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 you 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.’
A buckled deskfilm hung over a large lump of ore on a desk littered with shrivelled data-sponges. A single chair and some uneven wall shelving comprised the only other furniture.
Rantha gave him a single direct look. ‘I apologise for my... manner. I am easily angered these days.’ She turned and left.
Trin slumped into the chair. What to do now? His welling self-pity was tempered by annoyance. Jus Malocchi will pay for this. And so will Franco.
He reached for the deskfilm. He laid it flat and stabbed his finger at the thin, scratched screen. It switched itself on and tried to straighten, flickering for a while before the picture resolved. He used the administration menu to find the climate controls, which he boosted.
Dust stirred all around him and the enviromentals rattled into life trying to filter it. Aggravated by the clutter on the desk, Trin collected the sponges and shoved them onto the sagging shelves. The force of his action knocked other precarious piles to the floor.
In the space behind them Trin glimpsed a bubble—a result of the catoplasma malformations. As a ragazzo he had burst similar bubbles in the AiV hangars at the Palazzo. He lifted the shelving aside to have a better look and on impulse he jabbed a finger into it. The polymer coating punctured as he expected, but then the wall around it crumbled. Immediately he felt a draught of hot outside air.
Trin scrambled back to the deskfilm to boost the climate controls to cover the temperature change and quickly locked the door. Then he returned to the hole and carefully felt around the inside. The crumbling of the wall appeared to have left a gap between rock and building.
How far along does it go?
He slipped his head through the hole. In one direction was solid seam. The other way was a crevice with hot daylight flooding down it. He guessed it might come out near the upper AiV pads.
Widening the hole enough for his body, Trin squeezed through and flattened himself against the rock. It was hot to touch and the space was only barely wide enough. He edged along the distance towards the light and peered out. Sure enough, across a small expanse of rock he located the AiV pads. The discovery both pleased and displeased him. The structural fault might prove useful—perhaps he could come and go from the building without being observed—yet it also seemed to emphasise the disrespect with which he was being treated.
Trin returned to the office and began looking for things to block the gap up. Pushing the shelving back into place, he replaced the stacks of sponges and sat down at his desk. He flicked idly through the film menu, wondering what to do. Malocchi had given him no tasks.
He reached for a random data-sponge and laid it against the deskfilm. It displayed details of familia births, deaths and marriages.
Trin’s irritation evaporated into curiosity. First, he searched the statistics for his immediate family, his cousins Josef, Pesca, Antonia, Juni, Deboraah, Aldo. Then he moved on to Franco’s generation: tia Marchella, tio Kotta, tia Mari. Slutty tia Ghia, he realised, had been lying about her age. And tio Kotta’s first wife had been a ginko. The records showed that the marriage had been annulled. And hushed up! His curiosity flared into a tiny surge of excitement. He glanced at the shelves. Perhaps the sponges held information that would keep him amused for a time...
Attaching a number of them to the film, Trin settled deeper into his chair and read until hunger drove him out.
* * *
Like Malocchi’s office, one wall of the Centrale refectory was a window given over to the panorama of the mining plains. Today, though, Pellegrini A and B mines were invisible because of a gargantuan wall of dust. Only the silver-snake conveyors winding their way into the storm, like tributaries to a larger stream, gave any indication of the mines’ positions.
Trin stood and watched, relieved to be safely on Mount Pell. Only once had he been
caught in a dust storm, when he had flown out to meet with a bravura dealer. Even now he could feel the panic of choking.
‘Don Pellegrini?’ The ragazza serving behind the food-warmer interrupted his thoughts. ‘Pardon, but you must wait in line to be served.’
Embarrassed and angry, Trin stepped back to the end of the queue. When his turn arrived he held out his plate the way the others had.
She piled it inelegantly with food. ‘Signor Malocchi has asked me to inform you that your food costs will be deducted from your first pay.’
Trin kept his expression carefully neutral. The ragazza was Scali or Cabone. Of all the Nobile they were the familia that he valued most—the ones he had played with from childhood. They weren’t obsequious like the Galiottos or arrogant and obsessive like the Malocchis and the Montfortes. This situation was as uncomfortable for her as it was for him.
Ignoring the curious looks of the other diners, he took his food to a corner seat and ate without speaking to a soul. As he sipped his mocha, waiting for its essences to fortify his poise, he became aware of another presence.
Rantha.
She stood uncertainly before him. He glanced across to the next table and noticed that the women from her office had spread their frittata plates out so that there was no place for her.
Trin had no wish to ally himself with this angry, pregnant Nobile but she seemed as friendless as he—and, he reminded himself, she had helped him. He needed allies here, not enemies. Rantha worked in a section that saw and heard most things.
He nodded to the empty chair opposite and forced some unfelt charm into his smile.
‘Grazi,’ she whispered as she sank into the chair.
* * *
Over the next day Trin familiarised himself with the extent of the recorded data. He discovered that the cross-reference organics were inadequate and unable to generate a report or factfilm.
He called Rantha.
‘Scalis handle that. I’ll route you through to one of them,’ she said.
‘Fine.’ Then, after a moment, he added: ‘Are you well?’ On his damaged deskfilm her crimson skin looked oily and peculiarly sallow.
‘Sick,’ she whispered. ‘Ask for Joe Scali. He is helpful and... nice.’
Trin checked the Industrial Services directory. A surprised voice in IS told him that Joe Scali would be there within a short time, and, scuzzi, but could he give them directions?
Joe Scali arrived juggling diagnostic sticks and a frothy mocha in a tall mug. He had thick dark hair and a well-muscled physique that looked more suited to troubleshooting conveyor-belt automats on the plains than the delicacies of programming organic trees.
Scali wrinkled his nose with distaste as he looked around. ‘I did not know there was an... office here.’
Trin grimaced. ‘You Scalis do not get out enough.’
‘Si. And I detest that.’ The young man gave a heartfelt sigh.
It made Trin curious. ‘Why not reassign, then?’
‘I was with Carabinere out in Ipo. Got in a disagreement with the Cavaliere—a Montforte.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Next thing I was back here.’
Trin nodded. ‘Malocchis and Montfortes...’ He held up crossed fingers.
‘Thicker than my mama’s cannelloni.’ The Scali eyed him keenly. ‘I am guessing that you might have suffered from a similar problem. Why else would the Principe’s son be confined in a... cave?’
‘Because I killed an uuli.’ The words were out before he realised. And flirted with my papa’s woman.
Scali whistled and rolled his eyes again. ‘Any reason?’
‘An accident that I have no wish to speak of... Now, I need a tree that will cross-check all these...’
‘I am Josef.’
‘Well, Josef, can you do. this?’ Trin pointed to lists on the menu.
Scali’s eyes opened wide in astonishment when he saw the lines that Trin was tracing. ‘What do you want all that for?’
Trin waved his hands at the piles of data on the shelves. ‘These records are useless for anything. I wish to change that. Can you do it, Nobile?’ he cajoled.
Scali sipped his mocha. ‘Si. Perhaps.’
‘Rantha Cabone tells me that you are the best in your section.’
‘Rantha, eh?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Man-hater, that one.’
‘No.’ Trin surprised himself with his mild defence of her. ‘She thinks you are... how did she put it... nice.’
Scali cleared his throat with embarrassment and picked up his empty mug. ‘I will give this my priority, Don Pellegrini, but I cannot be sure of the outcome.’
Trin nodded his understanding. The Ciprianos had brought only rudimentary processing organisms with them to Araldis. They should have been superseded, so the Studium interactives informed him, but the great cost of starting a new society on a brand new world had demanded that the funds be syphoned elsewhere.
Far-cast communications were worst affected by preserving the primitive system. Far-news was always delayed and scant. Most of Araldis hadn’t even heard about the Stain Wars until the forces concerned had been skirmishing for half an Araldis year.
The Scali familia showed the most aptitude for managing the crude biosystem but even they were often lost when it came to growing new applications.
Trin slid his hand from his pocket and opened it. Multicoloured bravura grains rolled around his palm. ‘Could you could keep it quiet from Signor Malocchi?’
Scali glanced nervously around the office as if Jus Malocchi might jump out from behind something. ‘Is it as good as they say?’ he whispered.
‘Better.’
A light sweat broke put on the technician’s upper lip. ‘As you wish, Don. But should anyone ask me, I will tell them that you said Malocchi ordered the new programme, eh?’
‘Call me Trinder.’ Trin pinched a couple of precious grains into Scali’s mocha.
After two sips the swelling between Scali’s legs was tenting his fellalo.
Trin and Scali burst out laughing.
TEKTON
Tekton’s design for Sole flowered in his free-mind. The trouble was, his logic-mind regularly reminded him, that he had the idea but not the material with which to construct it.
So Tekton buried himself in study. Somewhere there had to be a metal that rippled like liquid in its solid state. Yet it seemed that everywhere he searched Ra had been before him—consuming information at a shocking rate. There were traces of him on the Vreal Studium’s geological data files: his signature in the mineral catalogues sign-on, his credit on the OLOSS assay register.
Ra had become a foregoing malignant ghost.
Was his cousin trying to second-guess him? Or were their ideas uncannily taking them to the same places?
Tekton’s free-mind liked to think it was the former, indicating that, perhaps, Ra might feel somewhat threatened by Tekton, despite his apparent arrogance.
Tekton’s logic-mind, however, told him that this notion was based purely on ego and that evidence suggested that Ra merely had an inquiring mind and a strong work ethic. And if knowledge was power—Ra was growing more powerful. So be warned!
To distract himself from what, his logic-mind also hastened to tell him, was creeping paranoia, he took up perving.
It was easy enough to justify his actions as empirical observation. However, justification had become a sort of moot point now that his mind had been re-formed. His internal life had become all about choice, in which he could as easily turn off recrimination and doubt as peel a Balol ugli-peach.
And Tekton loved it.
He set about wooing Dieter Miranda with the sole (he excused himself the pun) ambition of gaining a closer inspection of her thighs.
On their first date he took her for a shuttle ride around Belle-Monde. As the creaking tug wallowed its way around the pseudo-world close to Sole-space. Tekton wondered what Sole was thinking, or if, indeed, Sole thought at all. When you knew almost everything, what would there be left to wonder about?
>
To his disappointment, Miranda was wrapped in a voluminous silvery garment that covered most of her flesh. Tekton mind-instructed his moud to alter the enviro setting to ‘uncomfortably warm’. He then apologised for it, grumbling excuses about the pseudo-world’s poor maintenance.
By the time the heat began to make him feel a little light-headed, however, there was little show of Dieter Miranda’s flesh.
‘How marvellous this feels, Tekton—I’ve been cold ever since I got to this damn place. Might even sweat off a few joules. Or is that jowls?’ She laughed heartily. The act of mirth filled her false cheeks with air and wobbled them.
The frisson of delight Tekton experienced nearly equalled that of the night when he had witnessed her ‘thighs’ in action (though he had taken to keeping his robe tightened in company, so as not to alert his colleagues to his feelings). He felt so gratified by her display that he picked the scorched lobster for lunch and ordered up a bottle of Lostol vintage spritzer.
Miranda’s eyes sparkled at the extravagant fare. ‘You do know how to treat a girl. Now Tekton, tell me all about you—and about that rather deliciously brooding cousin of yours. We’re dying to know.’
She flirted and bantered as she polished off the best part of his month’s complimentary food allowance.
‘And what of your affairs, Miranda? Have you sorted out your differences with Lawmon Jise?’
She sniffed, giving her best impression of grievance. ‘The man is impossible—such a pedant. Not a person to trust either, Tekton. Why, I heard he was offering information on your project—for a price. Of course I declined the knowledge. This is not a competition between us, is it, Tekton? We are more a family. A brilliant, clever family, of course.’
The Sentients of Orion Page 6
