The Sentients of Orion

by Marianne de Pierres

  ‘Berniere! What in Edo’s name are you doing?’

  He forced his eyes open to confront Samuelle’s ferocity. Everything that he needed to say rushed to his tongue at once and he found himself unable to be coherent.

  She made a frustrated noise and thrust a water tube into his mouth. ‘Drink, then breathe.’

  He obeyed her simple instruction. The cool water somehow made it easier to catch his breath. And then speak. ‘S-small spaces,’ he managed after drinking half the tube. ‘I-I dislike s-small s-spaces. ‘Pologise.’

  Her sharp eyes blinked at him. ‘Fariss has been arrested for Macken’s murder. What do you know about that?’

  Thales’s stomach cramped with anxiety. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘She’s in station containment, for Cruxsakes. But where have you been, Berniere? How did you get off the damn ship unnoticed?’

  ‘Fariss helped me. She said it was better for me to leave through the hold. She arranged it.’

  Samuelle pressed her forehead. ‘Well, as things turned out, mebbe she was right. Macken’s death brought a lot of attention her way.’ A glint of tears showed in her eyes. ‘Can’t figure out what she was doing though... murdering one of Lasper’s treasured.’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t murder,’ whispered Thales. ‘Perhaps it was self-defence.’

  ‘You know that?’ she said.

  Thales shook his head dumbly.

  Samuelle shrugged. ‘If only the damn girl’d talk to me about it, but she won’t say a shitting word.’ She sank deep into her own thoughts for a moment, then pulled herself back to the present. ‘And why are you falling out of cupboards at my feet?’

  Thales told her, as quickly as his scrambled thoughts would allow, about Mira Fedor and everything that she’d seen in Post-Species space. As he spoke, Samuelle’s expression altered. Disbelief replaced irritation.

  ‘You say both Landhurst and OLOSS want this woman for different crimes.’

  ‘Neither are real crimes,’ said Thales. ‘Self-defence.’

  ‘Like Fariss, eh?’ Samuelle gave a humourless laugh. ‘You have a mastery of understatement, Thales. This Fedor woman nearly tore the side off an OLOSS ship and somehow convinced a bunch of decommed warships to turn their weapons on a station.’ She paced back and forth across the room as she spoke. ‘It’s too risky to align myself with someone of her reputation, though truth be known, I’m curious to meet her.’ She shook her head. ‘Can’t help you. You wait here now, in case I need your testimony.’

  ‘No!’ cried Thales, forcing himself to stand. ‘You must hear her out at least.’

  ‘There is nothing I must do.’

  Thales took a ragged breath. ‘Fariss is incarcerated?’

  The sharp eyes bored into him. ‘And?’

  ‘What will happen to her?’

  Samuelle considered. ‘At home on Edo she’d have been executed if I hadn’t been able to get her off-planet. Here, with things the way they are, I don’t know. Lasper will have to use station court. She’ll wind up in containment, but at least she’ll be alive.’

  Containment. The very thought of being locked away was too much to bear—but not as great as the guilt and remorse he harboured over Fariss’s sacrifice. He took a deep breath so that he could say the words in one attempt. ‘I will admit to Macken’s murder on the condition that you help Mira Fedor.’

  Samuelle stiffened, though her suit kept working, strengthening and massaging her muscles with little movements that looked like a ripple across her body. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I killed Macken,’ he said clearly. ‘He tried to rape me. Fariss left me with a pistol when she went to see you, just before we shifted. It happened then. She came back and found me. After shift, she took me straight down to the hold. I hid in a refrigerated carton.’

  Samuelle sank into one of the two armchairs as if winded. ‘You? You did it?’

  Thales stared at the floor. The matting was clean, but worn with use by countless, nameless occupants. Had any of them talked of murder before? he wondered. The tremor came back. He’d killed a man.

  When he looked up again, Samuelle was staring at him.

  ‘Seems,’ she said, ‘that you’ve got an introduction to make.’

  MIRA

  The uniformed men who came to the door of the sleeper unit bore the same air as Randall, Catchut and Latourn. They were not mercenaries, but soldiers with strong bodies and watchful eyes. For an instant she thought they were Station Security, until the tallest one spoke.

  ‘Samuelle wants ta speak with ye. Brought you something to wear to get ye past Sec.’ He looked her up and down and grunted. ‘She didn’t say nuthin’ about ye bein’ preggers.’

  He pulled a pack free from his back and fished out a hooded uniform and boots. ‘Put this on. Stuff some- thin’ down the top. Make ye chest look big ta hide ye belly. Come out when ye ready. But hurry—we ain’t got much time.’ There was no leer in his voice, no curiosity, just a businesslike urgency.

  With shaking fingers Mira donned the garb, tucking the pants into the too-large boots. She wrapped the bed sheet around her chest until it equalled the girth of her stomach and then she donned the shirt, pressing the seams tightly together. The mirror showed her as a stocky, short figure, not a pregnant one. She pulled the hood up and tucked her hair under it.

  Then she stepped outside, acutely aware of the pants rubbing between her legs. She had never worn such clothing before, and it felt strange and uncomfortable and... obvious.

  ‘Stay between us, and don’t walk like a lady. Don’t speak either,’ said Samuelle’s soldier. ‘We’ll handle the rest.’

  Station Sec stopped them several times. In the plaza, leaving the lift well up-station, and then again entering the top level of station space.

  Each time Mira kept her shoulders square and willed herself to appear as one of them. She tried to remember Randall’s swagger, the way she stood with her legs apart and her chin high.

  When they finally arrived at their destination, Mira’s own legs were trembling with the strain of keeping up her disguise and the effort of walking at the soldiers’ pace.

  The person who opened the door they stopped at wore a black, quilted suit made of material that Mira had never seen before. The face and body encased by the suit was old and female—humanesque. The suit made a faint sighing noise as she lifted her arm and waved them all inside. Thales stood behind her, his hands clasped together.

  ‘Any trouble?’ said the woman after she closed the door.

  The soldier shook his head. ‘Luck more’n anythin’, Sam. So many people comin’ and goin’, Station Sec can barely cope. They’re lettin’ the likes of us through quicker. Didn’t look too close. A good thing, at that.’

  The old woman nodded. ‘That’s what I figured. Now catch some downtime.’ Then she added, ‘Go by Fariss first, see if they’ll let her have visitors. Tell her I said that this is only short-term.’

  The soldier raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He nodded to the others and they left.

  When they’d gone, Thales stepped into the space between Mira and the woman. His eyes were bloodshot but he seemed calmer than when he’d left her. ‘Baronessa, this is Samuelle.’

  Mira pushed back the hood and shook her hair free.

  Samuelle stared baldly at her lumpen body. ‘What in the Grux’re you carrying in there, girl?’

  ‘If you would excuse, I will remove the extra padding I wore to disguise my pregnancy.’

  Samuelle’s mouth dropped open. ‘Pregnancy?’ She glared at Thales. ‘You didn’t say nothin’ about pregnancy.’

  ‘I-it seemed i-inconsequential to the i-important matters,’ stammered Thales.

  Samuelle made a snorting noise and pointed Mira towards the small adjoining bathroom. ‘I have a meeting to git to, Baronessa. Move it.’

  Mira didn’t miss the sarcastic way Samuelle used her title. She hastened to the bathroom and removed the sheeting from around her chest, feeling her bre
ath come easier as she resealed the shirt.

  When she returned to the main room Thales was seated in one of the chairs watching Samuelle pace. Her body moved with remarkable agility.

  ‘Sit yourself down, girl, before yer pass out.’ She poured Mira some water from a dispenser in a cupboard and passed it to her. ‘Git to it.’

  Mira nodded. She’d been rehearsing this while she waited for Thales, and the words came freely. ‘I was kidnapped on Rho Junction by a group of Post-Species. They took me to their world in Extropy—’

  ‘What did they want?’ interrupted Samuelle.

  ‘I have the Innate gene, which allows me to fly a biozoon. They wished to analyse it. They have trouble with keeping their host bodies alive.’

  ‘Women don’t get that gene.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mira. ‘But I have.’

  The woman gave a low whistle. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The story is detailed but I managed to escape with the help of one of them. Insignia, my ship, came for me. As we left Extropy space we observed something utterly dreadful.’

  ‘What could be so bad?’

  ‘Intuitive Incendiary transporters.’

  ‘Geni-carriers? How many? Five? Ten?’

  Mira closed her eyes, remembering the sight of them—like an asteroid belt colliding with a shift sphere. ‘Millions. Insignia can quantify it more exactly.’

  ‘Millions? Bullshit.’

  Mira stared without blinking. ‘It’s the truth. They were shifting.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘Araldis, I assume. But I could not be sure.’

  Samuelle’s suit propelled her to the narrow bed and she sat down. Her face had lost its colour. ‘How could they have so many? When did they... Baronessa Fedor.’ Her head jerked up quickly. ‘Yer not insane are yer?’

  Mira felt her lips almost stretch into a smile. ‘Indeed, I am. But not in relation to this. I wish that I was.’

  ‘The biozoon will confirm yer story? The biozoon is here?’

  ‘Si.’ Mira said it confidently, though she was not sure—Insignia was angry enough with her to be spiteful. ‘It is among the Envoy pod.’

  ‘Then we have ta find a way to git you to this meeting.’

  ‘That could be... difficult. You know of my problems with OLOSS and the Stationmaster?’

  Samuelle nodded. She stood again, a tinge of colour returning to her face. Her eyes darted about with thought, and then fell upon Thales Berniere. ‘Time for yer confession, young one. I need me best soldier back.’

  JO-JO RASTEROVICH

  Jo-Jo was getting the hang of things. Navigating the Extros’ aural landscape wasn’t much different from a holo map. He found himself increasingly able to glide between layers and pick up conversations at whim. His adaptability had to be related to Sole’s interference with his brain function. He could think of no other reason.

  Rast Randall, on the other hand, was struggling to fight her way out of listening isolation. Jo-Jo heard the relief in her voice every time he returned to speak to her.

  ‘What’s the news?’ she asked with strained lightness. ‘Found Catchut or Lat yet?’

  He hesitated. He’d located Catchut, but the merc was gibbering. No amount of talking on Jo-Jo’s part had been able to penetrate the man’s broken mind. ‘Catchut’s not making much sense. Think the process might’ve cracked him.’

  ‘The process.’ Randall’s voice rose. ‘What frigging process? We’re stuck in some frigging sound chamber with a bunch of faceless echoes. Where’s the frigging process in that?’

  ‘Randall!’

  The merc fell silent for a time. No tears, but Jo-Jo sensed something else. Rast couldn’t hold on much longer. Soon she’d be like Catchut. Jo-Jo didn’t have much affection for Randall but he didn’t want to be left alone here.

  ‘Hold on. I can see daylight,’ he said, using the shorthand way they’d developed to speak to each other.

  ‘Truth?’ she asked in a subdued tone.

  ‘Truer than.’

  ‘I need to see light soon then. Or I won’t.’ She knew she was losing it.

  ‘Back in a flash.’

  Jo-Jo left her and slipped back into the wider stream. He floated on the noise, thinking. His ability, and Rast’s, to have an emotional response suggested that their bodies were still intact somewhere. He wasn’t sure why, but that made sense to him.

  If he was right about that, then there had to be a way back to them.

  The Medium was an object run by a system, which meant it had to have a back end, a functional space where maintenance occurred. Something had to look after the physical demands of the ship, or drum, or whatever it was.

  With that in mind he opened his senses to the clamour. The most common thread among the conversations he sampled as he skimmed was devoted to travel and destination. They’d reached Araldis, he heard. Preparation was being made for some type of transformation. Quixite was the word on every cache’s metaphorical lips.

  To be precise... transformationǀǀquixiteǀǀ

  He dipped deep past these exchanges and sought out the low-end frequencies. But the roar of voices had intensified. If there was a subtle set of sounds that denoted the physical workings of the Medium, he would never hear it unless he could get them to all be quiet.

  He found Rast and told her, ‘I’m going to try something.’

  ‘Make it good,’ she whispered. Her voice sounded hoarse with defeat, or maybe he just imagined it.

  He flipped away and began to skim and dip again, the way he’d been practising. But instead of sampling conversations, seeking information, he began to spread a very simple rumour, phrased as closely as he could to an Extro manner.

  silenceǀǀtransformation needsǀǀsilence

  At first there was nothing. No change to the din. No response. But he continued to dive in and out of the voice-gondolas on the giant Ferris wheel that he imagined, repeating his rumour until the words became a meaningless kaleidoscope of sound in his own mind.

  Then suddenly he found he’d stopped, whether from a bodiless kind of exhaustion or in response to something else; not silence, but a hush.

  Yes. The clamour had lessened.

  And underneath the listening quiet of the trillion Extro consciousnesses he heard the thrub of something different.

  With all the concentration he’d ever had, and ever would have, Jo-Jo dived down to catch that slow thrub. He clutched at it. The long, slow sound wave dragged him along like a swimmer caught in the undertow of the surf. Unlike drowning though, this gave him a sense of solidity. He was near the bottom, or the top, or the end—a base line.

  He smiled with satisfaction. Smiled? Yes, a smile. He was sure. He felt the tug of flesh and the stretch of lips. Sensation returning? He tried breathing. Sound of breath. Something rising and falling. A vague sense of physicality.

  In his excitement, his concentration on the thrub wavered, and the physical sensations receded. Panicking, he refocused on the sound until he felt the wave pulling him along again.

  When the sense of feeling began to return, he tried to isolate his fingers and hands. Wiggle them.

  He touched something. Warm and moist. Skin. His heart pounded. Jubilation streaked though him. Bodily sensation was like a gift, an ecstasy. But also strange and disorientating.

  He moved the fingers. Crept them along a skin carpet. Little increments, recognising surfaces, guessing: stomach, ribs—count them all—shoulder curve, throat, hair-coated jaw, teeth, eyelash.

  Something was wrong. He retraced his fingers, pushing them over the ridge of his nose. No skin to touch, there, and a much duller sensation. He experimented a little, finding the border where the sensation sharpened again. At that point he pinched and prised until something soft and pliable peeled off.

  He ripped it with force, flicking it away.

  Full body consciousness came at him with the speed of air rushing into a vacuum. Suddenly his eyes were open and staring at unrecognisable surrounds, and his m
uscles were telling him he’d been inactive for too long. He blinked at the blurriness, but it refused to clear properly. He was prone, surrounded by a substance with no sense of pressure or buoyancy. He put his hand in front of his face. Intact, but blurred as if underwater.

  Then he began to choke, his mouth and airways filling with whatever it was surrounding him.

  He flailed and kicked, trying to swim through it—until his head broke a surface. His whole body popped out of the substance, like a child propelled from a slippery, contracting birth canal, and settled on top, bouncing slightly.

  He gasped and spat and tried to order his perception. He was in a bland space, similar to the one they had entered originally; perhaps even the same one.

  Yes. The same one, he decided. He could see a mark, like a scar, where the biozoon had been connected. The floor was the pliable, jellylike substance under him. He stabbed his fingers downward and they sank deeply into it yet his body stayed on top. Some kind of surface tension, he mused. Need to move slowly.

  As he withdrew his fingers and widened his field of view, the blur cleared. The ambient light was low and the place smelt of... unwashed flesh. Probably his own.

  He sat up carefully. A distortion in the jellylike floor caught his attention. Slowly, palms flat, he eased along on his butt to get a closer look. With every sliding movement his feet broke the surface and he had to pull them back out.

  The distortion was variegated in colour, the closest part to him being dark. He screwed up his eyes, trying to make out the shape. It seemed large and square.

  He plunged his hand below, and contacted a wet clump of hair. Then gristly flesh. An ear. He worked his way across the face and felt for contours he might recognise. The bridge of the nose was broad. Latourn maybe?

  He reached further down and tried to tug the body towards him but only succeeded in dragging himself back under. Arching his back, he closed his fingers and paddled up until he was above the surface again.

  He slid sideways on his stomach, about to try another angle, when he noticed something white next to Latourn.