Lost in the memories, she failed to notice Innis shift his seat closer, until he draped his arm over the back of her chair and breathed wine into her face.
Her focus sharpened onto the empty jug and the two men who’d been drinking from it—Innis and Marrat. Kristo and Cass and her children, she realised, had left.
‘My sh-ister’s taken to you,’ slurred Innis.
Mira leaned away from him instinctively.
He tried to pull her closer. ‘You ain’t got much to be stuck-up about now, Baronessa. Your type don’t run the place no more.’
Mira didn’t like his tone or the way heads were turning to listen and her skin crawled at his touch.
‘Anyway, how come you know so much about ginkos?’ He poked a foot at the sleeping Vito, startling the infant awake.
Mira shrugged off Innis’s arm and bent to Vito.
‘Do not touch my ragazzo. Do not touch me.’ She spoke the words loudly and clearly so that the message was unmistakable to Innis and to everyone else within earshot.
His mouth pinched tight. ‘Aristo-bitch,’ he hissed softly.
‘What are you gabbing about, Innis?’ Cass was back, standing beside them, taking in the empty jug and Mira kneeling protectively over Vito. ‘Have you been drinking?’
He pouted like a sulky ragazzo. ‘All I said is... how come she knows so much about ginkos?’
In front of everyone there, Cass slapped his face; a sharp, belittling sound that brought tears of embarrassment to his eyes. ‘I told you not to drink again. Ever. Not after...’
Mira stood up, clutching Vito tightly against her body. Not after what?
Cass held out a latte bladder. ‘I got this from the market next door. Basic amenities are being pooled and shared out. The kitchen will fill it for you.’
Mira took it from her, not trusting herself to speak, and went to the cucina.
The woman who had served her the eggs filled the bladder from the spout of a drink dispenser. ‘It’s not vitamin-enriched—we’re all out of additives. But it will do. That ‘bino of yours looks half-starved. And you look half-dead. I’ve finished my shift now. I can show you where the closest dormitory is.’
The korm gorged down the last of the kranse stalks and brought the empty bowl over to them, looking for more.
The woman shook her head. ‘No second helpings for anyone. Two meals a day and that’s all. May get down to less than that if this drags on.’
Mira took the bowl from the korm and passed it to her. ‘Grazi, signorina,’ she said.
The woman frowned, as if the polite form of address displeased her. ‘I am not a signorina. I am Mesquite.’
* * *
Mira followed Mesquite down the dirt road, past the flapping market tents to a flat-topped structure that had been a leisure club. Goldtanks and deskfilms had been pushed aside against the walls and every space was crammed with thin roll-up bedfilms. Only about half of them had covers.
‘The men have got the same thing. They don’t like it. Most of them want to sleep near the TerVs,’ Mesquite rolled her eyes, ‘or with a woman. But we separated them up to cut down the trouble. Don’t know that it worked but when your population goes from one to five thousand in a couple of nights you got to try something.’
Mira gave a small smile and held out her hand. ‘Mira Fedor.’
‘I know,’ said the woman. She shook Mira’s hand, then began folding covers. ‘Word travels quicker here than most places. You’re from the pilot familia?’
Mira took a bedfilm and cover from her. ‘Si.’
‘Well, that’s your corner over there.’ Mesquite disappeared outside, then returned with an armful of kranse stalks and some rags. ‘Korms need to roost, don’t they? Keep it tidy. Some of these women are real prejudiced against aliens. More so now.’ For all her abrupt manner, Mesquite hadn’t used the word ‘ginko’. It stood her apart from just about everyone else.
Mira pulled her bedfilm away from the corner and with fatigue-numbed fingers built a nest for the korm wedged between her and the wall. Then she coaxed the korm onto the jumble of rags and the alien roosted instantly, exhausted.
Laying Vito on the bedfilm Mira curled herself around him and went straight to sleep.
TRIN
Juno Genarro handed Trin a rifle and a combat web to fit under his hood. The landing pad on the top of Malocchi’s enclave was deserted apart from the four Loisa craft. Smoke drifted across from the fires burning below at Dockside.
‘You might be the last Pellegrini alive. I’d hate to have the death of the newest Principe on my conscience.’
Trin listened for the humour in Juno’s voice. When he couldn’t hear it, resurgent dread shivered through him. Malocchi’s enclave was eerily quiet and he didn’t know what to do about Djeserit. She slept now, curled into her seat, gills moving only faintly.
‘Someone should guard the AiVs,’ he said, fumbling with the safety on the rifle. He’d had basic instruction at the Studium but it was not something he’d ever taken seriously. The Cavaliere were his protection. Had been.
‘You would volunteer, I expect.’ Christian loomed at his side, his expression obscured by the distortion of the combat webbing.
Trin tried dissuading him again. ‘We’ve had no communication from Malocchi. There are fires all over Dockside and the pad is deserted.’ He looked along the edge of the building to the blunt edge of the stairs. ‘Where are the TerVs? Where are the Cavaliere?’ His voice sounded thin and high with fear.
The Carabinere gathered around, waiting for Christian to respond. Trin could see Juno Genarro moving among them, whispering.
Christian also noticed. ‘Juno, You stay with the AiVs,’ he said, frowning.
Genarro shook his head and slapped the butt of his rifle. ‘I’m more use to you in there, Capitano.’
Trin thought Christian wavered, knowing he was right. ‘Vespa Malocchi will stay then. Seb will lead one team, Genarro another. I will take the third. Test your shortcasts.’
Trin struggled not to panic as he activated the webbing. It moulded tightly over his nose and he felt something thrust into his ear and tug at his lip as the audio settled into place. He forced himself to breathe deeply a couple of times, and the membrane over his nostrils and mouth thinned enough to allow the passage of air. It still didn’t feel comfortable, like trying to breathe in a dust storm.
Remembering his basic instruction he worked his jaw to find the shortcast frequency. Static crackled on most of the channels but one was filled with unintelligible shouting. He clicked on until he found Christian’s voice.
The Capitano divided the groups. Trin listened to his simple plan and watched a display flicker alive and steady in his right eye. The webbing was a more advanced version than the ones they had practised with at the Studium and he couldn’t interpret many of the icons.
‘Pellegrini, you are the only one without body armour. You should stay behind here as well,’ said Christian.
Trin felt a prickling suspicion. Why the sudden change of heart?
‘I’m more use to you in there.’ He deliberately used the same words as Genarro. ‘I know the building well. I worked here, remember.’
Christian only hesitated for a few seconds. ‘Bueno. I want it on record that you chose to come in.’
So that was it. ‘I choose to enter Carabinere headquarters of my own volition.’ Trin made sure his words were crisp for the web’s recorder.
‘I’ll watch him, Capitano,’ Juno volunteered.
‘One sweep and out on my order.’
‘Where will we go then?’ asked one of the others.
Christian didn’t answer.
* * *
Inside the coldlock they split up, one team heading for Malocchi’s office, another to the main office floors, the last to the beacon.
Trin’s thoughts turned to Joe Scali as his team of six, headed by Juno Genarro, crept towards Technology.
‘Don Pellegrini, come up here behind me and call out the
floor plan. Anyone starts shooting, you find the floor.’
Trin could barely hear Juno’s order over his own ragged breathing. Spots faded in and out before his eyes. Hunger and exhaustion had begun to steal his sense of reality. He gripped Juno’s shoulder.
Genarro tensed under his fellalo but didn’t look back at him. ‘Your biostats are weak. Bite down on the pickup. You’ve got a small reserve of water in the web that has glucose in it.’
Trin did as instructed and moisture squirted into his cheeks. He tongued the sweet flavour and his vision cleared almost instantly.
‘You can probably do that twice more before you run out.’ Genarro paused. ‘Will that be enough?’
Trin let go of his shoulder. ‘Si.’
They crept into the labyrinth of offices, finding no one. Some desks looked as though they had been cleared for the day, others were abandoned as if the person had left suddenly.
The pattern was repeated through every office on every floor. Each window gave them another panorama over Dockside with the same view: smoking fires and the absence of orbital traffic in the purple sky. For the first time since its settlement nothing was coming in or going out of Araldis.
Seb Malocchi’s third group reported in that they’d found the beacon unattended, but intact and functioning normally. No signs of damage.
Christian ordered them to rendezvous with Juno’s group. He was at the door to Malocchi’s office but couldn’t get in.
‘Nothing here either, Capitano,’ said Juno.
Trin felt clammy and claustrophobic under the webbing. The glucose was wearing off fast and he desperately wanted to get out of the building and back to Djeserit but something stronger than this urge compelled him to push the search further. ‘What about the refectory? We haven’t looked there.’
‘You think maybe they’re all taking a siesta?’ said Juno.
Laughs congested the shortcast.
Trin waited until it quieted. ‘It is the largest space in the building. If someone wanted them all in one place...’
‘Capitano?’ asked Juno.
‘Rendezvous with Seb, then check it out. We’re nearly through breaking this seal. Should be in Malocchi’s office in a few moments. I’ll know more then.’
The clamminess that had beset Trin turned to unrestrained sweating. He gripped the rifle hard to keep it from sliding in his grasp. Spots danced before his eyes again and he bit again on the glucose release.
Juno gestured an order to his team, pointing for Trin to take the position at his shoulder. ‘On the bottom floor?’ he asked.
Trin nodded.
Seb’s team met up with them on the stairs above the bottom level. Juno and Seb exchanged the barest of tactical instructions. Juno would count them in from opposite doors. They would enter low and cautious.
‘I can smell food.’ Someone broke the agreed silence.
Trin could smell it too. His mouth watered so violently that he dribbled. He felt slight pressure from the web as it absorbed the moisture.
Genarro slid open the double doors and crawled in, rifle first.
‘We’re in.’ Christian’s voice broke shortcast silence again.
Weapon fire started up almost simultaneously.
Trin froze with the confusion of noise. Who’s shooting? He was pushed down onto the floor as the shortcast channel clamoured with competing voices:
‘What in the Crux’s holy—’
‘Juno. I need back-up!’
‘Principe be our father. Care for us in our unspoiled world and deliver us from—’
Someone was praying. Trin tried to sort through the cacophony for a voice he recognised. The weapon fire, he realised, was up on Malocchi’s floor.
But the prayer came from Juno inside the refectory. Trin forced himself to crawl through the doors after him. Juno was on his knees, fingers steepled together, rifle discarded.
At one end of the large room tables and chairs were piled high against the windows. To the far side, overcooked, dehydrated food crackled on the warmers. In the space between the two lay a mound of casually heaped bodies.
Trin’s gaze was drawn to the matted clots of darkness in their faces. They seemed untouched apart from the bleeding holes that had been their eyes.
Automatically, without wanting to, he sifted the muddle of flesh, seeking out familiar faces. Not Joe Scali. Not Rantha. Please...
Rising acid burned away the glucose taste in his mouth. He wanted to run back to the launching pad, to Djeserit and escape this. Swallow or suffocate. He grappled with his bodily reactions for a few moments, trying to subdue his gag reflex. When he could, he called out hoarsely. ‘Genarro.’
His team leader had stopped praying and was watching Seb Malocchi’s team who had entered through the other door. One of Seb’s men ran to the pile of bodies and fell onto it.
‘Nathaniel!’ shouted Seb.
But young Nathaniel ignored him and began plucking at the mound of flesh, mumbling names. ‘Kosta, Lorrena Scali—’
Trin knew exactly what the young Carabinere was doing and the sight transfixed him.
Genarro climbed to his feet, purposefully, the shock waning. ‘Nathaniel, the Capitano needs our help. These people do not,’ he said.
‘What if there’s someone alive?’ Like a drunken dancer changing partners Nathaniel struggled to move the bodies. A woman in his grip slipped to the floor, her head rolling slightly askew.
Trin saw the face. It was Rantha’s.
His horror threatened to swallow him. He tore off his hood, peeling back the web to be sick. Rantha. No. She would never again hate the man who made her pregnant, never date Joe Scali, never hold her ‘bino. Rantha.
A hand grasped Trin’s shoulder and pulled him roughly to his feet. He stared into Juno Genarro’s mesh-distorted face. ‘Both teams upstairs to assist the Capitano. NOW. Except you.’ He shook Trin. ‘Can you fly?’
Trin barely made sense of the words. ‘Si.’
‘Go to the landing pad and tell the Pescares to have the AiVs ready to leave. You prepare the third one. You saw that woman’s head. These people haven’t been dead very long...’
You saw that woman’s head. Rantha’s head. Instinctively Trin knew that Juno was right. The Saqr were still near. Maybe this had happened just as they landed, or as he’d put his webbing on, or as they crept through the quiet, empty corridors.
‘Nathaniel,’ said Seb again. ‘We must leave now.’ He approached the young Carabinere.
‘No,’ said Nathaniel. He lifted his rifle and waved it at Seb. ‘My familia are here... my friends. I wish to see them.’
Seb Malocchi nodded his understanding and edged slowly back to the door. The background noise on their shortcast was beginning to lessen.
‘Rapido!’ shouted Juno Genarro.
The Carabinere disappeared, pleased to move, for the same terror was upon all of them.
Trin was left alone with Nathaniel and the dead.
‘The Saqr did this.’ Nathaniel released his grip on Rantha’s body.
Trin wanted to run from what he could see. But what about Joe Scali? an inner voice nagged. Where is your friend? Is he in that obscene pile of flesh? ‘How do you know Saqr?’
‘I worked in Alien Ethnicity. Signor Malocchi thought the department was a waste of time but Principe Franco insisted that we keep it. Those holes in their eyes are caused by stylets. They bore for their food.’
‘I know,’ said Trin shortly. ‘I’ve seen them. Nathaniel, we must go to the AiVs now.’
Nathaniel smiled absently at him and nodded. But he didn’t move.
Shock. Trin recognised it. Mira Fedor had been the same. He retreated to the door and glanced out. There was a noise on the stairs. On the shortcast Juno murmured instructions to his team as he tried to raise the Capitano. But this noise was not made by the Carabinere. Something else.
‘Nathaniel,’ Trin urged. ‘Now. Prego.’
But Nathaniel was back on his knees among the bodies, laying them
out in neat rows.
The sound got louder and Trin panicked. He ran through the cucina to the directors’ refectory. The security director was at a table nearby, his torso resting on a tabletop, dried trails of black blood in stripes across his clean scalp where tiny holes had been bored.
Trin ran past him without stopping. Malocchi is dead. Malocchi is dead. The realisation pursued him down a forgotten, malformed corridor. He bit down to extract the last squirt of glucose as he ran. When he reached the door of his office he hammered at the lock. As the door slid open, a deep-rooted survival instinct sent him dropping to his knees.
A pistol discharged into the empty air where he’d been standing.
He scrambled against the wall, feeling warm wetness flood his groin. Trin Pellegrini had never in his adult life pissed himself before. He fumbled with his rifle, jamming the charge in his haste. Visions of himself on the pile with the others, his discarded flesh being laid out by Nathaniel, took control of his mind. No.
His rifle flickered in readiness. He lifted it and fired at the doorway. The pulse hammered into the ceiling, blasting out chunks of catoplasma. Fear racked him and he couldn’t bring himself to move any closer to the door.
‘Familia?’ a hoarse voice called into the silence.
Trin’s heart lurched and he began to breathe again. He knew that voice. He knew it. ‘Scali,’ he rasped. Then again. ‘Scali, is that you?’
‘Don Pellegrini?’
‘Si. Si, Nobile.’ Tears of relief spurted from his eyes.
Scali stepped into the doorway, sobbing too. His fellalo was torn and soaked with blood.
He saw Trin on the floor and fell down beside him.
They stared at each other in silence.
‘You stink, young Principe,’ Scali finally said, hugging him. ‘But you came for me, Don. I will never forget that. You knew where I’d be hiding. I hoped Rantha would think of it. Have you seen her?’
Trin swallowed slowly and painfully. ‘No, Nobile, I have not. She must have got away. Now you and I must do the same.’
Dark Space (Sentients of Orion) Page 21