‘It is an excuse for much to be left undone.’ He grabbed her pale smooth hands to his chest. ‘We should leave. You could apply to study with the Sole Entity on Belle-Monde. The Sophos would not be able to deny you as they have me. The tyros are only Dieter’s, Lawmon and Geneers. How could they have a true dialectic with the Entity without a philosopher? It could be a new start for us.’
‘Thales, my exposition is almost finished. When it is accepted, you know I will be made Provost Laud.’ Rene’s expression softened. ‘Don’t you enjoy our lifestyle?’
Petulance boiled up in Thales. ‘You will call it a symptom of youth, Rene, but lifestyle is not all. Knowledge is all. It used to be that you thought that way as well. Now you seem more moved by status and position. I think that sometimes you prefer the company of your father and his antediluvian Sophos to mine.’
As the words tumbled from his lips, Thales saw his hopes for the evening evaporate. Yet he could not stop himself. Anger had gripped him—righteousness felt more gratifying than any judicious reply.
Rene pushed him gently away and stood. ‘I will be in muse when you are ready to be rational. I have made many sacrifices for you, Thales. It is unkind for you to reward me with such childishness.’
Thales could not let it drop. ‘What sacrifices? How have I encumbered you?’
But she had turned away already, rebuff apparent in the frail set of her shoulders, the tremor of her thin fingers.
Contrition played him. ‘Rene, please...’
‘Go for a walk, Thales. Young men need exercise.’
She shut the door between them quietly.
MIRA
‘Fedor? You still with us? Or are you napping again?’
Rast/Secondo’s voice vibrated through vein-fluid and disseminated into Mira/Primo’s mind. Her several days of immersion with the organic ship Insignia had robbed her of any interest in the mercenary’s needs or demands. She was enthralled by the biozoon’s unique biology, its adaptation from water to space.
Yet the speech vibrations became insistent and louder.
‘Hey! Baronessa! Answer me or I’ll come over there and rip you out of your cosy little bed!’
Mira/Primo sighed at the banality of the threat. The Primo vein could resist any attempt at forcible entry . short of res-shift error. Even then, there was a possible chance of survival, although ‘where’ Mira/Primo was not sure. The composition of the Eter-nix was sheer theory.
With reluctance she began the process of separation from Primo, finishing with an instruction to the vein to release her body. It disgorged her into an upright position, supporting her gently while she regained her balance.
Rast, no longer in Secondo, was already waiting for her. The mercenary lay on her side still, flicking the black scrawls of drying vein-fluid from her skin as she clenched and unclenched her muscles. A pistol bearing the Cipriano crest lay propped against her stomach.
Mira felt the last reassuring intimacy of the Primo drop away, leaving only the faint and dissatisfying distance of waved interface. She could feel and hear the biozoon but she was no longer it. ‘Where did you get that?’ Her voice rasped with suspicion and the aftereffects of immersion.
‘This is the flagship of a war fleet, Fedor.’ The mercenary waved a hand at the luxurious trimmings that disguised the fact that they were in the biozoon’s cheek. ‘Where do you think I got it?’
Mira felt a twist of indignation. Perhaps the Primo influence was upon her still. Or maybe she was more patriotic than she thought. ‘The biozoon is not a weapon ship; it is a sophisticated macro-organism.’
Rast shrugged. ‘Whatever. It still carries a weapon stash that will do me nicely, seeing as I never got paid for the whole frikked-up mess down there. Now you will take me where I want, and on the way we can negotiate how you might get out of this with your skin on.’
The memory of their situation flooded through Mira’s mind. The invasion of Araldis, Faja’s death, Trin Pellegrini and... She closed her mind to the last thought and studied Rast.
The mercenary’s face was pale, and her injuries had not been repaired by the Secondo. The veins were only matched to heal the Cipriano genotype.
She was a mess.
Mira rubbed the back of her hand and watched vein-flakes slough into the air. She imagined she looked much the same. ‘I left a child... my child on Araldis in the care of an unstable man while my world is being violently colonised by alien creatures. I will not take this macrorganic anywhere but to the nearest OLOSS protectorate where I will get help for Araldis. According to Insignia that will be Scolar in the Utmos system.’
Then she added softly. ‘I do not care what you threaten, mercenary. I will go to Scolar. You cannot res-shift without me. But I will take you to where you wish to go—when I can. And now I am going to clean myself.’ Mira didn’t wait for Rast’s reaction or answer. She stood and walked unsteadily across the buccal towards the uneven skin folds that the biozoon had grown to create a sphincter between spaces, and pressed her fist into its centre.
‘Fedor?’
Mira paused, waiting for the pucker to retract. But she did not turn back.
‘You made the right decision back there when that ship turned up on our tail. Tough call, but the right one.’
It was meant as a compliment, perhaps, a vote of confidence—but a weight settled on Mira’s chest at the reminder of what she had done. ‘Was it?’
She stepped out, turned and walked along Insignia’s ridged sloping strata, looking for somewhere to wash. Choosing a random pucker, she pushed her fist gently into it. It opened with a sucking noise.
Catchut was inside, bent over the cocooned form of her fellow mercenary Latourn. Surrounding them was an array of medi-tools.
‘How is your... friend?’ Mira asked.
Catchut nodded wearily. ‘The ‘zoon has top medic. Never seen nuthin’ like it before, though. Bring you back from most anythin’...’
Mira allowed herself a small smile. ‘Fit for royalty.’
‘Lucky for Lat,’ said Catchut.
‘Remember that, mercenary. Remember that Cipriano wealth saved your friend.’
Mira stepped back out into the stratum and took the next upward channel, pressing more puckers until she found an empty space with a bed and a separate wash compartment. From the modest nature of the furnishings she deduced that it was meant for the lower castes.
She removed her torn and filthy fellala and sank down into the steam couch. The heat lifted the dirt from her pores, leaving her skin almost tender.
Insignia?
Yes, Innate Mira.
How do I get cool water?
Water burst from a slit in the wall above the couch and cascaded over her.
Her skin tingled. Thank you.
I. am preparing a replacement fellala for you. What colour is your rank? asked the biozoon.
‘Elite, of course,’ she said aloud without thinking.
I have never exfoliated during Prime before. It is a previously unproven limit for me. I am pleased to have that knowledge. I... enjoyed our union. It has been some time.
‘Th-thank you,’ said Mira. Now that they were separated, the reminder of her intimate immersion in the ship’s biologies embarrassed her a little. And yet she had so longed for it—like desiring a stranger from afar to find out, once you had been intimate with them, that they were still only a stranger. ‘Are you quite recovered from the exfoliation?’
For the most. Although a salt rub would be pleasant. Indeed, though, it is refreshing to be resonating again. I have spent much time in dust and inactivity. My sonics lacked tune, and my fins are stiff.
Their conversation faltered as Mira dried in jets of warm air. She tried to think of how to draw the biozoon out. ‘Do you understand what is happening on Araldis?’
Yes. I believe so. Although my concerns remain entirely with my Innate and myself. Worlds and their politics are beyond my control and my interest.
Mira thought of the hybrid b
iozoon, Sal, the one she had encountered on Araldis which had been treated poorly. ‘What if your Innate turns out to be cruel or untrustworthy?’
If our own relationship is satisfactory I would not be bothered. I am not concerned with moral judgments. I am concerned with the enrichment and survival of my species.
‘What if the person—your Innate—threatened your species? Or you?’ On impulse, Mira leaned over and scraped her nail down the biozoon’s skin.
A shock stung her arm, throwing her across the space onto the bed where she knocked her head.
Intention determines my response. I am not unintelligent, Baronessa. I am merely... your word would be... egocentric. In my genus it is an admirable, in fact necessary, quality.
‘M-my apologies,’ Mira stuttered. She rubbed her arm, then her head. ‘I-I needed to know.’ Then she added: ‘And we are not unalike. Our species is also egocentric, only... we do not consider it a strength.’
Insignia made a hissing noise that could have been laughter. When we fuse again you will learn much more about me. For a pilot you are naive.
‘I am studium-trained only. I am also the first woman born into my line to bear the pilota gene. It made it difficult for the Principe. He was not disposed to encourage me.’
Woman? I hear your people use that term frequently. What does that mean?
Mira left the wash compartment to lie down on the bed. ‘I am the female of our species. Male—female. Surely you comprehend that?’
You are different to my other Innates—yes, I see that. But the humanesque nuance of it escapes me. Our sexuality is diverse and subtle.
Mira’s thoughts circled to Trinder Pellegrini, his breath suffocating hers, and his brutal thrusts. His men with their hands bruising her shoulders. She rolled to her side and brought her knees up under her breast. ‘We are not a subtle species.’
I need several of my own kind to reproduce. It is our way of keeping our species strong. Unlike you who have genetically limited yourselves to a single choice.
And sometimes none, Mira thought bitterly.
You are not happy to be bearing life?
How did you know I was?
This time there was no mistaking Insignia’s amusement. How could I not? Your blood, your neurology, they are as my own when we are immersed.
Mira pushed herself upright. ‘You must not tell anyone,’ she cried aloud.
And how would I speak of it, Innate? You are the only one with which I can directly communicate.
But what of the person in Secondo?
You are the only one with which I can directly communicate, repeated Insignia.
A gentle burst of energy crackled over Mira, running down the lines of her body to her toes. The panic within her subsided and she sank down into the bed again. What was that?
Thought is not always an adequate way of communicating. I emitted a calming scent.
Mira lay still, fighting the fog that was sliding across her thoughts. Can you tell... do you know... i-is the baby well?
Yes.
It is a boy. A statement, not a question.
Perhaps after I have had further time fusing with your unique biology I will be able to tell.
It will be a boy. That is what he wanted; an heir.
You are not pleased?
I had no choice. I-is choice important to your kind?
Indeed. I chose this symbiotic role. However, when I contracted to the Cipriano Clans I did not expect such dreariness. I wished for enrichment.
Mira’s heart thumped out of rhythm, rousing her drifting concentration. ‘Contracted? You have a contract?’
Yes, Innate Fedor. And I should inform you that you have an irritating habit of repeating thoughts. The contract was for schika—two hundred Araldisian years. I have only a short time left.
‘And then?’
Insignia paused for an age before answering. Even then Mira was not sure if she had dreamed it, for exhaustion began to pull her down to into the dark.
That depends entirely on you.
TRIN
Sleep had become Trin’s hell: a semi-consciousness that harboured fear and contrition. It was in that state that Mira Fedor was with him most often; her dust-caked skin and exhausted eyes, her overly thin body, the thick-ridged tight pressure of her virginity as he took it from her.
You must understand... he told her over and over while he slept... understand why I did it.
But the Mira in his dreams did not understand. She thrashed against him, outraged and desperate. At times she transformed into his mother and he was the one who cried and begged to be left alone.
‘Principe! Wake up! Trinder, what is it?’ a voice whispered.
Joe Scali was on the floor next to him in one of the mine’s labyrinth of tunnels. The central shaft ran for over a hundred mesurs with mined shafts cutting off it at short intervals. Many of the worked shafts were partially or fully blocked where the machines had scraped the seam of mineral and collapsed the tunnel behind them. It was a primitive way of mining which left sunken trenches at ground level and played havoc with the ventilation.
Trin couldn’t see his friend’s expression in the gloom—he didn’t need that kind of vision to know that Joe had lost all his vitality. It had drained from him on the day the alien Saqr had drained the life from Rantha’s skull.
All that remained of Joe was his belief in Trin: that Trin would see them to safety and that he would find a way to restore order and exact retribution.
Djeserit—Trin’s half-breed woman—held the same belief.
Trin loved them both for it—and loathed them. Their foolishness in thinking that he was better or stronger in some way.
He strained his eyes in the semi-darkness to find Djeserit. She was serving rations to those closest. Three hundred or more people spread out behind them down the tunnels; all that was left of the true Araldis.
‘We are close to the end now?’
Trin dragged his attention back to Scali. ‘The scouts say only a few more hours of walking before we see the sky again.’
‘And then?’
‘A night—no more—to the islands. There will be food and water at the vacation palazzo. We can treat the injured in the medi-lab.’
‘What if the creatures are waiting for us when we leave the tunnels?’
Trin shuddered. That notion plagued his waking state as Mira Fedor plagued his sleep. The Saqr had followed them into the tunnels, he knew that. But they moved slowly and were still some mesurs behind. Yet Joe’s concerns were his. What if the Saqr had found a way to get ahead of them? They would be trapped underground and cannibalised for their fluids.
‘It is possible but unlikely.’ He spoke in a hoarse but confident voice—loud enough for those nearby to hear. His words would be passed along. Everyone hung on the Principe’s words. ‘Only a few govern the invasion. And I wager my birthright that they will be at Dockside.’
Wager his birthright... The murmur spread. The Principe was confident that their path to the Islands would be clear.
Djeserit returned and sank into the small space between Joe Scali and Trin. She leaned into Trin’s shoulder and he smelled her unwashed alien smell.
‘Do you mean it?’ she whispered. ‘Will our way be clear?’
He shrugged, unwilling to share his fears even with her.
‘The last of the dried quark is gone. We have a little kranse and some desert figs left.’ Djeserit fumbled in the sack strung around her waist and slipped some bread crumbs and a fig into Trin’s hand.
He hid his head behind his raised knees and chewed. Djeserit fed him more than the rest but was discreet about it. He valued that in her, her instinctive ability to read situations. It would be an asset to him when he re-established Pellegrini rule. He would claim his son from Mira and Djeserit would be in the background of his life, smoothing paths, supporting him.
His fantasy ran its course until it reached the same obstacle. Would Mira Fedor return? Would she bring OLOSS help? He
had gambled everything on the fact that she would come back for the Pagoin infant that she had saved from Villa Fedor. Mira was as stubborn and determined as her sister Faja had been. It was not an attractive trait in a woman but it was one that he could manipulate.
For the first time since fleeing Lois, Trin thought of his friends and cousins, the Silvios and the Elenis. A tiny part of him mourned them, but the greater part felt liberated. He could begin again. Instil a new set of rules. He knew he would make a superior Principe. Smarter and less hampered by tradition and a tight association with the Malocchi dynasty. The Scalis would be his new Cavaliere.
A scuffling noise came from the darkness ahead of him—not from behind where the three hundred or more refugees huddled. A scout had returned. Juno Genarro, he guessed. What news would he have?
‘Principe?’
Trin raised his head from his knees, his breath catching tightly in his throat.
Genarro had knelt in front of him by custom, and from exhaustion. The light was so dim and the scout’s face was so lined with weariness that it was impossible to read his expression. ‘Well?’
‘There is a small rockfall, but around it the way is open, Principe. We must hurry now, though, to be there by night.’
Trin’s heart leapt and those around him gave a little cheer. He unfolded his cramped body and stood in the stooped manner that they had all been forced to adopt while walking through the smaller shafts. ‘Pass word along,’ he said. ‘The way is clear. We must hurry now.’
He pulled Genarro to his feet. ‘Take fresh help and go ahead,’ he said in the man’s ear. ‘Clear the entrance.’
‘Be quick, Principe.’ Genarro swayed with fatigue. The stocky scout had covered more mesurs than any of them. Dutifully, though, he turned and headed back the way he had come. He knew as well as Trin that once the entrance was cleared and visible it would signal their intention to surface at that point. There would be no retreat.
A trickle of energy suffused Trin’s muscles. Fear combined with anticipation. Soon they would feel the blast of the hot nightwinds on their faces. It would blow the stink of cramped unwashed bodies from his nose. It would also rob his body of moisture. How many of those without functioning envirosuits or robes would survive the night’s walk to the Islands? Many of the women whom Mira Fedor had helped to escape from Ipo struggled merely to breathe.
The Sentients of Orion Page 33
