The Sentients of Orion Page 12

  Trin retreated. The woman had a presence; ways of making him feel uncertain. The same as Mira had that night on the beach, and his tia Marchella at dinner.

  ‘A woman cannot be Pilot First. You know that as well as I.’

  Faja swayed as if she had been slapped. ‘I do not think that you and I know the same things at all.’

  Trin gave her a sharp, dismissive look. Faja’s aggression alarmed him—even the voracious Silvio sorellas knew how to curb their stronger opinions.

  ‘I have other matters to attend,’ he said curtly. Conscious of the Baronessa’s glare at his back, he walked to the end of the corridor where Istelle waited.

  ‘Djeserit has recovered now,’ Istelle whispered as she opened the coldlock. ‘Thank you.’

  Though Trin did not reply, her words took some of the sting out of Faja Fedor’s boorish manner. He stepped outside the lock, wondering why he had come. What had he expected? Comfort? Respect? He stared at the waves of heat billowing from the redcrete. The viuzzas of Loisa were so barren and hostile compared to Dockside and Pell.

  ‘Don Pellegrini?’ The low, urgent voice came from the shadows of the portico.

  He turned. ‘Si?’

  A naked hand extended towards him. Trin recognised the mottled skin and took an involuntary step forward. What was the ragazza doing here? Waiting for him?

  Djeserit’s fingers closed on his glove and she drew him along the side of the villa and down the edge of the dry-garden. Not a word passed between them until she opened the door of the oval outhouse that contained two beds, a table stand, a tiny cucina and a washroom.

  ‘What is this?’ Trin asked, stepping inside.

  She shrugged—a curious full-body movement that brought her to the tips of her toes—and closed the door. ‘The Baronessas lived here when the villa was being built.’

  Impulsively, Trin reached out and touched the healing gash on her forehead. ‘Are you improved?’

  Djeserit smiled, her facial skin tightening until her eyes almost disappeared. Without warning she pushed the door shut and locked her arms around his waist.

  The pressure of her body sparked an instant wash of desire in Trin. He tried to push her away but she clung to him with surprising strength, hugging herself close to the swell in his groin.

  He stripped off his gloves and ran a hand across her dry, papery cheek.

  She turned her lips to it and tongued the skin between his fingers. Even her tongue felt parched and abrasive.

  ‘What are you doing?’ The words strangled in his throat.

  ‘I am ready for quenching but here...’ she rolled her eyes up under her lids and gestured in the direction of the villa ‘... they do not understand such things. The Baronessa only knows of quenching in the ways of the Latino. When the man says. When the man wants. I am not Latino and I want... now.’

  Trin felt another rush of desire. Djeserit’s strangeness fuelled his passion, as if repulsion was his true attractor. She was bold and vulnerable at once. But more than that... she was alien and unrestrained.

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She wore a simple working fellala without thermal layers. Underneath it he could feel the protected parts of her lotioned skin—so soft and malleable compared to her face. He lifted her robe and peeled back the lower layers of his fellalo so that he could lie on her. Explosiveness built inside him as he pressed himself into her. Their union was quick and difficult, her anatomy not a complete fit for his.

  Afterwards she clung to him, making disjointed carking noises. They did not startle him this time. He brimmed with elation—he had performed without bravura.

  ‘More.’ Her breath was light and quick against his neck.

  Methodically Trin refolded his robe and sealed it. ‘Tonight, late,’ he said. ‘Can you come here?’

  Djeserit nodded. ‘Under the cucina there is a wine cellar. I use it to get away from the ‘esques. They don’t like to come outside.’

  ‘They taunt you?’

  ‘Si. But I am not afraid of them. Not like your Carabinere.’ Her face tightened with fear and her eyes disappeared under their lids as if she had gone to sleep.

  Trin felt the pangs of a mistake he could not undo. He had soiled himself with a ginko. He was a ginko-lover.

  Djeserit hugged him again but this time he stood impassive in her embrace. When she had gone, he left along the side of the villa, thankful that he would not have to look Faja Fedor in the face.

  MIRA

  Mira woke on the floor of the little hall with her sorella’s face blurred by nearness. She tried to sort the sounds coming from Faja’s lips but they emerged as drops of noise without form. The room was a blur of shapes. Her feet felt bloodless and distant. Faja lifted her to them, propelling her along the corridor to the cucina. She helped Mira to a low seat, returned to the door and locked it.

  Mira inhaled the food scents. Her stomach contracted with hunger. ‘I have not eaten,’ she whispered.

  Faja hastened to her with a plate of minestrone from the huge pan on the cooker. As Mira sipped the soup her vision cleared. Faja’s house fellala was stained with food and sweat-crumpled, even in the cool of the house. Her rich crimson skin glowed with the cooking heat and beads of moisture dotted the line of her dark hair.

  Mira’s sorella felt the scrutiny and set the ladle down, wiping her hands on her apron. She poured Mira a drink from a tall jug and brought it to her. ‘Can you speak now?’

  Mira took a deep and shuddering breath, unsure where to begin.

  ‘I know some of what has happened. They told me the Principe would take your Talent. The Carabinere were here just a few hours ago,’ said Faja.

  Mira jerked upright, ready to run from the cucina, but Faja pressed her back down. ‘You are safe for tonight, cara. There has been a fire and the Carabinere have other things to divert them.’

  Mira trembled with relief and then began to sob. Seeing Faja had made it more real.

  ‘Madre de Dios,’ said Faja with uncharacteristic softness. She clasped Mira tightly. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘The Carabinere came for me after graduation. I ran... to find Insignia. But she is gone. The Principe has moved her and I can no longer hear her in my mind. I hid on a ship at the landing station. The captain, he wished to kill me, but the ship was another biozoon. I-It helped me. What will happen to me, Fa? Without Insignia...’

  Faja kissed the top of Mira’s hair. ‘Without Insignia you will be strong.’

  Mira inhaled her sorella’s thick scent, calmed by its familiarity. It had been this way when they were younger: Faja giving comfort to her just so.

  ‘It is not just for you that there are troubles, ‘bino. The city’s kranse stores are gone, burned down—whoof!—like that. These last weeks the Carabinere sirens bleat day and night. The miners are angry with the familia, but Franco Pellegrini does nothing to improve things for them. Nothing. And now... he would take our birthright away.’ Her voice shook on the last word. She drew a quiet breath. ‘I must speak quickly to you of an important matter.’

  Mira stared up at her. ‘What matter?’

  Faja disappeared into the large pantry. Mira heard her heavy-footed tread down the stairs to the cellar.

  She returned with a bottle of aged wine. Mira knew its quality from the clear tawny colour.

  ‘Where are your servants?’ asked Mira.

  Faja handed her the cup. ‘The Galiottos have been recalled by the Principe. He has heard that I am giving refuge to alien ragazze,’ she said.

  Mira sat a little straighten How long had she been away at the Studium? Several years. She had not come back in that time. It had not seemed right to flaunt her learning in Faja’s face.

  ‘Do you know how I can afford to care for these un- familia?’ asked Faja.

  ‘Our gratis?’

  ‘Pfft. That does not scrape the skin of my expenses. I cannot beg the Principe to buy korm shell or uuli nutrients. No, I have only been able to do this through
the grace of a patron.’

  ‘A patron?’ Mira was alert now and distracted from her own concerns. ‘Who?’

  Faja took a generous swallow of her wine. ‘Marchella Pellegrini.’

  Marchella Pellegrini? Franco’s estranged sorella! Mira knew the name—most familia did—though she had never met her.

  Faja saw her puzzlement. ‘Some believe that Marchella should be head of the familia instead of Franco. If intelligence and courage stood for anything it would be so. But Ciprianos are the most intransigent of our clans. They think only of the men... the men... The men say they left Crux for the sake of our future. That is a lie, Mira! They left for the sake of their future: to keep their women restrained. Things had begun to change on Crux. The many wars had opened our eyes to other ways.’

  Mira stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘No. That is not so. We left to arrest the dilution of our race. When our women were raped during the wars, it led to much interbreeding with our enemies. That is why they altered the terms of our fertility. To protect us.’

  ‘You sound like a Studium lecture, Mira. Have you not thought to look past the official canon?’

  In truth she had not. In her time at the Studium her mind had been immersed in Latino poetry and ship schematics, and ways to avoid Lancia Silvio. ‘W-what other truths do you know?’

  ‘I—we believe that our clan leaders wish only to strengthen their patriarchy—that our race was never in danger of dilution.’

  ‘The Fedors would not have fallen for such a thing! Why did they volunteer to pilot the migration?’

  ‘Maybe they thought it would preserve the Inborn Talent, for we do not truly know why or how we are blessed.’

  Worry, not hunger, churned Mira’s stomach now. ‘The Principe believes he can cut the gene from me and transfer it to his son.’

  ‘Franco wishes much for his son. It is Franco who should experience a transference—transference of command.’

  Mira took a sharp breath. Faja spoke treason. ‘You must not say that,’ she begged her sorella. ‘You are the prudent one. The steadfast elder Baronessa Fedor. I am the loco; the eccentric.’

  Faja swallowed the last drops from her glass of wine and poured another; her cheeks glowed brighter with her rising passion. ‘You are not the only one with dreams, Mira. Why do you think I have taken in these bambini?’

  Without warning she parted the folds of her tunic and revealed intricate lines and patterns etched into her flesh.

  Mira gasped. ‘I have seen that before—on a Galiotto woman at the Studium. She gave me her biometric stripe. That was how I escaped.’

  ‘It is the sign of the Pensare.’

  ‘I thought they were only an invention of the Nobile.’

  ‘No invention, cara.’

  Mira cupped her fingers around the rim of her cup, absorbing what she had just learned. ‘Why did you keep this from me?’

  ‘So that you could find your own path, mia Mira. I did not wish my bitterness to be yours.’

  ‘You are not bitter.’

  Faja’s serious expression softened. ‘When you look at me you see only a mama, because our own did not survive. But I am not just that—I am many things and not all of them admirable or biddable. It is time that you knew this and made your own choices. The Pensare can help you.’

  Mira’s skin prickled with alarm and a measure of anger. ‘How can they help me? Can they deny the Carabinere? Can they stand before the Principe and command him not to take my Talent? And if they could help me—why would they? Who am I to such insurgents?’

  ‘Their opposition is subtle but that does not make it less. And they would help you, Mira—they have already have—because you are a woman.’

  ‘What if I am a dishonest woman who deserves no help? Do they not discriminate?’

  ‘You have not learned enough yet to understand that we are only pushed to corruption by circumstance. It is not our natural inclination. If the Pensare can improve the circumstances of our women then one soul will be no different from another. All will be matched. And remember, we are of the Castiglioni! The Pensare have learned to revere our beliefs. Who better than us to steer the transformation?’

  Her sorella’s rapt expression stirred Mira. Yet she found it impossible to relinquish the stone of mistrust lodged deep inside. ‘The familia women I know would not care for your help. They hated me for my thin body and truthfulness.’

  ‘Your slenderness is a different beauty, Mira. Have I not told you that many times?’

  ‘My difference is not here.’ Mira slapped her sides. ‘It is in here.’ She touched her forehead. ‘Even from you, Fa. I have no care for home and place. I long to be free of it all.’

  Faja nodded. ‘It is the Inborn Talent. Pilot are wanderers.’

  ‘Then perhaps I should give myself to the Principe. Perhaps without my Talent I would fit better.’

  Faja stood, frowning, and began throwing bluish- purple legumes into a bowl. ‘If you are inclined to indulge in such self-pity then perhaps you should.’

  Mira bowed her head.

  Her sorella went to the cooker and lifted an enormous tray of fritters from the oven. ‘We will talk more later. Take your meal in here and sleep in the lodge. Only a few of the bambini know of your presence. I shall instruct them not to speak of it to anyone.’

  She dropped several fat fritters on a plate in front of Mira and carried the rest from the room.

  * * *

  Mira sipped more wine and greedily fingered the fritters into her mouth, uncaring that her chin became slick with fat.

  ‘Have you unlearned all your manners on Mount Pell, Baronessa?’

  Mira dabbed her mouth guiltily.

  Istelle stood at the door, smiling. The Pagoin humanesque’s spider-thin limbs seemed frail compared with the solid Latino shape, but the warmth of her smile made her face into something beautiful.

  Mira ran to embrace her.

  ‘Poor darling,’ Istelle murmured, stroking her hair the way Faja had. ‘Faja has told me of your ordeal. Why did you not come sooner?’

  Mira thought of Jancz. She could not speak of him, even to Istelle. ‘I have been m-moving to avoid the Carabinere.’

  ‘How have you survived?’

  ‘Friends have helped me.’

  ‘Well, you are safe for the moment. Come with me to see the new bambini.’

  Mira followed Istelle along the familiar corridor to a room decorated with rich brocade wall-trim and furnished with several lace-covered cradles and an armchair. Istelle lifted a bambino from one of the cradles and settled it in her arms. It suckled on a latte bladder, its fist curled around Istelle’s thin finger. The others began to cry, hearing movement.

  ‘You have your hands full there, ‘Stelle.’

  ‘Their mother was a Pagoin. She was killed in the Juanita mine collapse. Their father is still alive but he is filled with grief and refuses to see them.’

  ‘What happened at Juanita? I heard many different things.’

  Istelle shrugged. ‘Some say it was deliberate, others say an accident. Faja believes the Principe does not insist on enough safety.’

  Mira watched her rock the bambino. ‘It suits you,’ she said softly.

  Istelle smiled. ‘I’ve been blessed, Mira. You know I was born wombless. That’s why my husband abandoned me. Yet I find myself with more love and more children to care for than I could have dreamed about.’

  ‘I think they are the ones who have been blessed, Istelle.’

  Mira stayed with Istelle until a little before midnight when Faja came to find her.

  ‘Come while I finish,’ Faja said.

  Mira followed in Faja’s shadow. ‘So many bambini now,’ she whispered.

  Faja nodded. ‘It seems that more and more are being abandoned. It has become known that we will not turn them away. I suppose that is how the Principe heard.’ She pointed into Mira’s old room. ‘Djeserit—the miolaqua—asked for you.’

  No sense of familiarity claimed her whe
n she entered the room. Her Fenice four-poster bed and armoire had been removed to make room for the korm nest. The korm was roosting on it now, making soft crooning noises. Only the amber-tinted walls were the same.

  ‘Why do the Carabinere want you?’ Djeserit lay in a sack on a simple bed opposite the korm. The scent of lotion rose from the cloth—her skin was being moisturised as she rested.

  Mira sighed. ‘They would take something of mine.’

  ‘But you cannot deny the Carabinere, Baronessa.’

  Mira paused. She could not explain the nuances of her world to this ragazza. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Djeserit turned her head away. ‘Baronessa Faja says you are very clever. How do you know if a man is... noble?’

  The question took Mira by surprise, sparking memories she had tried to disregard—Trin Pellegrini kissing her on the beach, wanting her, then pushing her away.

  She took some moments to let them pass before she answered. ‘How do you judge any person? Perhaps by knowing yourself.’

  Djeserit tossed and turned in her lotion sack, discontented.

  Mira wondered if she should pursue it further but Faja called her out into the dimness of the corridor. ‘The lodge is clean enough for you to sleep in—like old times, cara. Lock the door to it, though. I do not believe that our city is as safe as it was. I will contact the Pensare and in the morning we will take you to a safe place. The Carabinere will never know you have been here.’

  On impulse Mira embraced her sorella, brushing the lines on Faja’s forehead with her lips. ‘Grazi.’

  Faja drew back. ‘For what? Honouring my sorella?

  You have always come first in my life, Mira, when you were a bambina, after our mama and papa were gone.’ She cupped her thick, blunt-fingered hand gently against Mira’s face and then disappeared down the dark corridor.

  Mira sighed. Faja had been mama to her, but who had been mama to Faja?

  She made her way through the rear coldlock and followed the line of dismal teranu grass through the dry gardens to the lodge.

  The small outhouse felt more familiar to her than her own bedroom. Nothing had changed inside: the same beds and a small organic cucina and bathroom that she and Faja had lived in when they had first been relocated to Loisa.