Tekton became exultant.
Where humanesque neurophysiology had previously doomed him to for ever be the victim of both, acting in concert as they had, now he was able to separate the two entirely. One was no longer inextricably linked with the other. He could choose which voice to follow. He felt social customs and personal desires tease apart from pure knowledge and roll into individual slots. He felt clarity and a sense of infinite possibility blossom.
The Balol interrupted his revelling introspection.
‘You have been accepted to commune by the Sole Entity. It will now communicate directly with you. Because the Entity is invisible, the amphitheatre will decode and provide some imagined definition for you.’ She added under her ruffle, almost to herself, ‘We find this helps.’
Space fell at Tekton. Where in one breath he had been staring out into distance, in the next he was out in that cold distance. His free mind primal-screamed about vacuum and weightlessness, while his new logic-mind calmly deduced that either his senses had been tampered with or the Entity was somehow protecting him—he was alive and breathing, after all. In his first act of duality he shut his free mind off, and floated.
Sole appeared around him as rippling dark distortion, a glutinous shimmer beyond Tekton’s understanding. He hung in Sole’s space (or thoughtspace?) like an insect stuck in glue and pondered what wonders Ra would see with full-spectrum sight.
A trickle of acuity began to flow into his pristine logic-mind. It became a gurgle and then a gush—a torrent of connections forged, soaking into his brain as if it were a blotter. But the sensation ceased abruptly as the blotter soon grew saturated. Sensations gave way to an implicit message not spoken but absorbed.
Show/beauty.
* * *
Tekton reflected on his brief communion with the Entity for the next few days. Beauty was what the Entity sought. How did one show a god beauty?
His tyro stipulated no time constraints or deadlines, only that he comply with the observers and (this being the important subtext) bring acclaim to Lostol.
Tekton therefore divided his time between voicing design ideas for something beautiful into his moud- caddy, and inspecting the scope of the pseudo-world.
The tyros’ sector was a small sliver given over to Sole’s students—Circle Five, to be exact—and the rest belonged to a semi-ordered combination of OLOSS scientists and their support staff, a joint humanesque and organic-AI team.
In the larger part of the pseudo-world the physicists and astronemeins worked on a feverish, non-stop observation of Sole.
While the moud answered Tekton’s most pragmatic questions, he was compelled to take his deeper questions back to the ménage lounge and meet the other humanesques. He also needed company. Tando Studium, his alma mater, was a busy, social place to work and Belle-Monde felt oddly lonely.
As Tekton taxied over to the lounge for the first time since meeting Ra, he asked the moud to tell him about his colleagues. Dieter Miranda Seeward, it said, was the director of the Advanced Surgical Facility on the planet Ikar.
Labile Conit—who would not disclose his place of origin—had studied at the famous Yeungnam Studium school of Geneering.
Javid Jivviddat was celebrated for having found a cure for the uuli repeater virus. (Personally, Tekton thought it not such a great accomplishment—what would OLOSS miss about uulis? The colour of their slime?)
Lawmon Jise, on the other hand, was someone to be impressed by. He had shaped the new OLOSS charter—a most skilful, subtle piece of legislation that kept the arbiters of power among the sentients in perfect balance. Though Lawmon-ing for the most part bored Tekton, he couldn’t help but appreciate such political genius. Negotiation and manipulation were useful skills for anyone. He must get to know Jise.
Tekton entered the lounge, keeping his robes firmly shut. The tyro humanesques ignored him. Perhaps Ra’s superior manner had made them cautious. So he set about disarming it.
‘I should have introduced myself earlier. I am Tekton archi-Tect from Lostol. You have already met my cousin Ra. Permit me to say that blood ties do not indicate common personality traits on my world.’
Dieter Miranda chuckled while Labile Conit scowled into his drink. Tekton disliked him instantly—but that was not an uncommon phenomenon between Geneers and archi-Tects.
‘Your work on Ikar is highly regarded, Dieter Seeward. I’m surprised you could be spared to come here,’ Tekton said agreeably.
‘Spared, archi-Tect? Surely you mean that this would be an obvious progression and reward for me.’
‘That as well.’ Tekton forced a polite smile to his lips.
‘The case for all of us,’ added Labile Conit.
‘Indeed, Labile Conit, You, Dieter Miranda, Dieter Jivviddat and Lawmon Jise are all celebrated individuals—at the top of your professions. I am honoured to be in your company.’ However much the flattery irked him, Tekton knew it would salve the damage done by Ra’s arrogance. Academics differed little in that regard. ‘Tell me, have I received the wrong impression, or are the OLOSS scientists here disinterested in our...’ he searched for a word ‘... programme?’
‘Their interest in us is purely experiential,’ said Miranda. ‘As long as we present for regular scans and keep out of their research area they are happy. Astronemeins care only for matter and gravity. The fact that an invisible consciousness exists has thrown their paradigms into disarray.’
I can imagine, thought Tekton. ‘And tell me, how fare your projects?’
Suspicion fell over their faces like a shadow cast by an eclipse.
An uncomfortable silence settled until Lawmon Jise cleared his throat. ‘We have found it better not to discuss such things in leisure hours,’ he volunteered.
‘But Tekton is new to Belle-Monde and is excited about his project,’ Labile Conit interrupted. ‘It would be rude of us not to let him share it.’
Tekton looked from one attentive face to the next. As quickly as it had appeared, the shadow had gone. Now they leaned toward him intently. He felt flattered at their interest and it swelled his akura. ‘Of course I have yet to define my project exactly but Sole has asked me to—’
‘Stop.’ Lawmon Jise had risen to his feet, extending
a commanding hand. ‘Shame on you, Labile Conit. Shame, shame, shame.’ His voice was musical and mesmerically imperious. Tekton imagined him wielding it like a cut-throat among OLOSS politicians.
‘If the truth be known, and it should, we have found it better not to discuss our projects at all. There is then no room for dispute.’
Tekton felt profoundly grateful to the Lawmon—an ‘esque he could trust. Towards Conit, on the other hand, he felt an almighty rush of childish fury. His logic-mind rushed in to prevent any nonsense. Academia is academia, Tekton. You are the fool for thinking anything else, it chided him.
‘Of course. I see,’ said Tekton. ‘Now, let me buy you all a drink.’
* * *
Tekton continued his regular visits to the ménage lounge. He took great pains to hide the fact that he had no inspiration and was despairing that he might have contracted geniusblock.
He thought of confiding in Lawmon Jise but pride forestalled him.
Then, during Happy Hormone shooters hour some weeks after his shafting, Tekton witnessed an appalling event.
Every spare second thenafter his free-mind replayed the sight and sound of Jise and Miranda’s untuned flesh slapping and whumping as the two academics met and tussled astride the bar—unable to settle their differences in anything but a wrestle. Something about the ripple of Dieter Miranda’s thighs gave Tekton shivers of creative wonder.
In fact, he found it impossible to subdue his erection for most of the following Mintaka-day. What structures can I build that would emulate such sensual flow?
So taken was his free-mind with the images that afterwards even his logic-mind could barely recall the bone of contention between the two, a point of argument over the medical and legal efficacy of fungi in the treatmen
t of cross-species disease. (Were not, indeed, most fungi bordering on legally sentient anyway? Lawmon Jise argued.)
The point of discussion mattered not to Tekton but the event sparked an idea and he immediately set about sourcing the raw materials to realise his revelation.
TRIN
Jilda Pellegrini’s chauffeured luxury AiV delivered Trin to a smooth low-slung building midway down Franco’s Mountain.
Seated in his vast office, Carabinere Director Malocchi didn’t bother to move his feet from his desk when Trin entered. Instead, he continued to inhale on his Cusano and gaze at the picturesque windo-view of the auburn landscape.
‘Good morning, Signor Malocchi.’ Trin chose deference in favour of arrogance. Let the loco director think he was compliant.
The Malocchis had been handling the Cipriano Clan’s security since before settlement. They served the Pellegrinis dogmatically but without, Trin believed, the correct heartfelt respect. Trin had always thought that their belief was in what they did, not in who they did it for. If he were in Franco’s position, he would denude the Malocchis of their rank and bring in new blood. But Franco was too dependent—or, perhaps, too indebted.
‘Your title here will be Lesser Adviser.’
‘A Lesser Adviser to what?’
‘What you have been brought up to do, of course—nothing. You will be given an office and in it you will stay.’
Trin became hot with embarrassment and anger. ‘Why would I do that?’
This time Malocchi turned his head. ‘Because I have told you to.’
‘You cannot tell me to do anything. The Principe may be punishing me for a foolish error but I am still his son. Treat me poorly and, in the end, it will be you who will be castigated!’
Malocchi gave him a keen stare. ‘You do not know, do you?’
Trin’s skin prickled. ‘Know what?’
‘Why you have been sent here.’
‘I killed an uuli: accidental and unfortunate. The Principe thinks to teach me about responsibility.’
‘The uuli. Aaaah... yes. But it is not the uuli for whom you have been cast down.’
Cast down. Trin’s mouth felt dry, as if he’d taken too much bravura. The hot prickling of his skin turned to shivers of alarm. ‘You speak nonsense, signor.’
‘In Riso’s Bar you did the courting dance with a woman—is that not so?’
Trin shrugged, unsurprised that Malocchi had such information but unable to see its importance. ‘So...’
‘Did you not think it odd that the woman whom you so inappropriately and publicly pledged to bed was minded by Palazzo Cavaliere?’
‘There are many Cavaliere in the Palazzo. I hardly notice them.’
Malocchi leaned back in his chair. ‘Perhaps, then, you should sharpen your observation skills.’
‘What point are you dancing around, Signor Malocchi?’
Malocchi let silence fill the space between them, savouring whatever revelation he was about to spring, taking flagrant pleasure in the matter. ‘You performed a mating dance with your father’s newest concubine.’ He laughed then. Belly-deep and cruel.
Luna. Trin trembled through every part of his body.
Malocchi wiped the laughter from his eyes. ‘Now you see... I think it best that you keep out of the way.’
Trin clung to his bravado. ‘I-I will not do as you bid.’
Malocchi inhaled and blew out a long stream of acrid yellow smoke. ‘Franco has made it clear that he wants to hear nothing about you. If there should be the slightest whisper that you are not doing as you are instructed then I believe you may find your gratuity affected. And worse. But of course,’ he smiled openly now, enjoying himself, ‘that is none of my business.’
* * *
Trin left Malocchi and returned to the Palazzo but his father would not see him. The door Cavaliere presented arms before blocking his path when he tried to pass.
Frustrated, he hastened to the sitting room and checked his gratis rating on the familia e-boards. A bulletin had been posted stating that his status had been suspended temporarily. He could he not procure anything that required gratis without the Principe’s approval. With no other ‘external’ income, Trin had no tender. His thoughts flew first to his depleted bravura supply.
Panicking, he searched out Jilda. She was seated at her faux-Regence window, sober. He stood between her and the view, motioning the shutters to close. She would not ignore him as Franco had done.
In response to the sudden darkening of the room, the lights brightened into a splendorous, twinkling affair.
‘Restore my gratis, mama,’ he demanded.
She looked away from him. ‘I cannot, my son.’
Furious, Trin punched the shutters. But Jilda kept her composure.
He stared at her with suspicion. She wore a new morning costume, uncreased for once, and her eyes seemed clear, almost bright. Beyond her, through the patinated screens of her sleeping area, he could see her bed ruffled and turned down on both sides. ‘What promises has he made you?’
‘Do not speak of your papa in that tone, Trinder. He is doing what is right, what is needed. I have spoiled you. An uuli, Trin. How could you do such a thing after Franco has risked all to make you Pilot First?’
‘It was an accident. And what do you care for an uuli?’ Trin was beset by an urge to hit Jilda. The smallest of attentions from Franco and she became compliant to a man who had no interest in her. How could he, Trin, have been bred from such a pathetic woman?
Instead, he inhaled deeply, composing himself. There were other ways to hurt her. ‘He is not punishing me because of the uuli, mama. Ask him about his new mistress. Ask him about her taste for younger men. And then remember that I am your son. My failings are yours. And in the end Franco will make you pay for them.’ He motioned the shutters open and the lights dimmed. ‘He won’t stay in your bed for long, you know. The new woman he has is far more beautiful.’
As Trin let himself out of his mother’s apartment he saw, to his satisfaction, that she was crying.
Unsure of what to do next, he called the chauffeur to take him back to Centrale. Deep in gloomy thought, he saw nothing of the staggering view as they descended Mount Pell. The rugged vista of purple iron rock and red dust plains were as opaque to him as the workings of his father’s mind.
The Galiotto chauffeur roused him from his brooding. ‘Should I wait, Don?’
Trin shook his head. ‘I will summon you later. I have... business here.’
The Galiotto nodded but proffered no further comment.
How long, Trin wondered, before all the Nobile knew of his fall from favour?
He located the main administration section and asked to be shown to an office.
‘There are no available offices in Centrale,’ the young woman to whom he had spoken told him. Around her, others hid their faces behind their deskfilms, smirking.
‘But there must be. Where will I go?’ Childish anguish overwhelmed him and tears threatened.
A dark-haired Cabone working quietly in the corner spoke up. ‘I have not been here long but I think there may be a vacant office in the malformed section.’ She touched her deskfilm and searched through the building plan.
The others glanced at each other with barely suppressed astonishment—the young Principe in an office in the malformed section.
The Cabone scowled at them and stood up. ‘I will show you if you would like,’ she said.
Trin nodded gratefully and followed her out into the corridor. She led him down to the refectory level, deliberately keeping a distance between them.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked after a few moments of walking.
‘Rantha.’
‘Why are you the only one who would help me, Rantha?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps they enjoyed your humiliation. It is not often the Nobile see the Crown discomforted.’
‘And you?’
‘Your tia Marchella has helped me. I am returning the favour because yo
u are one of her familia.’
Tia Marchella Pellegrini? Trin’s interest sharpened. What had his loco tia done for this young woman? And why did she think she could speak so baldly to him of it?
He mustered some hauteur. ‘I am still the Principe’s son and I find your forthright speech insulting.’
‘Insulting? What would you do about it? What sway do you hold with the Principe on this day, Trin Pellegrini, that I should be frightened of it?’
He absorbed her blunt point as though swallowing a lump of Araldis ore.
Rantha stopped abruptly and turned to him. ‘You need not feel humiliated. You have been sent out to work—what is so bad in that? I would take your problems this instant to be rid of mine.’
Trin’s laugh was tinged with bitterness. ‘Your problems, little Cabone. How great could they be?’
In a deliberate gesture she flattened her fellala across her belly. The mound of a growing bambino was unmistakable. ‘My... man pledged to me that if we were intimate he would remain infertile. He lied and left me like this. Now I am unwed. When the Malocchis find out I will be without means.’
‘You will still have your gratis.’
‘There is no gratis for one such as I. The only person on Araldis who would look to my future is Marchella Pellegrini,’ she replied.
The bitterness and regret on Rantha Cabone’s face made Trin feel guilty. He pushed the feeling away. After all, it was not he who had fathered her child. ‘Perhaps you should not have gambled so?’ he said.
‘Yes, you are right. I should not have trusted a familia man.’
Thankfully the conversation faltered as they were forced to stoop under a bulge in the ceiling. In a bent-over fashion they continued on down an ill-formed narrow corridor.
At the end they found a small windowless room where the polymer-grown building had rooted itself to the side of Mount Pell.
Trin stared in disbelief. ‘I cannot be here.’
Rantha sniffed the air and looked around. ‘Industrial Services will activate your film. This one looks old. And your environmentals will need servicing. I can smell mould.’
Dark Space (Sentients of Orion) Page 5
