Auto-drive sent the TerV climbing out of the Studium surroundings to follow a well-dusted path downward. Within a short time Mira had a panoramic view up at the Pell range. The Menagerie was a patchwork of brilliant hues linking the Studium to the Museo under one transparent dome. In the afternoon light the dome glistened like an enormous soap bubble.
East along the range, familia crests glowed in their dome fields above the lavish gilt villas. Mira saw the Silvios’ Purrcock and Crossbow and the Elenas’ Black Rainbow where their domes intersected midway down Mount Pell with the base of the Pellegrinis’ Berga-Lion Carrying Serpent.
Far away in the small town of Loisa, the Fedor Bear, Feast and Pearl was reflected only in the small stained-glass entrance of the Villa Fedor—there were no protective domes on the plainlands.
When Mira’s great-grandfather had been Pilot First—the one who’d led the fleet from Latino Crux to the new world—the Fedors had lived on Mount Pell. That had changed when Mira’s parents had died. The Principe had seen to it.
Mira thought wistfully of her grandfather. The archivolos showed him dressed in a matt black fellala that made him seem extraordinarily tall and thin. His skin had been deathly pale from the time he had spent in vein-sink.
All the early Cipriano settlers had acquired milky space-farers’ skin by the time they had reached their destination, yet as they began melanin treatments their colouring turned to the lustrous crimson of the modern, acclimatised Araldisian.
Not everyone had fared well with the augmentations. Melanin allergy was not uncommon and sometimes developed after the boosters had accumulated in a person’s system. It had claimed Mira’s own father and when her mother died from birth complications Mira’s older sister Faja was left to bring up her younger sibling.
The Principe had kept them on a modest gratuity, enough to maintain a villa on Mount Pell. Later, after their parents’ deaths, he had the girls shifted to one of the plainland towns and had decreed that only one of them would be educated at the Studium. Faja had given up her own chance at that for Mira.
Faja, what will you think of Franco’s diktat? Mira wondered.
Near the foot of the mountain the TerV changed direction to circumvent the large, flat, functional catoplasma edifice of Carabinere Centrale, and descended further.
Dockside had its own dome, a modest crimson-tinged field that married into the floor beneath the purple and red rock mountains. The Fleet hangars adjoined the docking stations, sharing the same launch infrastructure but with separate entrance and exit portals for the maintenance staff and pilots. The Assailants were taken up into space on rotation twice a year to blow out the dust.
Mira raked through her memories of the hangar layout. During the first year of her Studium course she had concocted a research rationale to visit the Fleet—the history of Latino warship poetry or something similarly esoteric. To her disappointment the biozoon had been hidden from view by a large X-ray-resistant canopy. Her guide had explained that biozoons were always a target for bandits and that although Insignia had not been flown in twenty-odd years—since Mira’s father had died—the Principe kept his premier ship closely guarded.
Insignia had felt her presence, though. I sense one of you. It spoke in her mind.
Mira had clapped her hands to her head in shock.
‘Baronessa?’ Her guide had looked at her with concern.
‘A sudden headache, signor, nothing m-more,’ she had replied.
The murmurs had started soon after, like a small babbling stream of half-formed words. If she concentrated she could make sense of some but for the most part it was like a language she had learned once and then forgotten.
Mira believed it was Insignia. Yet other possibilities haunted her and there was no one to speak to about it, no one to reassure her.
Occasionally clear meaning would break through the babble, as it had this evening. Now all she longed for was to see Insignia without covers, to know that it was real, to understand the forgotten language, to know she was sane.
Mira’s ears popped and the TerV wallowed a little as she entered the Dockside preserv-field. Within a few seconds a Carabinere automon made contact.
She muted the shortcast transmission, ignoring it, and peered through the windows. There was no sign of the curious Carabinere, only the pandemonium of Dockside.
The launch and arrival docks were unsightly masterpieces of adaptation, reassembled from the gigantic vieships that had transported the larger part of the
Cipriano clan from Latino Crux to the new world of Araldis. Scattered randomly around them were the grown catoplasma buildings that were so common on Araldis. Only the Palazzo and the Studium were built with traditional stone materials, mined at great cost from the bluestone deposits on the far side of the range.
An AiV swooped low over Mira without apparent care for its safety and her TerV adopted a stop-start pattern to avoid colliding with the traffic that crowded the piazzas.
Mira stared out with interest. She did not share the Latino aristo abhorrence of other races and species. She had taken foreign genera subjects at the Studium, as was traditional for Fedor pilots, and in recent times her sister Faja had forsaken convention to give shelter to abandoned mixed-species bambini at the Villa Fedor.
Not that Mira or Faja’s egalitarian viewpoint altered outsiders’ perspectives: Araldisian aristos were arrogant and ignorant, or such was the common opinion.
Everyone, even the aristos themselves, knew that wealth drew others to Araldis—the lucre to be made on the small mineral-rich world on the far edge of the Orion system.
As Mira drew closer to the launch pads, the Fleet hangar became distinguishable from the rest by the clan crest on its vast roof near where it adjoined the main landing terminal. Inside the entrance was a manned checkpoint. Mira set the TerV to park itself in the nearest common bay and climbed out.
The acrid smell of solid-fuel waste that never quite escaped through the exhalation nanos of the preserv-field, choked her. It was hotter down here too, the climate control almost negligible compared to the manufactured fresh breezes of the Studium menagerie. Her lungs cried out for gentler, cooler air and she engaged the breather in her velum. Beneath the faint hiss of filtered air she listened for Insignia, but the ship had become strangely silent.
Another AiV swooped in low, this one bearing Carabinere symbols.
Mira hurried to the entrance. The door opened automatically into a long corridor. According to the signage, one way led to the public docks, the other to the Fleet facility. She turned in the direction of the Fleet and a soldier in Fleet colours stepped out from the security cubicle. His fellala was crumpled and loose as if he had been sleeping in it, and he wore no hood. ‘What is your business, signorina?’
‘Marchesa Chocetta Silvio. I-I have a pre-arranged research visit to the Fleet.’
‘Pardon, Marchesa. I will confirm this.’ He returned to the cubicle and scanned his deskfilm. When he could not find mention of any research visit he reached for the shortcast.
Mira quickly stepped around to the entrance of the cubicle and laid her gloved fingers on his wrist. ‘My Studium assignment is late and graduation is soon.’ He would not know it had been today, surely?
The soldier smiled at her. Mira read much into that smile—a tincture of boredom and the desire to brag to his amicos that he had escorted one of the famous Silvio Marchesas around the hangar.
‘I suppose we could call it an oversight, Marchesa, perhaps?’
She nodded slowly, making her eyes smile in return. ‘I will need to see the Insignia.’
He halted in the process of entering the release codes, ‘Aaah, then you are out of luck, Marchesa. Insignia was relocated but an hour ag—’
A siren blare drowned out the rest of the soldier’s words. With quick fingers he reversed the unlocking process and ran outside.
She followed him as far as a pair of dust-coated doors. Beyond them a large AiV was disgorging a troop of Carabinere. Th
e Fleet soldier stood to attention. Several Carabinere approached him and after a quick exchange he gesticulated back inside.
Me. They want me. Panicking, Mira hurried down the corridor towards the public docks but the corridor ended in opaque double doors that refused her entry. She pushed up her sleeve and tried her biometric stripe.
To her relief the doors slid open, letting her into another corridor which branched into a myriad smaller passageways. Each tributary harboured a dozen tube entrances. Lights flashed above each, announcing the tube’s number and status: arrived, holding, departing.
At the distant end, past several checkpoints, the central passageway opened into the general embarkation station.
Mira hesitated for a moment: the embarkation station would be crowded and better for concealment, but the Carabinere would expect her to go there. She imagined them clamouring down the corridor behind her at any moment, could almost hear their boots and the clatter of their rifles.
Mounting fear drove her into a branch picked at random, following the dilapidated, ribbed conduit to the closed hatch of a ship. There a wave of confusion broke over her. Insignia had been relocated. Where was she running to? Her mind pressed outward like a prisoner seeking escape.
Are you in distress?
‘Insignia?’
I do not know that one.
‘Who are you?’
I am Sal. The strength of your brain patterns roused me. I have not communed in a long while.
Mira’s breath caught in her throat. ‘A-a biozoon. Are you a hybrid?’
My current sentient companion is not an Intuit so enmeshment is not viable. I travel adequately as an AI, although he has shut down my feeders. My previous companion was not an Intuit either but he still allowed me to feed. I miss him.
‘But your feeders keep you .. .’
Sane? Is that what you think? ‘No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness... What is madness? To have erroneous perceptions and reason correctly from them... Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music... Sanity calms but—’
‘Sal?’
Who are you? I ordered no live feed for dinner.
‘But I thought you...’
I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!
Mira clasped her head to stop the nonsensical prattle. ‘I am in difficulty. May I come in?’
Her mind suddenly fell silent as if the voice had never existed. Only the pop of the pressure seal on the shiplock persuaded her that it had been real.
Lifting the hem of her fellala she stepped inside. A motion-sensor alarm immediately began to pulse. She hesitated—perhaps she should leave? But the hatch swung closed, sucking in stale station air with it.
Haaahaa... I have you now...
‘Sal?’ Did the ship mean her harm? Mira tried to remember what the tube’s status light had shown—holding, she thought.
She felt her way deeper inside, following the gradient downwards to what she supposed was the cargo hold. Her eyes adjusted slowly in the dim interior light and dizziness forced her to cling to the cooling metal railing. Blasts of air poured from the enormous air-conditioning vents above her.
She descended a narrow set of stairs. When she reached the bottom she stood among shadowy crates, wondering what to do next.
Sal?
The biozoon remained silent but she could feel its presence as if it were... sulking.
A whine of hydraulics started up and a lift cage clunked free from the ceiling. Mira ducked between the crates. Should she just declare her presence? Or would the ship’s captain hand her straight over to the Carabinere?
The lift cage dropped into its floor gig and a Balol with an erect skin frill slid open the cage door and stepped out. She arced torchlight around the hold.
‘Anything?’ The voice came from above, from the railings.
Mira glanced up and saw the outline of a humanesque male: Latino height, but slim.
The Balol made an irritated hissing sound. ‘Maybe... if you would turn on the floodlights, Jancz.’
Mira crept backwards on her hands and knees until she found the wall. Feeling her way along she eventually encountered a handle. She eased it up and pushed. The door sucked a little air as it opened.
The Balol swivelled the torch in her direction. ‘Did you hear something?’
Mira didn’t wait for the man’s reply. She slipped through the door and pressed it gently shut. She stood with her eyes closed for a moment and waited.
When she opened them she saw that this section was lit by the same lo-fluorescent nightlights as the rest of the hold. But rather than containing crates it was stacked high with odd round objects, each one at least half her size and crusted with a sticky yellow substance. The smell coming from them was a sweet, pungent odour of decay that made her eyes water. The objects seemed to be exuding heat, and through her tear-stung eyes she thought she could see that they moved a little. There was something about them... a vague recognition that stirred in her memory—something she had learned about at the Studium, perhaps?
The door behind her swung inward, knocking her to the floor, and a light shone into her face, leaving her blind to whoever wielded it.
‘Araldisian,’ said the Balol in a thick voice.
Another beam of light converged with the first,
causing Mira to shield her eyes against the amplified glare.
‘Not just an Araldisian, like. Brush off your manners—we have royalty aboard.’
SOLE
manifestspace
little creature/wrestle wrestle
thought thought/wrestle/want want
m’need’m change
make’m better?
fake’m worse?
find’m secrets
TEKTON
That evening Tekton tucked into fresh pond liver and sipped a flat Lostolian wine provided by the pseudo-world’s auto-servery, while his fact-aide reviewed the list of Sole’s apprentices and their projects.
The implanted memory organiser had developed an annoying rasp on the trip to Belle-Monde, suggesting that it needed a service. He logged it in for maintenance through his new moud and requested a replacement. The AI told him they were in a gromedical replacement phase and it would take several weeks.
Tekton sighed and set his teeth to tolerate the grating voice.
‘Prior to your arrival Sole Entity had eight apprentices. Of that number only five are humanesque.’
‘Who are the humanesques?’
‘Second Godhead Ra of Architects, First Godhead Lawmon Jise, First Godhead Dieter Miranda Seeward, First Godhead Dieter Javid Jivviddat and First Godhead Geneer Labile Conit.’
Ra? How has my arrogant-cock cousin already made second? What deviousness has he wrought to do so? ‘And where can Ra archi-Tect and the other apprentices be found now?’
‘I believe the humanesques are all in the ménage lounge situated on Circle Five,’ said the moud.
Tekton told the wallmap to summon a taxi and sought Ra out.
* * *
The ménage lounge was somewhat of a surprise: a circular golden cage with plush perch seats on different levels and exotic plants that snapped and undulated at each other behind glass. Not at all the normal OLOSS conservatism. A large filmdis on the ceiling ran OLOSS news updates and an uuli slithered to and fro over a hum, creating discordant harmonics.
Ra sat at a table alone, wearing an opaque mask across his eyes and circling his drink around an image cube.
Tekton approached him directly, allowing his robe to fall open in greeting. ‘Cousin, how well do you fare?’
Tekton’s cousin was slim, hairless and blessed with the fine, tight skin of the purest Lostol blood. Time at Belle-Monde, though, had already caused damage
, and Ra’s face and neck had developed tiny fissures like those in drought-cracked earth.
‘Better than you, Tekton—having already begun my apprenticeship.’ Ra didn’t bother to remove the mask to make eye contact, nor did he open his robe to return Tekton’s customary respect.
Tekton recorded his rude behaviour with his fact-aide. The Lostol Studium Convocation took a dim view of lack of respect and Ra’s minor breach of protocol might prove to be a useful wedge at some point.
To push his point Tekton removed his own robe altogether and sat naked before his cousin, ignoring the glances from the humanesques at the other tables.
‘Soon to be remedied, cousin Ra. I would not wish to diminish your success by beginning with you. My status will be equal to yours soon enough.’
‘Your delusions are surpassed only by the narrow-mindedness of your designs, Tekton. You will stew in your own goslee livers. Already, as a reward for being apprenticed, I have been given the key to variable sight,’ said Ra. ‘The benefits to my design facility are immeasurable.’
‘Variable sight?’
Ra ceased toying with his drink and removed his mask. ‘I can see the full electromagnetic spectrum.’
Tekton’s long intestines tightened, not only at the strange appearance of his cousin’s new eyes but also at the likely ramifications of such a gift on his design imagination. ‘Congratulations, Ra. What... cleverness has brought you such a reward?’
Ra touched the spinning image cube in front of him and activated it.
Tekton watched the model flower into a replica of a section of space. Fiery anti-gravity reactions formed in the shape of a rectangle.
‘A Neo-Brutalist Aedicule.’ Ra smiled with satisfaction.
The Sentients of Orion Page 4
