Utter silence fell as Franco Pellegrini, dressed in sweeping olive-velvet Studium regalia, strode to the centre of the dais. The silk inserts of his sleeves ruffled down past his waist in a dramatic display of his status. Unable to walk on the ludicrously high platform of her dress shoes, his wife Jilda was chair-lifted to the side of the stage. Only the toes of her footwear showed past her hemline.
Though he was in later middle age, Franco retained all the physical qualities of a younger Latino male. His thickset body and heavy patrician features hinted at an irrepressible virility. Mira thought he looked more determined and assured than his son. He had certainly been a forceful leader—as had his ancestors—though she had never seen him in true performance mode before. She had not been invited to Franco and Jilda’s court for reasons of politics. When the Pellegrini familia left Latino Crux they had invited only those of their clan who supported the Machiavelli politic. Yet the Insignia Pilot familia that they so desperately needed to fly their ship were of the Castiglioni ideal. The Pellegrinis had ever since played a double-edged game of inclusion and exclusion with the Fedors. Fedors were necessary to them but they would never be given a chance to influence the court.
Mira’s sorella, Faja, had warned her of this when she had been preparing to attend the Studium. ‘And it is just as well, Mira,’ she said. ‘Court is a place for rapists and societal cannibals.’
At the time Mira had shrugged off Faja’s words as theatrical but her later acquaintance with the Silvios had added an uncomfortable flavour of meaning to them.
As Franco began to announce the list of successful baccalaureates, Mira’s stomach fluttered. Her feminine degree in Latino Studies, Orion Literature and Genera would be among them. What no one knew about, though, was the knowledge that she had carefully—secretly—acquired about the designs and functional procedures of air and space vehicles. The long nights of complete absorption learning about flight: a labour of love in voluntary preparation for the thing that she so desired.
‘Pilot First’ was a discrete decoration that would be bestowed at the end of the ceremony. Then she would be properly honoured. Pilot First would confer on her a vaunted, influential position and Cochetta Silvio and her brittle friends would dare not speak aloud their demeaning thoughts of her again.
Mira left her place and curtsied before the Principe to receive her Literature laurel, her expectation of what would come next leaving her deaf to the perfunctory applause of the audience.
Soon. Soon.
The Principe cleared his throat when he had finished. ‘Our history on Araldis is still only fleeting, a little over two hundred years, and in that time there have been only three pilots of Inborn Talent able to fly Insignia,’ he said.
Mira’s heartbeat quickened.
‘Each of those pilots was a descendant of the Fedor
Barony as has been tradition from the very early days on the planets of Latino Crux. The Fedors were chosen for union by the biozoons after the First Exchange, an honour to be preserved for as long as their line existed. Accordingly they were bestowed with the Inborn gene.
‘Today is an auspicious moment in our history. Today the honour of Insignia Pilot will be transferred to a new line, as the Fedor birthright has come to an end with the Inborn gene falling to a woman. Throughout history, Orion’s finest geneticists have not been able to unlock the biozoons’ secret—but now there is a way: a way that will allow us to bring new blood to this remarkable skill. In preparation for this, Trinder Pellegrini will be our Insignia Pilot designate. Trinder, mio figlio, step forward to receive your honour.’
No! Was it her or Insignia who cried out in her mind? In the moment of uncertain silence before the applause, Mira Fedor lost her self-possession. She stumbled down from the dais and through the ante-room in front of the many eyes that narrowed in amusement and curiosity.
Her instinct to flee the Studium steered her through the Grandioso Foyer and out onto the mosaiced promenade. As she reached the edges of the Studium menagerie she tore the tear-wet velum from her face. A flock of purrcocks ca-cawed and scattered as she sank to the mirrored path.
Sinners! Insignia is mine by birthright! Trinder Pellegrini cannot fly her. How can they think of attempting transference of my Inborn gene? What will happen to me if they do?
She knew—and shirked from the thought. Insanity.
Clipped footsteps on the tiles. Mira stiffened. Only the Cavaliere walked in such a fashion.
‘Baronessa? May I be of assistance?’ The tight-lipped Cavaliere bowed politely in front of her.
‘I feel a little unwell. The importance of the day, you understand.’
He nodded, his face masked in formality. ‘The Principe has asked that you attend him in the guest chamber of the Palazzo Pellegrini.’
Mira trembled. ‘Of course, but I must change. The weight of these robes has left me a little faint.’
‘In that case we shall accompany you.’ He clicked his heels together.
Mira stood, resealing her velum, darkening the filter, cutting off any sense of familiarity between them. ‘I do not need an escort. I am familiar with the whereabouts of the Principe’s guest chambers.’
The Cavaliere’s lips tightened. ‘Then we will order an AiV for you and escort you there. It will await you outside the Grandioso Foyer.’
‘As you wish.’ She tilted her head and walked stiffly back to the Studium.
* * *
Once inside, Mira lifted the burdensome folds of her ceremonial robe and staggered up the staircase to her room. Fear and compulsion lent strength to her shaking legs.
She flung the doors open and found an older Galiotto servant folding her clothes into neat piles. Mira had seen her before, in the refectory and turning out the rooms, commanding the younger ones with a single gesture or curt word.
‘What... are... you... doing?’ she panted.
The servant curtsied. It was the heavy, slow movement of an older woman with weary joints. ‘I have been instructed to pack your clothes, Baronessa,’ she said, returning to her task.
‘To go where?’ demanded Mira in a shrill voice.
‘I do not know, Baronessa. The concierge will make those arrangements.’
Mira stared at the Nobile servant, collecting herself. ‘Of course, forgive me. It is just that you startled me. Now I must change. Give me a travelling robe and I will dress.’
The Galiotto complied, selecting an ochre fellala and exterior-rated velum from the pile.
Mira took them and stepped behind her screen. She slipped off her beaded ceremonial robe and slippers and exchanged them for the plain fellala, coolant stockings and terrain boots.
‘Are you planning to go outside, Baronessa Fedor?’
Mira stepped around the edge of the screen, trying to assemble her frayed thoughts. Should she be evasive, or should she simply ignore the question? Would the Galiotto alert the Cavaliere?
But the servant merely held out her over-cloak. ‘You would not do well without this.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mira.
The Galiotto still did not look at her. ‘What the Principe has done this day is not right, Baronessa. Fedors are blessed with the Talent. That is the way it has always been,’ she whispered. ‘Some things should not change.’
Mira grasped the woman’s wrist. ‘You have heard?’
The servant swayed a little. ‘My daughter Tina is bonded to the Principessa. I knew... many of us knew before this.’ She waved her hands at the floor to signify the graduation ceremony below.
Mira’s thoughts flew to the young Principe. How long had Trinder Pellegrini known she would not get her entitlement? Had he known of this when he had taken her to the Tourmaline Islands? Had he deliberately courted her without a chaperone and then abandoned her?
‘Baronessa?’ The old Galiotto drew her attention to the shortcast. The screen was signalling a waiting audio call.
Mira was caught in a wave of desperation. She shook the woman’s arm. ‘What is your
name?’
‘Alba.’
‘Alba. How do the lesser Nobile travel up and down the mountain?’
The woman took a slow breath as if she needed time to answer. She lifted her face to Mira. Cataracts had dulled the vibrancy of her dark eyes. That she had not seen fit to have them treated was, perhaps, heir badge of honour. Mira knew that many of the older familia were inclined to such habits, resisting the newer technologies.
Not so the Principe.
Fresh fear spurted through Mira’s veins. If the Cavaliere found her, she would be trapped, and though a small part of her mind struggled to be rational—the Principe may simply want to offer me handsome recompense—her stronger instincts could accept only one assumption: gene transference.
‘Please,’ she implored. ‘The ‘cast... it is the Cavaliere. They have an escort for me.’
Alba unwound the high neck of her fellala. Her skin was soft and puckered like worn suede. Mira forced herself not to avert her gaze; she had never seen old skin before. Nor had she seen anything like the myriad of finely etched lines on the woman’s breasts. They might have been fine age wrinkles save for their violet hue and intricate patterning.
Alba Galiotto traced some of them with a blunt finger.
‘Women are forbidden to mark their bodies,’ said Mira automatically.
‘Baronessa, when you see these marks again you will understand why I choose to help you.’ Resting in the crease of her breast was a biometric stripe—her badge of trusted seniority. She peeled it from her skin without flinching at the pain and handed it to Mira. ‘This will enable any general transport. Take any one from the loading bay behind the cucina.’ She placed a small towel over her bleeding skin and deftly rewound her robe to keep it tightly in place.
Mira slipped the stripe onto her arm under her sleeve. It burrowed into the crook of her elbow with a slight sting. ‘They’ll know you helped me.’
Alba shook her head. ‘Even the Principe would not dare disrobe me in a search. There are some compensations for age, Baronessa.’ She gave a hollow laugh and returned to her folding.
Mira stood for a moment, uncertain.
‘You should go now. The Cavaliere are not patient,’ said Alba gently, as if prompting a ragazza.
‘Blessings, Alba.’
‘Blessings, speranza.’’
* * *
In her travelling fellala and light boots, Mira was able to lift her knees to run. She flew along the floor of the lengthy portico, past the aristos’ chambers and the helicoidal staircase, to the far end of the building. The servant’s stairs were narrow. Food spills crusted the rough hessian stair-matting and the stairwell smelt of rancid cooking oils. The Cipriano crest, inlaid to the wall, had been spattered with red wine. No one had been reverent enough to wipe it clean.
At another time this lack of respect might have surprised Mira but the lesser Nobile seemed well contented enough. So might she have wondered at Alba Gallioto’s actions and the strange vivid markings on the woman’s breast but instead her mind was locked into two tunnels of need—escape and Insignia.
By the time she had reached the ground floor and located the door to the cucina... the two desires had coalesced into one.
SOLE
manifestspace
yearn/seek seek amid/among light b’long farway
look’m secrets
cross’m void/
find/amid amid liquid swirl halo dust
little creatures/many many
how’m function??
TEKTON
Belle-Monde was named in the inimitable vein of sarcasm that marked the humanesque species apart from others. Far from being a beautiful world, it resembled a corroded iron ball.
Tekton was not accustomed to such a solemn vista. Seen from space, his home planet Lostol was a twirling topaz with pristine polar ice at either end like virgins’ caps. A jewel suspended in space, elegantly looping a Type B star.
Belle-Monde’s closest star was Mintaka, the last notch in Orion’s Belt. Tekton’s trip there had been by resonance shift to the Bellatrix system, then on to Alnitak and Mintaka, followed by dreary sub-shift propulsion to Belle-Monde.
It had given him plenty of time to absorb all available information on the discovery of Sole Entity and the subsequent placement of the pseudo-world Belle-Monde in its vicinity. The screeds of speculation and the smaller amount of fact led him one conclusion.
The Entity had wanted to be discovered.
Why, after all this time?
It was a question he pondered over as a distraction from the discomforts of space travel. Already his delicate skin was suffering from dehydration and he longed to return to Lostol for complete skin rehabilitation.
Instead he’d had to put up with an inferior exported light therapy that left him feeling itchy and overly taut.
It was not a way to be feeling as he stood for candidature. As a wealthy archi-Tect in his own right, he could afford more luxurious travel but the controlling body of this project, The Orion League of Sentient Species—OLOSS—insisted that all candidates travelled on their ships.
So typical of bureaucrats.
Yet Tekton knew he shouldn’t really complain. OLOSS were picking up the tab for his travel, using taxes collected for and siphoned into the ‘betterment of sentient species’ fund.
‘Candidate Second Godhead Tekton, your Belle-Monde moud is trying to contact you.’
Tekton dragged his gaze from the viewing port. A little thrill ran through him at hearing his potential new title. Godhead to a God.
The Newland’s Lostolian purser stood diffidently at his shoulder, eyes watering. He had been Tekton’s only comfort on this last leg of his trip, understanding mannered deference and Tekton’s dietary preferences.
‘Thank you. I will tell my fact-aide to enable my in-com.’
The purser hovered. ‘May I say on behalf of all Lostolians, candidate, that we support your favour with the Entity. We wish one of our own to be the first to evolve. We wish you to represent our race and design beautiful things in our name.’
Tekton nodded and graciously opened his robe so that the purser could gaze upon his naked body—a show of gratitude and good faith.
The purser devoured the sight. ‘Should you ever need me, I am at your service. I shall log my name and credentials with your moud.’
‘No need—the memory of your assistance will stay with me long,’ said Tekton, closing his robe with practised ceremony. But, of course, by the time he turned back to the port he’d forgotten the purser entirely.
‘Welcome to Belle-Monde, candidate Godhead. Your mind reconfiguration is scheduled for tomorrow. Is there anything you require?’ The new moud entered his mind in a dignified if stilted tone.
‘I’m not sure,’ Tekton replied. According to the OLOSS fact sheet, the compulsory mind alteration provided the only way for Sole Entity to communicate directly with humans. The specifics of the process varied from sentient to sentient and were a matters of much debate. ‘First, I shall need an escort to my quarters. Then I wish to review the current lists of other tyros and their projects. I’d also like you to replicate my dietary needs.’ Tekton directed his fact-aide to download the ingredients and method of his preferred Lostolian dishes. ‘I should like properly prepared Carminga livers for my evening meal.’
‘Yes, candidate Godhead. A servant will pick you up. I have your disembarkation allotment.’
Tekton gave a delicate, amused snort at such a crude method of organisation. He would have things to get used to. The pseudo-world had been hastily refurbished from OLOSS monies and, like their chosen methods of transport, was said to be quite primitive in its amenities.
He deduced from his pre-orientation that there was no first-class or privileged anything. Everyone received equal material status on the basis that everyone was there for the same reason—that they might gain enlightenment. Glory of candidature was supposed to be reward enough. Knowledge represented a triumph over
materialism.
Quaint.
On Tekton’s world prestige was valued. Lostolians believed that it brought out the best in the Lostolian mind. Power and status allowed Tekton the freedom to imagine anything. He was not used to being limited by mean practicalities. Indeed, he had been involved in the design of some of his world’s most significant constructions: the splendid bridges of the Latour moons, the Great Diorama Well of Mapoor, the Floating Palaces of the Armina-Pulchra Raj.
Yet this new discovery, Sole Entity, this being of limitless intellect—if intellect was a term you could even attribute to it—had drawn Tekton as surely as the Magnets of Need drew asteroids away from the planet Misako.
The attraction grew stronger when he heard that his cousin Ra had already been selected for this great honour.
Although Ra was behind Tekton in seniority at the Tadao Ando Studium, the younger man’s aesthetic brilliance had made him Lostol’s first candidate.
Tekton hid his outrage at being overlooked and set about seeking justice by wooing the Chancellor of Tadao Ando’s unappealing daughter.
Carnal pleasures still amused Tekton where most of his colleagues appeared to have long forsaken physical intimacy for other things. Tekton believed that physicality gave a temporal aspect to his designs that the pure aesthetes like Ra had discarded. In fact, Tekton’s students copied his style and had dubbed it ‘Mortalis’. They carried on an unhealthy rivalry with Ra’s aesthetes.
After some excruciatingly unpleasant lovemaking sessions with Doris Mulek, the Chancellor’s puffy offspring, Tekton garnered her support for his petition. He was duly summoned before an OLOSS committee for an interview and examined to see if his body was healthy enough to withstand the mind-reconfiguration process.
Within a week of the interviews he was on his way to Belle-Monde.
And now he was there.
Carrying only a small holdall of skin lotions, Tekton transferred into one of the fat little transport ticks sucking the side of the sub-light vessel. The sturdy craft were the favoured method to courier passengers and cargo from ship to world.
The Sentients of Orion Page 2
