The Sentients of Orion

by Marianne de Pierres

  ‘Well, I suggest you hurry and take a good look. The Fest closes tonight and I can’t say I won’t be relieved. Two months on my feet in these heels... The best work is up on the dais, so they say. A couple of things causing a real stir up there: a living glass sculpture that’s destined to shatter soon in a grand spectacular, and a fluid statue of a humanesque. I’ve heard it’s made of quixite but I haven’t been able to get away from here to have a look.’ It sniffed.

  Quixite! logic-mind and free-mind screeched at once.

  Tekton scanned the chamber, locating the dais with its colossal giant glass protrusion. Without a word of acknowledgement or thanks to the talkative Lamin, Tekton made a beeline for it.

  After a weapon search by a surly balol at the foot of the stairs, he was free to ascend and enjoy the sculptures.

  The glass pillar inhabited by an organism was so truly spectacular that Tekton’s free-mind overtook his logic-mind in a swell of creative satisfaction.

  So twisted. So strained. Such glorious refraction. And the organism. Tragic. Profound. Death in Freedom.

  It babbled for a while as Tekton drifted around the base of the column in a kind of meditative ecstasy.

  Perhaps he would procure a ticket to the glass explosion. If it was timed, as the spruikers were insisting, to have twin suns shining on it, the experience would be unrepeatable.

  And expensive, interjected logic-mind sternly, desperate for a way to be heard. Without enough quixite from Araldis what will happen to our project? Without the project what will happen to our tyro placement on Belle- Monde? Without that—no fat stipend.

  Tekton jerked out of his trance and looked around. ‘Where is the quixite statue?’ he demanded of the closest spruiker.

  ‘Roight behoind yuu moitey,’ it carolled.

  Tekton turned and pushed his way into the gathered crowd. The statue stood twice his height; a fine male figure, naked and unmistakably humanesque. The thing that so fascinated the audience though was the statue’s genitals, which every few moments shifted in a carefully fluid but determined motion, from flaccid to erect.

  Subtle changes then occurred in the erection, the swelling of the bulb and the enlarging of the testes.

  Porn-art, concluded logic-mind.

  Yes, agreed free-mind, but the liquid play of the quixite makes it something far more intimate. A triumph of reality.

  Pah, said logic-mind. But it does pose the question who the model was and how many times the artist needed to study his arousal.

  Who indeed? Tekton wondered. And that thought gave him quite a rush of akula. He would be eager to meet the man.

  He glanced up at the face.

  Upon recognition, his mouth dropped open in astonishment. Good Sole! It’s me!

  But Tekton wasn’t the only one to recognise him. It began with three young female humanesques next to him who nudged and giggled and pointed; and spread through the crowd in a whisper, until more eyes were upon Tekton than the statue.

  For the first time that he could ever recall, Tekton was the centre of attention that he had not specifically manufactured. And he could not even think of a way to turn it to his advantage.

  He was, in fact, flabbergasted.

  In an instant the spruikers roaming the dais picked up the situation and boomed it out to anyone who would listen. ‘Fenr-oi-lia’s model. Fenr-oi-lia’s model. Come and soi-ee the man whose cock grows bigger than a soisage balloon.’

  The ignominy of the situation threatened to totally shake Tekton’s composure. Fenralia, the filthy little skieran, had used their acquaintance to sculpt this ridiculous likeness.

  Or was it ridiculous?

  A disturbingly exhibitionistic and egoistic streak ignited in Tekton. After all, his sexual prowess was formidable, even to the likes of the voracious Dieter Miranda Seeward. Legendary even. And perhaps there was potential for this to turn his way. He just had to figure out how best to use it.

  He would, however, strangle Fenralia later. Preferably with its own rapacious and bizarrely elongated sexual organ.

  But for now...

  ‘Msr?’

  Tekton suddenly found himself surrounded by balol soldiers wearing grey uniform. The one with the most stripes stood in front of him. ‘Commander Farr requests the pleasure of your company in his lounge.’

  Tekton nodded graciously and gave a little wave to his disappointed audience. ‘Lead on,’ he announced in a cavalier way.

  The spectators began to whistle and stamp and then to Tekton’s and the soldiers’ astonishment, they followed them along the dais to a marquee decorated ingeniously with metal and aluminium scraps.

  The soldier in charge ushered Tekton inside, then returned to keep the assembled mob in order. The crowd noise continued though, as they called for Tekton to return and deliver autographs.

  ‘I see you’re acquainted with the very talented Fenralia, Tekton of Lostol,’ said a quiet voice.

  Lasper ‘Carnage’ Farr was seated in a formal chair next to a comfortable but luxurious couch.

  Tekton approached him and sat on the couch without invitation. He was quite disappointed.

  He doesn’t look at all terrifying, free-mind criticised. He’s so thin, and old-looking. Where are his battle scars?

  Fool, said logic-mind.

  Tekton tended to side with free-mind on this. Of all the humanesques in Orion, Lasper Farr should be immense and impressive, not a lean, gaunt grey-eyed man who had clearly not taken the time to use regular rejuvenation cosmetics.

  ‘A chance encounter of mine with the artist seems to have whetted its creative muse. I had no knowledge of the sculpture until just a few minutes ago,’ said Tekton blithely.

  ‘And yet you have already incited a near-riot.’

  Tekton waved his hand. ‘Amusing indeed.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Farr, without the hint of a smile. ‘I believe that you bought my sister passage from Rho Junction. I will arrange for your reimbursement.’

  ‘Most appreciated, Commander Farr. And how fares the young scholar? Both he and your sister were adamant that you could best treat his condition here, even though we had access to medical help aboard The Last Aesthetic.’’

  ‘It is a rare bacterium, Tekton, and I have a superior laboratory. Some would say the best there is. May I offer you some champagne?’

  ‘Delighted,’ replied Tekton. Farr might not be impressive but he was refined and mannered enough for a martial type.

  They sat in silence while Tekton waited for the glass to be produced and poured and brought to him by a uniformed aide.

  ‘The young man will recover,’ said Farr as an afterthought. ‘He says that your appearance in the clinic on Rho Junction was providence—some might say a Godsend—if of course you are of a mind to believe in deities, which I am not.’

  ‘An interesting conversation point, Commander, seeing as I am currently a tyro to one perceived as such.’

  He’s a heathen, free-mind sniffed.

  He’s playing you, logic-mind warned.

  This time Tekton gave logic-mind free rein to give advice. With each quiet word Lasper Farr spoke, Tekton felt less steady. The man’s eyes were as cold and pitiless as Lostol’s ice caps.

  ‘In my opinion,’ said Lasper, ‘studium academics do not always care about their research topics. The intellectual exercise is enough for them. It also gives them a platform for dissembling and self-aggrandisement.’

  ‘I won’t take offence, Commander, but I would suggest that it is foolish to tar all academics with one brush. We might surprise you.’

  Farr leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Surprise me then, Tekton of Lostol.’

  Truth, urged logic-mind. Now.

  Obediently, Tekton cut to the chase. ‘I know the creator of the DNA that you sent young Berniere to retrieve. Quite well, as luck would have it. I am seeking information, and so are you. A perfect set-up for... a negotiation.’

  Farr sucked in his cheeks for a moment before he spoke,
lending his face a skeletal appearance. Then suddenly he smiled. ‘Or I could just torture you to find out what I want.’

  The unsteadiness Tekton had been feeling began to border on dizziness, but a surge of anger came to his rescue. He would not be bullied as if he were some ordinary ‘esque. ‘What? Risk an incident that would have ramifications across Orion? And’—he waved his hands towards the entrance of the marquee—’your own world.’

  Farr gave a short laugh. ‘You mean your eager audience out there? You have a high opinion of yourself.’

  ‘I know my worth. There is an immense difference, Commander.’

  ‘And I know what I am capable of doing, without consequence.’

  Tekton’s heart fluttered. He had never been overtly threatened by anyone significant before—at least, not physically—and it spawned a curious mixture of excitement and dread within him. He felt his akula swell and himself stiffen.

  He longed for the Hunter device he’d been forced to relinquish before boarding The Last Aesthetic. Yet killing Lasper Farr outright would achieve nothing except problems. He needed, instead, to use him. ‘Such aggression on your part must surely mean I offer threat, and I have little desire to do that. My request is simply a fair trade.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘In exchange for everything I know about the creator of the virus, I wish you to undertake to support the reclaiming of the mining world Araldis.’

  ‘Ah, Araldis. Again. Again.’

  ‘In my conversations with the young scholar and your sibling, they informed me that you had an agreement with the unfortunate Baronessa Fedor to restore the world to its legal ownership.’

  ‘You know the Baronessa?’ asked Farr.

  ‘I did not have the pleasure of her acquaintance, and now I believe she is in the company of the Extropists.’

  Farr’s expression became tense and wary. ‘Not company she chose, but even so, it does call into question my agreement with her.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tekton sanguinely, ‘our choices often define the choices we are left with—if you understand me.’

  ‘Like you and I, here today.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So tell me why your information is worth me embarking on such an expensive and risky venture.’

  ‘You said yourself that your laboratory is the best in Orion. Which, I would surmise, means you control most of the bio-trade. A new player of this credibility on the scene might upset things for you. You also have a personal investment on Araldis worth protecting. A niece, I believe. I would also surmise that you have some interest in why Araldis has been so aggressively overrun, and by whom. If you don’t already know, that is?’

  The tension left Farr’s face, and a small smile played at his lips. ‘You are clever enough, Tekton. I would expect nothing less of a tyro from Belle-Monde. But can you play well to the end?’

  ‘That sounds like a challenge, Commander.’

  ‘I’m a competitive man. It would be wise not to forget it. I’ll consider your offer and we shall speak again soon. Enjoy the remainder of the Fest and your new-found fame.’

  Without any obvious instruction from Lasper Farr, a soldier presented himself at Tekton’s side and escorted him from the tent.

  As the soldier drew back the flap, a sprinkle of spontaneous applause broke out and voices called again for autographs.

  Tekton stepped graciously into their midst and gave a little bow.

  The applause grew louder, as did the ribald comments. The attention went a long way to salving the irritation and upset that Commander Farr had caused him.

  MIRA

  Since their conversation, Wanton-poda’s behaviour had become erratic. At first Mira put it down to her ignorance of its nature, but each day she noticed a slight deterioration in its colour and physical integrity. The translucent skin had developed darker patches and its normally ever-moving fringe seemed sluggish and stiff.

  The Siphonophores returned regularly, often when Mira was asleep. She knew because Wanton-poda’s pitiful high-pitched wails woke her in time to see it descend into its recovery tank, away from whatever torture had been inflicted on it.

  Mira waited. The next time it happened, she climbed from her bed and beat her fists against the translucent barrier. ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘Leave it alone!’

  The Siphonophores left without even appearing to have noticed her.

  She stayed awake, leaning against the wall, thinking of Insignia. Please find me. Please.

  She felt the faintest tug in response to her plea. So faint that it could have been imagined. And yet she hoped, believed, it was Insignia. What else was there for her to keep faith in? Rast Randall? Josef Rasterovich? A selfish mercenary and a vagrant wanderer; neither of them would care about her abduction.

  And Thales Berniere? Would the young scholar miss her?

  Now, finally, that most things had been laid bare in her life, she could admit to herself that Thales’s affection for Bethany Ionil had wounded her. Was she so unappealing that he would find an older woman more attractive than her?

  She sighed and returned to her bed, rolling to her side to ease the baby’s weight on her backbone. How could she expect any regard from such a gracious young gentleman when she was but a pregnant refugee? Thales Berniere would be shocked if he knew what had happened to her, and repulsed.

  ‘Mira-fedor should ingest some food.’

  ‘Wanton-poda?’ Mira’s eyes flew upward.

  The little cephalopod hovered above her bed looking grey and lethargic.

  ‘It is not right that they treat you like this. I am eating and have put on weight.’ She caressed the small mound of her belly. ‘You told me the baby is thriving again. There is no need for them to be hurting you.’

  ‘My circumstances are not your concern, Mira-fedor.’ Then it added, ‘But it is kindly of you to care for poda.’

  ‘Is there somewhere you and I could both go?’ she whispered. ‘Could we leave here together? Go to a place where you won’t be hurt and I will be able to have my baby without interference?’

  ‘Mira-fedor shall not speak of these things.’

  ‘Look at you,’ declared Mira passionately. ‘You are sick. I don’t know much about your physiology but it appears to me that your host—poda—may die. But then I suppose you don’t care much for your host.’

  ‘Your statement lacks veracity, Mira-fedor. Poda is dear to Wanton.’

  ‘Then save poda before it is too late.’

  The creature began to spin in its thinking rhythm.

  ‘You must know somewhere you can go, away from these... bullies.’ Mira slid her feet to the floor, and stood so that Wanton-poda’s ear flaps were at her eye level. ‘I know oppression, Wanton-poda. That’s where I came from. That is why I am carrying the child of a man I loathe. Oppression is wrong, whether it be amongst humanesques, aliens or Post-Species. You have a right not to be afraid.’ The words tumbled so fluently from her mouth it was as if she had stored and practised them, and now was the most important time for their delivery. Oppression had killed Faja and Estelle. ‘I have a right not to be afraid.’

  Its spinning slowed down, and it moved closer so that it almost settled on Mira’s shoulder. Instinctively, she reached up and brushed her fingers along its fluted edge.

  It uttered a peculiar noise. ‘Poda finds that soothing,’ it said.

  ‘I don’t understand why they are so cruel to you.’

  ‘Wanton-poda has had many important tasks. Before the task of Mira-fedor, Wanton-poda was charged with adapting a water species to land. Most rewarding. However, Highness Most Capable: Evolution is not satisfied.’

  Something stirred in Mira’s consciousness. She thought carefully about how she would elicit her next response, lapsing back into more indirect speech so as to learn what she sought. ‘That must have been a complex task. I can’t fathom why anyone would go to that trouble.’

  ‘Adaptation of species receives priority amongst Host scientist
s. Although I do not know the specific use of this adaptation, Wanton-poda was told it would carry much prestige.’

  ‘Not enough to stop you being hurt by the Siphonophore hosts.’

  ‘Wanton-poda’s title of Highness Most Capable of Cultivation is not as influential as some despite its expertise in genetic procedure.’

  ‘What you describe is not unlike humanesque communities. Talent and hard work are often not rewarded. In fact, quite the opposite.’

  The creature made a sound that could have been a sigh. ‘Mira-fedor speaks with veracity. It is difficult to recognise the superior evolution of Post-Species sometimes. Wanton-poda finds this depressing.’

  The thought of a parasitical Post-Species sentient being depressed fascinated Mira. Post-Species—well, at least the Host variety—clearly retained the ghosts of emotional variations. Mira chose not to take offence that Wanton-poda considered itself a more advanced sentient than her. For the most part it was true.

  ‘Progression is not always linear,’ she proffered.

  The creature lifted off her shoulder and floated in the direction of its tank. ‘Wanton-poda would have had pleasure knowing how its water species has fared.’

  Mira felt the stirring again. Stronger, this time, like a memory bobbing its way to the surface of her mind. ‘Is it possible... that Wanton-poda’s adaption... was tardigrades?’

  Wanton-poda halted its forward motion and reversed, its ear flaps coming erect. ‘Mira-fedor is very astute. Wanton-poda is surprised.’

  Mira swallowed to ease her suddenly dry mouth. Her heart beat painfully in her chest. ‘Mira-fedor has a story Wanton-poda should hear.’

  The cephalopod swayed gently before her while she told it of the Saqr and their invasion of Araldis. It didn’t interrupt or alter its listening pattern until she finished the telling and asked for some water.

  Then it floated to its mobile canteen and returned with a fresh water tube. ‘Wanton-poda has some thinking to do.’ It left her and returned to its tank.