He drifted into gloomy thoughts and, eventually, sleep.
Some time later Autopilot woke him from his wine-drowse, bleating for landing instructions. Ignoring all normal air protocols Trin sent the AiV into a spiralling descent into the darkened, narrow viuzza in front of the local Carabinere building. His escort landed in a more orderly fashion in the well-lit AiV bay at the side.
The dust-dimmed solar ground lights revealed a building similar to the flat-roofed elliptical familia offices in Dockside. It was surrounded by equally plain villettes of the Nobile, and beyond them Trin caught a glimpse of the simple, mud-and-cellulose casas of the non-familia and ginko workers.
In the short walk up the path to the Carabinere building, the searing wind caught in his throat like hot smoke and dried the perspiration from his face before he felt it grow damp. He sealed the hood of his fellalo against it. Loisa had no protective bubble like Dockside or Pell. He had heard that the building environmentals battled to keep structures cool enough for comfort. Death from dehydration was common enough among the miners.
Urgency sent Trin banging on the door. How foolish to come in unexpectedly at night: even with his fellalo sealed he could perish out here in this hotwind. Will the Palazzo Cavaliere help me? What had Franco instructed them to do? Surely he did not wish his son dead?
A shadowy movement inside caught his eye. Was someone in there? He banged again, calling out, but the movement was not repeated. It was as if he had imagined it.
In the clutch of panic, Trin retraced his steps to the AiV and set the cabin temperature to its coolest. He would be comfortable, and he would not give the Palazzo Cavaliere the satisfaction of asking for their help.
He lit the last of his hemp and inhaled with deliberate determination. When the smoke had calmed his fears he laid back the seat and slept.
* * *
‘Pellegrini?’ A bull-necked Carabinere in an immaculate white-dress fellalo roused Trin from a cramped slumber. Light had barely reached far enough to lend colour to the day but already Trin could feel the rise in the air temperature. He shifted and unwound his legs, realising that the grinding sound in his dreams was the straining AiV engine. The air blowing on his face now was barely cool.
‘Pellegrini?’ The Carabinere’s voice again—muffled through the cabinplex.
Trin slipped back his hood and swept the pile of hemp ash from his clothes, embarrassed at the state of his dress. He squeezed the ‘kill’ command on the exhausted engine and opened the cabin.
‘Don Pellegrini,’ Trin replied.
‘I am Capitano Christian Montforte.’ The man’s voice was clipped with disapproval and he didn’t extend his hand. He waved his pouchfilm before Trin’s face. ‘Jus Malocchi says you are to be kept occupied but are unused to work. How in Crux will that be of use to me here?’
Trin glanced towards the building. ‘Do you not keep your station manned, Capitano? I could not raise a soul last evening.’
‘It is manned, Don Pellegrini. But only for those with real emergencies.’
Trin swallowed down a quick rise of anger. ‘My reticule is in the back,’ he said.
‘Then I suggest you bring it with you.’ Montforte turned on his heel and walked away.
Trin wavered between belligerence and the knowledge that it would gain him nothing. The heat was already suffocating and he badly needed to bathe, so he dragged his reticule from behind the pilot seat and followed Montforte inside to a catoplasma-grey room that was—by the look of the dusty floor and the red trails of excreta—only rarely cleaned.
They both unsealed their hoods.
The Capitano wore his hair short and his face clean. His cheeks were full-fleshed like those of a man who enjoyed his food. ‘We have no Galiottos here. Our cleaning nanos are replaced once a year and when they fail we must wait for the next batch,’ he said.
Trin lifted his gaze to the walls and ceiling and the cracks in the internal joins. The quality catoplasma, he supposed, had probably gone to the local Duca and his chambers.
‘This is your office. I am in there.’ Montforte pointed to a door on the other side of the room. Then he slid aside a partition next to the shortcast unit. Behind it was a tiny space with a bed and pinched-out shelves set into a rounded alcove. A small cooking unit stood tucked into another corner, and the smell of engine oils drifted through the air vents from the services yard behind. ‘You will live here.’
Trin hid his shock. How could he live in such a place? ‘What is my occupation?’
Christian smiled in a way that made his face puff
out. ‘You are my aide. This can be interpreted in any way I choose.’
Trin’s stomach began to ache, whether from hunger or displeasure he could not tell. ‘When will they bring my food? I have had no breakfast.’
Christian folded his arms over his taut rounded stomach. ‘No one will bring you food here, Pellegrini. You must become accustomed to different ways. The food you will procure for yourself from the market.’
‘Procure? With the ‘esques and the ginkos?’
‘Si. I will advance you some lucre to purchase what you need. It would not do for Franco’s only son to starve.’
‘But it is reasonable for him to perish in the hot nightwinds?’ Trin retorted.
Montforte affected a carefully puzzled look, the thick flesh of his forehead folding into deep creases. ‘You speak in riddles, young Don. Now, you should bathe and change. Then you will proceed to Villa Fedor and interview the Baronessa Faja. Her sorella, Baronessa Mira, is to be detained by us at the earliest possible moment.’
Trin stared aghast at the Capitano. Surely Montforte knew of the circumstances—the reason—behind Mira’s disappearance.
‘Would another be more suited for such a task? I am—as Signor Malocchi has stated—uninitiated in the manner of Carabinere work,’ said Trin.
‘Two of my most experienced men will accompany you. They will assist with any difficulty you may have.’
You mean spy on me, you cazzone bastard.
‘When you have bathed and changed, present yourself to the depot next door.’ Montforte nodded and disappeared into his office, closing the door.
Trin washed in a small cubicle and pulled a clean fellalo from his reticule. He fumbled his way into it, the folds tangling without Tina Galiotto’s patient hands to assist him. What sort of a poor fool cannot dress himself? he thought bitterly. What sort of fool allows his papa to decide his life? He could hear, almost, his tia Marchella’s laughter.
He called Joe Scali from his pouchfilm.
‘Don Pellegrini, is that you?’ Scali sounded nervous.
Trin smoothed his tunic down. ‘Nobile. Did you receive the gift I sent you?’
‘Si. I believe so. M-many thanks.’
‘Perhaps you will you bring me a return gift at your earliest convenience?’
Joe nodded, understanding his meaning. ‘Er... of course... and are you well entertained? I hear you have left the Enclave.’
Trin’s chest tightened. ‘Yes. I am with the Carabinere in Loisa. I am tolerably entertained. And you?’
‘Actually, Don, I have a new arnica.’
‘An arnica?’ said Trin, surprised.
‘Si. Rantha and I...’ Joe tapered off sheepishly.
For some unfathomable reason the news displeased Trin, as though Rantha had in some way betrayed him. ‘I must be going. Come and visit me sometime. The view is splendid.’ He held the tiny screen to his window so Joe Scali could see the cluttered service yard behind.
Scali’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Are you content?’
‘Of course, Nobile,’ Trin replied with little conviction.
* * *
‘Vespa and Seb Malocchi?’
A group of men in dusty fellalos looked up from where they sat on crates. Their faces were as deep crimson as those of the miners who came to Dockside, and as parched of moisture. Each one sat before an equipment bag, checking the contents. Trin wondered if their delib
erate care was a method of time-wasting. Though they were shaded by the workshop’s high roof and fanned by the huge engineering coolers, his robe thermostat told him that the temperature was unforgiving. Yet none of the men had sealed their hoods for assisted cooling. He resisted sealing his own although the perspiration was already streaming down his body.
‘I’m Vespa,’ said one in surly tones. ‘What of it?’
Trin set his jaw. ‘I am... Pellegrini, Christian’s new aide. He has told me you will accompany me to Villa Fedor to interview the Baronessa.’
‘Don Pellegrini? An aide?’ said Vespa. He glanced to the others who barely bothered to hide their smirks.
A man at bottom of the circle with a more agreeable expression stood up and extended his hand. ‘I am Seb Malocchi. Take no notice of my rude fratello, Don Pellegrini. The heat makes him soffice here.’ Seb tapped his head. ‘Better than here, I think, eh?’ This time he cupped his groin. ‘I for one will be glad to escape this stinking heat and visit the cool of Villa Fedor.’
In spite of the vulgarity, Trin felt a moment of gratitude to the man. ‘Buono.’ He gave a stiff smile.
Seb waved his hand towards the hangar bay. ‘Choose your chariot—any except this one.’ He pointed to Trin’s sleek, liveried AiV, which had been towed in and placed in a diagnostic gripper. An analytic hand probed inside it, blasting an air-water mix into the engine cavity. ‘Some loco soffice ran the cooler all night with it stationary: seized the motor. Apparently he was afraid of the hotwinds.’
The circle of men roared with laughter.
Trin felt the rush of bloodheat to his face. How foolish of him—Seb Malocchi had meant him no kindness at all.
He walked away from them, straight-backed, fuming. He would leave here at once. That notion propelled him into the first Carabinere vehicle he came to, but he faltered when he saw the controls. Unfamiliar icons danced on the display—a more complex selection than his personal AiV. He slipped his hand tentatively inside the pilot glove, feeling again the frustration of his own limitations.
‘It is not permitted for you to be unaccompanied, Don Pellegrini.’
Trin located the voice at the cabin door. A Cavaliere stood, leaning inwards with his hand cupped around his rifle. His tone was unapologetic.
‘Am I your captive?’
‘Only if you try to leave here alone, Don Pellegrini. The Principe has ordered it so.’
Trin’s fingers curled to a fist. ‘Remember who the next Principe is, Cavaliere,’ he said clearly. ‘For he shall remember you.’
The Palazzo guard released the grip he had taken instinctively on the door frame and straightened to make way for Seb and Vespa Malocchi.
Seb climbed straight to the front of the vehicle. He slapped Trinder playfully across the back of the head and slumped into the second pilot seat. ‘Now, now, Pellegrini,’ he said with impertinence. ‘Don’t be like that.’
* * *
‘Baronessa Fedor? It is Don Trinder Pellegrini. I have come to pay my respects.’
‘Carabinere, Baronessa,’ said Seb, speaking over Trin’s shoulder. ‘We have questions to ask you.’
The masked woman moved closer to her viewer. ‘What nonsense is this? Since when do the Carabinere call on me? And since when has the young Principe been one of the white ones?’
‘Let us in, Baronessa,’ said Vespa.
Faja Fedor released the gate and met them halfway down the path to the villa. She was dressed in a full velum. ‘What is it you want?’ Her voice sounded thin through the velum’s amplifier.
‘To be invited inside, Baronessa, would be a beginning,’ said Trin.
Reluctantly she beckoned them through the coldlock into her parlour, a largish room—though not by Palazzo standards—decorated with soft sapphire drapes, winding ornamental candelabra and hand-woven rugs that bore the Fedor crest. Each must have come with the familia from Latino Crux—such things could not be procured on Araldis. Nor could the inlaid-pearl occasional tables and the slightly shabby ceremonial chairs.
Trin recognised them as copies—valuable in their own right but not comparable to the authentic Pellegrini originals. For a time in Latino Crux it had been a fashion to duplicate the valuables of the patricians.
A thin, unsightly humanesque woman brought them cups of cold Latino-bean coffee and Pan di Stelle biscuits on a tarnished silver tray. The stars were misshapen and the chocolate pale for lack of cocoa.
Trin noticed the little signs of impoverishment. He waited until the woman, after serving the refreshments, had left before he addressed the Baronessa. ‘Where are your familia servants?’
Faja Fedor unfolded her mask so that he could see her face. He was struck by how little she resembled Mira and by how much more typically Latino in bone structure and colouring she was.
‘My circumstances are my business, Trinder Pellegrini,’ she replied.
‘Not when we have an order to detain your sorella,’ said Seb Malocchi. ‘Your business has become ours.’
Faja raised her eyebrows in shock. Trin noticed they weren’t thinned in the artful manner of the court women—their masculine breadth lent her face strength.
‘What can you mean by “detain”? Mira is not a common criminal, she is a patrician, blessed with the Inborn Talent.’ She turned to Trin. ‘Is this a graduation hoax, Don Pellegrini?’
‘It is most serious, Baronessa,’ said Seb swinging his legs up to rest on a pearl table.
‘On what charge do you propose to detain her? What has she done?’ Faja stood, hands clasped as if one restrained the other.
Trin shifted in his chair, wishing he was somewhere else. Was it possible that Faja Fedor knew nothing of Franco’s declaration? Had word not filtered through to her of his intention?
‘It is what she has not done. She has been ordered to surrender her Inborn Talent to the Principe. Instead she has chosen to evade his direct request. Your sorella is a runaway, Faja Fedor,’ said Seb.
Faja unclasped her hands and curled them into two fists. Her voice trembled. ‘You would steal her genetic right? How is that possible?’
‘The Principe has technology that can make it so.’ Malocchi was enjoying himself.
‘Then that would be the crime, signor. Should I see my sister, I would praise her for fleeing from such a transgression of justice.’
Seb Malocchi leaped to his feet in a lightning movement. ‘What would a woman know to speak of justice, Baronessa? Should I inform the Principe that you contest his judgement?’
Trinder saw Faja teeter on the brink of a dangerous retort—one that might see her arrested. The Carabinere provoked her with a practised tongue.
Instinctively he intervened on the woman’s behalf. ‘Have you seen or heard from Mira Fedor, Baronessa? That is all we would know from you.’
Faja sagged back down onto her chair, visibly fatigued. ‘My pardon, Don Pellegrini. I am shocked, as you can see. The answer to your question is no, I have not seen or heard from mia sorella.’
Trin stared at Seb Malocchi. ‘I am satisfied with this.’ He glanced to the corridor. ‘Where is Vespa?’
Seb sat down again and reached for the plate of biscuits. ‘Searching the villa, Pellegrini. Join him if you like. I am sure Baronessa Fedor will entertain me.’
* * *
Trin escaped from the parlour into a cool, dark corridor that ran the length of the villa. But it did not deliver him from his discomfort. Fedor ancestors gazed down upon him with as much accusation in their faces as Faja. In the wavering pixel of each Pilot First’s depiction he recognised the same thin, strained appearance that Mira had inherited.
Of the women, though, he saw only the traditional robust Latino figures and fleshy faces. Mira Fedor truly was a genetic peccadillo. More reason not to have her DNA mingled with mine. What miserable providence has brought me to her home—as if I was complicit in Franco’s plan?
Noise spilled from a partially open door further along the corridor. In what should have been the vill
a’s formal dining area, two pale-skinned young humanesques played with shuttles, while others sprawled casually on the old-wood table. In one corner a large scaled creature with a birdlike head squatted, chewing rhythmically. They glanced at Trin briefly, but with little interest. Vespa Malocchi had spoken of Faja Fedor’s penchant for taking in aliens and bambini. ‘Ginko lover,’ Vespa had called her. Then he had spat on the floor.
Trin followed the corridor through the villa to the rear coldlock. He let himself out to the portico. He had not the taste for Seb and Vespa Malocchi’s bullying game—the stifling heat was preferable company. He would wait there until the Carabinere had finished their dealings.
But the view onto Villa Fedor’s dry-garden disturbed him more: thorn bushes, a flaking-dry algae pit and irregular tufts of dried red Lostol grasses leading to a squat, dust-stained outhouse. Trin craved for the sight of the Menagerie’s controlled environment, its lush vine-growths, mauve faux-trees, and the idiotic purrcocks that he hunted for sport when he was bored.
Discontentment took hold of him and dark thoughts shadowed the ungovernable brilliance of the day. He left the shade of the portico without sealing his hood. If he perished in the sun, perhaps that would be deliverance of a sort. His mother would weep for him—but she would be alone.
Then he heard a strangled cry.
Trin stepped in among the thorn bushes, searching for the source of the sound. In the thickest clump he found a naked sulphur-skinned ragazza with pale blood leaking from a wound on her head. An aqua species, he thought. He had seen them before in Riso’s Bar. This one had pebble-like breasts and layers of external skin-folds covering her pubis. He stared at her madly fluttering neck gills. ‘What has happened?’
Peculiar sounds poured from her mouth. She reached out a finely webbed hand.
Trin had never touched ginko skin before. Instinctively he retreated but the ragazza’s desperate, imploring look filled him with guilt. Still he hesitated, wondering if she were contagious with something—or loco, perhaps.
The Sentients of Orion Page 10
