Cass faltered, confused. ‘Wha-a-t do—’
Mira watched her distress intensify. ‘I know it was—him. He caused the Juanita tunnel—collapse.’
Cass trembled violently and began to cry into her hands. ‘I’ve protected him always. I always will. Promise me you won’t speak a word of it outside this room.’ Her voice was fierce, despite the tears.
‘He caused people to die. He is a—criminal.’ And Cass protected him. What did that make her? It made her nothing. Nobody cared about criminals in this world now. There were no Carabinere. No familia judges. No law. Suddenly Mira felt exhausted and depressed. She took Vito in her arms and turned the other way.
* * *
When Rast came to see her, Mira was dressed in her fellala, sipping sweetened water to soothe her throat.
‘Enjoy the rest? Get up. I need the bed,’ Rast said.
Mira eased herself to the side of the cot and stood. Someone had repaired the skin of her fellala where Innis had torn at it. She ran her hand over the patch. It seemed sound. ‘How did you find me? I was almost...’ She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
Rast sat in the chair previously occupied by Cass and put her feet up on the bed. ‘I’ve had you watched.’
‘Perche?’ Mira asked, startled.
‘Not just you. Mulravey’s lot. I had a feeling about them and it paid off, it seems. For you, leastways.’ Rast tugged her white hair thoughtfully. ‘You know I lost two of my crew in the Juanita tunnel collapse. I kinda took the whole thing personal. Really stuck in my gut that we couldn’t find the killer.’
‘Killer?’ Mira’s heart fluttered. Should she tell Rast what she suspected?
‘Yeah. To my mind it wasn’t an accident. We were all supposed to be down that tunnel... for various reasons. I pulled most of the team out at the last minute to quash a fight that had started up top in the wet mess. Left two down there on the job. When we investigated it turned out that there’d been no permission to blast in that area, and no blast clearance. It was damn obvious that the charges were set too close to the boundary of the underground. Apparently that sort of things’s never happened before. Never happened since. What’s the odds of that, I wonder?’
‘What does that have to do with the Mulraveys?’
‘Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Sometimes you have to trust your gut instinct about people and other times you gotta ignore it. I haven’t decided which camp they fall into.’
Mira opened her mouth but the words stuck in her throat. She had no evidence. No facts. Rast might have saved her life, but Rast was a mercenary. That made her as much an adversary as Innis. Mira fumbled with the bed cover to hide her indecision.
Rast watched her closely. ‘Why don’t you move up here with me? Be less crowded than the dorms.’
Mira dropped the cover in surprise. ‘W-why would you suggest—that?’
‘I like your voice. And your body.’ Rast got up off the chair and sat close to Mira on the bed.
Mira closed her eyes. How desperately she wanted some privacy. Some space. Here with Rast she would not have to share ablutions or listen to the moans of women who were scared even as they slept.
But then she would be indebted to Rast and that was something she could tolerate less than the overcrowding or the intimate touch of another woman. Araldisian women did not exchange physical love with each other.
Mira stood up, drawing a deep breath. ‘No.’
TRIN
‘You came for me.’ Tears filled Scali’s eyes again.
‘Lower your voice, idios. I knew that if you were alive you would think of here.’ Trin ignored the twist of his conscience. He would never tell Scali he’d thought only of saving himself and that he’d left Nathaniel Montforte behind for the same reason. Never tell anyone. Familia prized sacrifice and courage. Joe would be for ever indebted to him and that could be useful enough.
Trin pushed his friend back inside the office, locking the door. ‘Malocchi is dead. I’ve just seen him at his table in the refectory.’
‘I always wanted to sit there,’ Scali said.
But Trin was distracted by the conversation on his shortcast.
‘They’re still in the building,’ Genarro was shouting.
‘Capitano. Capitano.’
‘He’s dead. Leave him and get out.’ Genarro again.
Trin grabbed Joe Scali’s arm. ‘We must leave.’
Scali moved towards the door but Trin stopped him. He stepped across the office to the shelves and wrenched them away from the wall. The hole was still there.
‘What’s this?’
Trin kicked away his makeshift patch and peered into the gap between wall and mountainside. Rock had fallen, blocking the path to the light. He thrust his gloved hands in, tearing at the pile until he had created a space. He climbed into it and repeated his actions, scooping rocks back into the office. When there was enough space for them both he called Scali. ‘Nobile. Follow me,’ he said. ‘I will pass the rock to you, and you drop it here like so.’
The bigger man hesitated. ‘I cannot fit.’
Trin stifled his impatience and edged back to the hole. ‘You have to.’
Joe shook his head. ‘I will go the other way, through the building. I will look for Rantha.’
Trin reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘You saw the ginkos, Nobile?’
‘Yes, for a moment before I ran. Great thick-crusted creatures with claws and many mouths. But they were slow. I could run past them.’
Trin tugged his hand fiercely. ‘You are scared and not thinking. Theses ginkos are called Saqr. Their many mouths are lobes and inside them are needles. They herded everyone into the refectory and pierced their skulls and their eyes. Then they sucked the life from them.’
‘Everyone?’
Trin nodded, panting. The narrow gap he had created squeezed his chest, making it hard to breathe.
‘But you said Rantha—’
‘I lied.’ Trin knew how harsh his words were but cared only that they shook Joe from his paralysis.
A great sob broke from Scali.
Trin tugged his hand again. ‘Now come, Nobile. Please.’
This time Scali climbed after him into the small space.
Trin shuffled sideways, scraping ahead with his gloves to clear the fallen rock, ignoring the pain of his compressed flesh and the panic of claustrophobia. His only thought now was to get back to Djeserit.
SOLE
little creatures/ juices juices
call’m hormone/flowing flowing
cause’m/deeds deeds
secrets
mak’m progress/ little creatures
use’m/hormone hormone
Tekton
Tekton stepped energetically from his immersion bath, his free-mind filled with a sense of prescience. Beneath it his logic-mind flowed with its usual lava of inexorable reason. The tension between the two left him aroused. He turned to the Araldisian diplomat without bothering to cover his body.
Her skin heated. He sensed the rise in her body temperature, bringing it closer to something he might want to touch. Un-Lostolian humanesques were so cold and slippery. Like fish. This one, though, was approaching her monthly fertile peak. She wore the signs like a banner.
This will help my negotiations.
Tekton stood patiently silent as his aides applied lotions to keep his skin from drying in the harsh Araldisian climate. The window of his guest chamber gave him an inspiring view of a harsh, red-barren territory, blemished by the clumsy workings of mining.
At the sight, his free-mind swamped his body with a rush of akula. It left him rigid-tight with pleasure.
The ambassador’s embarrassment deepened.
‘My apologies for any offence, Ambassadress Pellegrini. The sight of your beautiful planet excites my physiology. On Lostol it is not a thing we hide. It prevents much deception when you can see what excites a person.’
Marchella Pellegrini made a small choking soun
d.
Tekton felt a small irritation at being attended by a diplomat with such obviously limited experience.
But she is a Pellegrini, his logic-mind reverberated up through the current of akula.
She cleared her throat. ‘God-Tekton, please call me Marchella. I have arranged a tour of the main equatorial mines for you. Our transport will depart shortly after breakfast.’
Tekton acknowledged her inaccurate use of his title with a gracious smile. How would a savage know that he wasn’t—yet—a God? ‘Will you be accompanying me... Marchella?’
‘That would please mia fratella, God-Tekton.’
‘But will it please me?’ he teased, half serious.
Marchella stared through the window, putting distance between them. ‘The variety of minerals on Araldis is due in part to its unusual geography. As you may be aware, Araldis has no polar land mass like most other inhabited planets. Large subduction plates collide at each pole, creating the maze of islands that sprinkle the breadth of each hemisphere, ending in the ranges that fringe the belted land mass on which we live and which we mine. Araldis’s climate is extreme. While the polar waters are warm, due to the underwater volcanic activity, the islands are cool and wet. The Equatorial Belt, in the rain shadow of the ranges, is perennially hot and arid.’
‘I have familiarised myself with Araldisian geography, Marchella Pellegrini,’ said Tekton, feeling his akula quicken as she spoke.
The knowledge of the raw materials on this planet stretched his arousal painfully. His free-mind rampaged through new designs and diagnostics for edifices that would use Araldis’s resources, carefully storing them for sharing with his builder sycophant.
But he must be careful not to show his lusts. Archi-Tects were regarded with suspicion throughout the galaxy: their known avarice for raw materials was a delicate matter. And Tekton had only one purchase in mind. Something he must have. Quixite. Large amounts of it!
How amusing to think that this unassuming orb on the outer galactic arm would have what he so desired: this place of ridiculously crude architecture and primitive conditions. Even the mines, according to his moud, were a catastrophe of dangerous non-planning. Yet from the moment when Tekton had seen Araldis from the viewer on his space transport, his blood had thrummed in passionate chorus.
Now he must negotiate.
Delegating the job of ambassador to the Principe’s sorella, Marchella, puzzled the second-Godhead. But he allowed the question to subside under the tide of his akula.
While his logic-mind puzzled, his free-mind cartwheeled through rough sketches of buildings with nuance and flair. ‘Please join me for a meal, Marchella Pellegrini.’ Tekton modulated his voice seductively as he sat himself at a table near the window.
‘Thank you, God-Tekton, but I have eaten already.’
‘Then I will be offended.’
Marchella hesitated, unsure at the brevity of his response.
Tekton noticed the play of tension along her musculoskeletal frame, and admired the dense, compact look of her. Like a basement with load-bearing joists, Marchella looked like she could bear weight. Tekton found that alluring—imagining what he could build atop her.
‘I need a guide through your foods.’
She stepped forward immediately, peering under serving covers.
‘Please sit, Marchella. I may wear less clothing than you are used to, but I am quite harmless.’
Marchella seemed doubtful, but seated herself opposite. ‘This is kranse bread. It is our most successful crop and is very high in protein. The eggs are quark, and have an unusually dry texture—again, high in protein. The sea cucumbers are crisp. The roe is from the Tourmaline Islands and may be saltier than you are used to, I recommend that you drink it with wine.’
At her gesture Tekton took a minute mouthful of roe, followed by a swallow of the frothy red liquid served in a crude glass decanter. He must remember to bring his own dining accoutrements on outworld visits, he told himself.
The wine, surprisingly, was sweetly palatable.
Marchella warmed at his expression of pleasure.
‘Araldisian Reds are our most famous export, after our minerals, God-Tekton. We have numerous varieties. Though the grapes are grown in climate control, the Araldisian soil that nourishes them makes for a piquant flavour.’
‘Please join me, Marchella.’
Marchella nodded and sipped heartily from the glass that his moud proffered her. The red fluid spilled from one corner of her mouth.
Tekton was amused by her indelicacy. If Marchella Pellegrini was indeed typical of her world, then Araldisian women were some of the most primitive he had encountered, despite their pretensions to nobility. Again his akula throbbed. It somehow seemed in keeping with the rawness of the planet.
He allowed the wine to relax him, enjoying the heightened glow it brought to Marchella’s crimson skin. He sent a direct logic-mind instruction to his moud. Make sure we have wine for the tour.
After dining, they left the embassy in a small liveried AiV, peeling away from the landing docks cut into the imposingly violet ranges. By the time they had skimmed low to a more intimate viewing height, Marchella had shared the full decanter of wine with him. She began to lose her reserve, enthusiastically pointing out the more significant landmarks.
They drank steadily through several carafes, until Tekton judged her to have completely relaxed her guard.
‘And what of your family’s operations, Marchella?’
She gestured at the AiV pilot to sweep lower over a large scar in the ground. ‘Below is Pellegrini A, and to the south, Pellegrini B. Each produces 60,000 tonnes of ore per thirty-hour day. The ore is conveyored back to Dockside and stockpiled. The Pellegrini conveyors are some of the longest known. The mining belt has the perfect geography and climate for our conveyors, flat and hot—no frost to damage the machinery. Subsidiary feeders from the smaller mines join the main conveyor all the way along.’
‘The process is very primitive.’
Marchella sighed. ‘Yes, but it works. Our society uses some gro-technology to maintain its infrastructure but we found it to be too expensive on the mining scale. We are still a young planet.’
‘And youth is so seductive, my dear. What of the non-Pellegrini mines?’
‘They use land barges to transport their ore, or rent space on the conveyors.’
‘So indeed your family has the monopoly?’
Tekton’s provocation caused Marchella no embarrassment. ‘The Cipriano Clan purchased Araldis after seeing the assay reports from the first exploration ships in this area. The Pellegrinis are the most powerful of the Araldis Ciprianos, the royal family. It is... our planet.’
‘And what would it take for me to convince you that an exclusive minerals contract with me would be in the interest of the Pellegrinis’ great name?’
‘Orion lucre,’ Marchella said quickly and bluntly.
We have her! Tekton’s free-mind sang joyously, drunk on the proximity of the minerals and the unbridling effect of the wine. ‘That is something I am in a position to offer.’
‘What minerals do you want?’
‘Only one little mine, Marchella. It is named Juanita, I believe.’
‘Oh?’
‘The one that produces a quantity of quixite.’
Marchella nodded thoughtfully. ‘Our financiers will negotiate with you on that issue, God-Tekton. But, if you’ll pardon my frankness, there are others bidding for the same alloy.’
‘May I enquire who that may be?’
‘You know that I cannot disclose who bids against you.’
Tekton inclined his head, his logic-mind running lists of possible competitors. Or perhaps there were none. Perhaps she had more negotiating finesse than he thought. ‘Is there nothing that might convince you to short-cut this... this... bargaining?’
‘Unlikely.’ Marchella shook her head, showering him with the musky perfume of her velum. ‘Though there is one small thing that would gain you favo
ur in the bidding.’
Tekton’s arousal became painful again. Marchella was indeed much less naive than he thought. Desire began to agitate the waters of his akula. He reclined into the envelope of his seat, giving her the full benefit of his arousal.
‘Which would be?’
‘You are tyro to the Sole Entity?’
‘Yes.’
‘I... that is, we want one of our familia to be admitted to Belle-Monde to undergo testing by the Entity.’
Tekton hid his surprise: such ambition for a backwater family with no scholarship. ‘But only the very brilliant are chosen.’
‘And you do not think there could be one so brilliant among us Latinos?’
‘No need to take offence, ambassadress.’
‘No offence taken, God-Tekton. But this point would be, in brutal parlance, a deal-breaker.’
Tekton’s minds streamed alongside each other, considering her request. Perhaps his influence stretched far enough to give Marchella what she was asking for. If it meant he could get what he wanted, Tekton would do almost anything.
Unconsciously he stroked himself, exhilarated. Araldis called to him. He wanted to land the AiV and rub the dirt on his skin, taste it in his mouth. He wanted to ingest this planet and build from its lifeblood the greatest-ever structures. ‘Then perhaps it could be arranged, Marchella, once the terms of export are agreed. Do you have one person in mind?’
Her expression softened—a peculiar juxtaposition in her square, pragmatic face. ‘I do.’
Marchella’s words resonated deep inside him as though significant in the scheme of things. Tekton pondered them and his future. ‘Then I would say we are close to a deal.’
He reached out a hand to touch her. The texture of Marchella’s skin on his felt rough in comparison to that of a Lostolian female—and yet not unpleasant. He smelled the light perspiration on her brow, could feel the minerals she sweated from her skin.
Dark Space (Sentients of Orion) Page 23