily shadows of a freight bay, he had observed one overseeing the docking of a luxury ship.