Chaos Space (Sentients of Orion)

by Marianne de Pierres

  Jo-Jo didn’t offer any sentiment about her mother. Rast wasn’t the kind to take it. ‘Yeah. That’s why I took to my line of work. I don’t like complications. In fact, I don’t like people. One thing about mineral scouting; you can do it solo.’

  ‘Must get kinda lonely,’ she said.

  ‘I’m good at lonely,’ Jo-Jo replied.

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got that manner about you.’ Rast mimicked his earlier statement. ‘Word to the wise, though—wouldn’t waste all that precious-earned bachelorhood on the Baronessa. She’s dragging more than her share of baggage around. Doesn’t take to men much, either; prefers my type.’

  Jo-Jo’s fingers clenched on the biozoon’s thick scar ridge. ‘You warning me off?’

  Rast rolled her shoulders in a relaxed gesture that Jo-Jo didn’t buy. ‘Just saving you some grief.’

  Their moments of camaraderie faded, along with Jo-Jo’s opportunity to find out who she had served with in the war.

  He faked his own kind of indifference. ‘So what happened between you two back there on Araldis?’

  ‘When the Saqr hit Ipo, the town we were holding out in, we split. Few days later she pulled us out of a firelight. Lucky all round, I guess. Only been a few days since I’d seen her—maybe a week. But something happened to her in that time. When she picked us up in the AiV she was frozen, like shock. Never really been the same since then. Not that those Latino women are friendly at best. Especially the crown aristos.’

  Jo-Jo nodded agreement at that. ‘What’s your figuring of how we get to Rho Junction without being blown to the crapper?’

  Rast chewed on her upper lip. ‘Only been there once; just before the war. Funny kinda place—supposed to be OLOSS territory but Extros are creeping around all over the shop. You need to do your “God” thing, get us landing rights. Berniere’s got a validation document for the DNA pickup but he’s not coming in on the prearranged connections. We got to convince the supplier that the bio-courier’s just an idiot who messed up and missed his designated ride and hope they haven’t already found another slab for the job.’

  Jo-Jo sneered. ‘Convince the buyer that Berniere’s an idiot? Shouldn’t be too hard.’

  SOLE

  work’m work’m

  round round

  prickle prickle

  find’m secret not’long

  TEKTON

  Tekton arrived at Rho Junction by way of three trouble-free res-shifts and two interminably long sub-light legs. On the trip he spent much of his time sketching designs for sculpting the alloy, beginning first with simple wave effects and then moving on to the more complex forms.

  On the first leg from Belle-Monde to Mintaka he had the pleasure of meeting the famous skieran sculptor, Fenralia. The two whiled away their leisure time imbibing some of the artist’s exceptional hallucinogenic hoard while they swapped ideas. He found Fenralia’s gelatinous body and trailing tendrils almost as inspiring as Miranda’s flesh, though—due to their odour—not at all sexually appealing.

  Despite that, Fenralia persuaded him to pose naked one evening after they’d imbibed a range of ineffably awful Uralian beverages.

  Towards the end of his posing session Tekton became aware that Fenralia’s sexual organs had unfolded from within her/his bell-shaped body and were creeping across the floor to him, rather like pieces of meat escaping a frigerator.

  At that point he instructed his travelling moud to fabricate an urgent call from the ship’s Captain, and he hurriedly robed and left.

  Fortunately, Fenralia disembarked a few days later on her way to an Exhibition Trade Fest in some obscure location.

  After that Tetkon kept mostly to himself.

  On the day of disembarkation at Rho Junction he reviewed Labile Connit’s instructions and integrated a map of the station into his supplementary memory.

  Rho Junction, the map told him, was actually six pseudo-worlds joined by long cylindrical sections based on a molecular design. It was also one of the earliest mega-stations, commissioned by a wealthy entrepreneur who preferred to spend their money on purchasing a slice of orbit rather than a planet. But rejuve programmes had been less effective back then and did not keep Li Ti Rho-san alive long enough to ensure the condition of her legacy.

  The autonomous station fell into the hands of her less than commercially astute descendants. Over time the Rho-san family were forced to allow a gamut of seedy businesses to flourish on the station in order to survive. Its reputation as a haven became tarnished as it evolved into something more tawdry.

  Tekton’s excitement at seeing the curious construction was dampened when he enquired about accommodation. He was told that due to the unusually high visitor traffic the available rooms provided only modest luxury. They were, however, located quite near the restaurant district on Rho One which, the visitor information gushed, was ‘famous for its eclectic eateries which cater for all tastes’. Followed closely by a warning: ‘It is recommended that all visitors to Rho Junction employ maximum HealthWatch and—at the minimum—mobile security.’ It went on to advertise various security suites, as well as indemnity certificates against death or injury of another party through self-defence.

  Never one to skimp on his own safety, a precaution somewhat justified by his enforced stay in inferior digs, Tekton chose top-of-the-line security and insurance. The Heedless Shadow floater weapon counted in its large specification list a Local Positioning System, a Magnetic Anomaly Detector, a miniature javelin missile, ordnance disposal and a kinetic rifle/pistol combo all neatly contained in a hat-sized floater. The floater could be carried in a light knapsack arrangement when not in use.

  Satisfied that his personal safety was accounted for, Tekton donned his new bodyguard and took a taxi to the Flin Flon Flo Bath and Breakfast, staying just long enough to check in and ascertain that he would need to purchase a strong antibacterial spray if he were to reside there. He then ordered the taxi to transport him to the industrial area on Rho One which his map optimistically called the Heijunka.

  As the taxi glided along the tiers and tiers of spiralling mag-rails, Tekton thought dreamily of a continual production flow and the exquisite moving structures that it would yield.

  Heijunka, indeed...

  But his dreams evaporated somewhere between the slug-shaped catoplasma warehousing and the grimy pop-cap workshop doors.

  Tekton’s unease grew when he found Lot FF, tucked behind a small odorous bio-separation plant and next to an unobtrusive but tatty medi-clinic. He wrenched the door ajar on Lot GG to reveal a medium-sized cold- floor space with poly-sheeted walls. The copper-inlaid catoplasma ceiling was coated in a gangrenous green fungus.

  In one corner stood a longish benching arrangement boasting a metals lathe. Beside it was a simple pouring system and stacks of empty moulds. Next to that was an antiquated laser kiln.

  Tekton drew the mask of his cloak tighter around his face as a figure detached itself from the kiln and shambled over.

  The figure appeared to be wearing several layers of clothes, none of them clean. The face, when it was close enough to be seen, was aged beyond current health permissions and the eyes were bloodshot. Humanesque. But barely.

  ‘Jus’ keeping warm by the kiln,’ the being pronounced in thick Gal. ‘She hain’t fired in weeks but she keeps her heat like a true hoarder.’

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Tekton.

  ‘Manruben,’ said the disgraceful-looking creature.

  ‘You are Manruben?’

  ‘And you be the one from God’s stadium on Belle- Monde? Figured so.’

  ‘Studium,’ corrected Tekton. ‘You may address me as Godhead Tekton.’

  ‘Belle-Monde used-to be the pickins’ of all the whore’s palaces. So I bin tellin’ all that’s interested.’

  Tekton drew a calming breath. How was it possible that this rotting piece of flesh had such a vaunted reputation? Should he ask for proof of identity?

  ‘Kin see your thinkin’, Godhead Tekkie. Reckon I don�
�t look fit for workin’. Jus’... jus ...’ Manruben took a rattling, liquidish breath. ‘... Don’ believe in rejuve and all tha’ pretty-pretty. When you ain’t got for ever, you live it better.’ Despite the bleeding eyes, he managed a piercing look.

  Tekton wondered just how long Manruben had left; his laboured breath and shivering, the archiTect’s moud informed him, fitted all the symptoms of advanced lung disease.

  ‘When does ma darlin’ get ‘ere?’

  ‘Darling?’ Is this rubbish heap delirious?

  ‘Darlin’ quixite, Tekkie; gotta hankering for it so deep I caint sleep nights. It’s singin’ to me already. Teasin’ me like a young whore.’

  Before Tekton could react Manruben tore aside the archiTect’s veil and cupped his cheek with an overfamiliar filthy hand. ‘Betcha you know what tha’s like. Betcha you c’n afford some pricey cunt.’

  Tekton thought in that instant that he might faint, but he pulled himself together. Moud, run DNA check.

  While his moud ran a DNA analysis of the sample that Manruben had left on his cheek and searched Rho Junction’s image archives, Tekton’s HealthWatch hastily neutralised the dangerous bacteria.

  Tekton played for time by strolling around the workshop. The space was large enough to stockpile a reasonable quantity .of quixite and the equipment looked worn but functional. Lucky for you, Labile Connit! But this disgusting creature following him around was an impostor, he was sure.

  Godhead?

  Yes?

  I am able to verify that this humanesque is Manruben the metal craftsman.

  Great Sole! thought Tekton. How appalling! He cleared his throat. ‘Ahem. It would be pertinent for you to examine my preliminary sketches. I shall have them sent to your lodgings.’

  ‘Loj—loj—.’ Manruben made several tries at repeating the word and gave up. Instead he pointed to a pile of textiles near the far end of the kiln. ‘I be kippin’ right next to her. Like to live wi’ it. You know.’

  ‘Very well. Do you have a personal moud?’

  ‘Them ones wot’s in yer head? Don’t trust them buggers.’ He wagged his finger in the air, then broke into a broad lecherous grin.

  ‘Manny? You got it ready?’

  Tekton swivelled. A voluptuous female ‘esque dressed in fine-mesh lace and with a velvet purse hanging at her throat teetered into the workshop on preposterous high heels.

  ‘Lookee,’ said Manruben. He produced a tiny bracelet of delicately interwoven metals from inside his layers of rags.

  ‘Show me,’ the female squealed, baring a row of perfect teeth. She wobbled straight past Tekton and flung her arms around Manruben’s neck.

  The scrawny old ‘esque swayed and nearly fell. ‘Careful, pretty-pretty,’ he said.

  She let go of him and teetered back, prayer-clasping her hands together. ‘Can I see it work?’

  Manruben reached out and slipped it on her wrist. The interwoven metals slid across each other like writhing snakes. She gave them a gentle touch and they clamped shut like a handcuff.

  ‘What about the other one?’

  Manruben squeezed her breast. ‘Payment First, pretty-pretty.’

  She frowned. ‘But Manny, I have a client soon—’

  Manruben folded his arms and shook his head.

  ‘All right,’ she said, pouting. ‘Do you want the usual?’

  He nodded and licked his lips like a child anticipating sweets.

  Before Tekton could imagine what the ‘usual’ might be, the female knelt down and popped her front eight teeth out into her palm. She dropped them into the little velvet purse hanging around her neck and pressed the seal shut. Then she pulled down Manruben’s grimy pants and buried her face in his groin, making indelicate sucking noises.

  Tekton was caught between utter revulsion and complete fascination. Manruben’s bloodshot eyes rolled backward beneath his eyelids in rapid ecstasy.

  Tekton’s instincts told him to leave the warehouse, this grubby artisan and his whore, and never return—but he had come too far and risked too much to let Manruben’s sexploits deter him.

  So he sat it out, lips pursed, arms folded, toe tapping on the filthy floor. Manruben reached his climax by way of a series of unathletic grunts. But the female was not finished. On his final groan she smeared something between the crease of his slack-skinned buttocks.

  To Tekton’s dismay, Manruben gave several further violent thrusts of his pelvis and collapsed backwards, clutching his chest. The whore shrieked and pounced on him, ratting about under the craftsman’s clothes. Finding the precious second bracelet that she sought, she scrambled to her feet and tottered out.

  Moud?

  The craftsman has no HealthWatch. I would surmise that if he does not receive medical assistance within three to six minutes then the cerebral damage will be irreparable.

  Where in Sole’s name can I get that?! shrieked Tekton.

  Next door, said the moud calmly.

  MIRA

  Your abdomen is enlarged.

  Mira lifted the folds of her night robe and stood in front of the mirror in her bathing cubicle to examine her belly. The bulge was still slight but was unmistakable now on her thin frame. Her robe would not hide it for much longer. Already she was taking care not to brush the material against herself for fear it would show her pregnancy. How would the men react? How would she explain it?

  Mira felt a sharp pang for the loss of her beloved sister. Faja would have known how to deal with things. But Faja could not rescue her this time. Not ever again.

  Mira felt worn out with the burden of her secret. She longed for a familiar face from her life on Araldis. Estelle. Poor, dear Estelle. Even Marchella. Or Cass Mulravey. Cass would not be shocked by Mira’s pregnancy. She would be angry at the act that had produced it and then she would set about making preparations.

  But those women were beyond reach—and Cass was the only one still living and breathing.

  Did she dare trust Bethany Farr with her worries? Would the woman even care? Beth had her own concerns. And her brother, Lasper? How deep did the bond between brother and sister really go? How inbred was their need to manipulate others?

  No. For the moment she would keep her secret close. Time enough for Thales Berniere to be appalled. For Rast to sneer. For Josef Rasterovich to lose his fascination with her. An unwed woman with child was a burden and an ill omen across most cultures and species. A woman who had been raped was worse.

  You are pensive.

  Mira sighed. Insignia had become increasingly skilled at reading her moods. Si. This errand for Lasper Farr wastes time. I don’t know if the little ones I left behind are alive. What has happened to the last of the survivors?

  Perhaps there is no need to return—if they are dead? The biozoon had no empathy for her world. It had been eager to leave for Saif space.

  ‘No!’ Mira cried aloud. ‘Vito is alive and Commander Farr has promised to help Araldis.’

  And these other humanesques? Soon the baby will hamper you. Will they help you as well?

  They mustn’t know about the child. I must keep it from them at least until we return from Rho Junction...

  Simple enough, Insignia conceded. Humanesques are imperceptive and self-absorbed.

  Mira reflected on the irony. Insignia did not think greatly of humanesques and yet she had tied herself to one for her own reasons; her own needs. Which one of them did that make self-absorbed, she wondered?

  What is your defence capacity? she asked the biozoon.

  Without the Assailants, I am limited to the kinetic energy produced from my tail spine.

  What is its range?

  Far enough.

  Mira did not pursue the matter. She had learned that the biozoon would only tell what she would tell. Persistence had little effect.

  Instead, she smoothed the night robe down over her stomach and left the cabin to make her way to the cucina. The extra demands of the baby had begun to make her constantly hungry. Particularly, it seemed, during t
he ship’s designated sleep hours.

  Insignia’s rhythms changed when the crew were asleep, as if the biozoon herself enjoyed a more relaxed state, the crackle of her biologies dampening to a whisper.

  Mira didn’t need lighting to find her way along the strata. The ship’s channels were as familiar to her as the corridors of the Villa Fedor had been.

  No more. She suppressed the pang. No more.

  * * *

  Lasper Farr had not skimped on replenishing their provisions. The cucina’s compactus was so crammed with foodstocks that it ran heavy on its tracks and Mira needed all her strength to roll the shelves apart.

  She found the crisp dried-meat sticks between layers of compressed fruit and a large pail of nuts and slipped some into her sleeve, deciding she would eat in the privacy of her cabin.

  As Mira left the cucina she glimpsed someone from a diverging channel entering the medi-facility. Thales Berniere, she thought, since the figure was not as lean as the mercenaries, nor as hulking as Josef Rasterovich.

  Concerned, she followed him. Was he ill?

  But she hesitated, one hand holding open the pucker, suddenly shy to be coming upon him in this unexpected manner. They had not been alone often. Perhaps she should leave him to his business. Or perhaps she could give him advice or comfort.

  Tentatively she stepped inside.

  Thales did not hear her. He had a finger pressed to an assay pad and was staring, engrossed in the audio of a blood analysis.

  When he had finished listening to the report he slumped across the analyser.

  What does it say? Mira asked Insignia.

  The male humanesque has a bacterial infection, the biozoom answered in a distracted manner.

  You mean a barrier organism?

  Yes. The biozoom sounded impatient. But he also has an infection which is breaking down the barrier organism.

  Is he contagious?

  Unlikely. Not to me at least, or to you, without exchanging fluids. It is curious, though, that the infection markers indicate that the humanesque has only recently contracted the bacterium.