The Sentients of Orion Page 14

  Mira dragged her away from the edge of the hole. ‘She’s much heavier than you. I will need something to pull her out.’

  Djeserit called to the korm while Mira searched through the rubble for something to help them. She found it in what was left of the laundry amid the stench of smouldering chemicals—a roll of flex. She stumbled back to Djeserit but as she unwound it a prickling sensation crept along her spine. Nearby more explosions sounded. Were those other voices she could hear, calling out for help?

  Mira tied the flex around her waist and told Djeserit to grasp her. Together they pulled the korm jerkily up to the lip of the hole. Then the edge crumbled away with the weight and she dropped again.

  Mira’s weakness infuriated her. I need a man’s strength.

  Djeserit tugged her arm. ‘Baronessa? Don’t give up. Per favore.’

  The ragazza’s plea spurred her to try again. She planted her feet wide and began to pull backwards again. It was so hot now that it hurt to breathe. The flex bit through her gloves and pinched at her waist. Her muscles trembled uncontrollably with the weight of the load. Any moment now the fire would sweep through and take them.

  Mira let obstinacy became her focus. The korm would not slip. This time as it reached the lip of the hole the korm gripped the edge with it strong beak and forearms and pulled itself out.

  Mira did not wait to examine Djeserit’s and the korm’s wounds; she urged them from the ruins and back through the dry-garden to the lodge.

  Trin was still inside, kneeling beside Istelle. In his arms he held a small bundle: a ‘bino. His face crumpled with relief when he saw Mira. ‘She had it in a sling under her arm,’ he said.

  Mira took the tiny shape from him. It was crying, a bleating noise so gentle against the chaos. ‘Bino? I could have crushed you—’

  The noise of another blast drowned her voice. The walls of the lodge trembled and Mira’s ears popped. Instinct drove her to the floor.

  Trin had fallen across Djeserit, shielding her with his own body.

  Noble but tardy, Mira thought. If he had helped her before, maybe others would have lived—maybe Faja. She didn’t need to look outside to know there would be no survivors now.

  Closing her mind to it, Mira crawled to Istelle’s side. The ‘bino had fallen silent in her arms, its face wary like that of a tiny, scared animal.

  ‘Where’s the nearest medic, ‘Stelle?’

  The Pagoin woman didn’t answer.

  Mira ran her free hand over Istelle’s head, feeling for wounds to her scalp and neck. The poor cara must have been feeding the ‘bino when the blast had come. Where had Faja been? Did it matter? Faja was gone. Her sorella was gone.

  But Istelle lived. I must help her. She stroked Istelle’s hair in a soothing movement.

  Djeserit stepped forward and tugged her arm away roughly.

  ‘Istelle’s dead, Baronessa. We must go from here and find help.’

  Dead? What did she mean? Mira continued her stroking but Djeserit shook her again, insistently.

  ‘‘See her, Mira!’ The harsh voice belonged to Trin Pellegrini.

  Mira had forgotten about him but his hostile demand forced her to examine Istelle’s face; to watch her chest. Nothing. No airflow. No pulse. No life: only a trickle of drying blood at the corner of her mouth and a look of heartbreaking sadness.

  Mira Fedor’s world collapsed. She crouched, unspeaking, suffocated by the wretched beat of her own heart.

  JO-JO RASTEROVICH

  Jo-Jo reflected on his lucky escape over a squirt or ten of Noort-Cloud whisky. Not so lucky—for Jo-Jo, at least—had been the Lostolian fop’s perspicacity in having Jo-Jo sign a contract before he agreed to help him from the ménage lounge and back into a taxi.

  When that was done, the dreadful lethargy and fog that had taken command of his body and had brought him near to a close encounter with Dieter Thighs, seemed to abate. Jo-Jo booted Salacious II out of Belle-Monde’s orbit like he had a supernova up his arse.

  One complete resonance shift and a day or two of suffocation nightmares later, he began to settle back into his comfort zone. Or would have if the fop, Tekton, had not been on farcast to him.

  ‘The need for this mineral is somewhat urgent,’ said Tekton.

  ‘Mate,’ Jo-Jo said. ‘You can stick your contract. I’ve got Lawmon all over Orion who could tie you up in court for years. Duress and all that.’

  Tekton’s expression remained unchanged apart from a small distortion of pixels that made his nose appear to jiggle. ‘That is most unlikely, Mr Rasterovich.’

  Jo-Jo eyeballed the farcast imager nonchalantly. ‘I’m also halfway to Bellatrix. How exactly do you plan to catch me?’

  ‘If you care to examine the contents of the contract shell in your possession, perhaps you will understand that I mean to hold you to it.’

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ said Jo-Jo with feeling. But as he terminated the farcast, a sense of foreboding grew in him. What had he signed? A simple worthless contract, he thought. In truth, he recalled little of those moments in the ménage lounge, aside from the difficulty he had had catching his breath, and the way his limbs had snubbed him when he had tried to flee the scene of his plight. Even now, the memories caused a great, anxious shudder to pass through him.

  Annoyed and worried, he stamped along Salacious II’s velour-luxurious corridors to his laundry and rifled through several months’ worth of dirty clothes. He found the shell in the pocket of the trousers he’d worn on Belle-Monde and took it back to his den.

  After swallowing a sherbet of sniffing tobacco he cracked the contract shell open. An image transferred itself onto his deskfilm.

  ‘Mr Rasterovich,’ it informed him. ‘You have agreed to the terms of a Hera.’

  Fuck! Jo-Jo’s heart stopped. ‘Jesu and Crux.’ A Hera contract? Only the expensive medites he’d purchased on Teranu prevented him from a full-scale coronary occlusion. Scrabbling madly to inflate his artery they brought him back to life in a few milliseconds. Which was a damn shame, he thought afterwards. If he’d agreed to a Hera contract he might as well be dead anyway.

  The contract’s image had thoughtfully paused itself while he recovered, and it cleared its throat before continuing. ‘In brief, the terms are these: you shall deliver the agreed goods. Failure to meet the terms will result in the reclamation of all your wealth and the cancellation of any future rejuvenation. You will, in short, become poor and old. And you will die. Should you fulfil the contract all penalties will be withdrawn. It should be noted that Hera contracts have no process of appeal. The official version of this message can be viewed by forwarding to subsection B1.’

  * * *

  With the grudging manner of one who recognises inevitability and doesn’t quite have the balls to spit right in its face, Jo-Jo called Tekton back.

  The fop came on the farcast imager, calm and more than a trifle smug.

  ‘Tell me what you want, prick,’ said Jo-Jo.

  ‘Aaaah...’ Tekton’s explanation of the mineral he sought was lengthy and colourful.

  Jo-Jo condensed his waffling into three short categories: fluidly supple, resilient and beautiful in its natural form. Impossible.

  For the first time in a long while, Jo-Jo set to work. He searched his databases for weeks, called every contact he had ever known, or thought he knew, but nothing came of it.

  The galaxy was too small, he thought, to accommodate something of the kind. Its minerals were well catalogued.

  Jo-Jo alternated between despair, feverish investigation, and fantasies of revenge to be taken on the fop. Between the times spent tracking down mineral assays from every lump of rock in the Orion system he gathered all the information he could on Tekton.

  The smart, he vowed, would pay for his dirty trick.

  So hectic did Jo-Jo’s days and nights become that he had little time or inclination to spend with his sim-women.

  One week, as he passed through various stages of despair, he decided to land on the invi
tation-only bordello pseudo-world of Vela.

  Several days and many infection screenings later Jo-Jo found himself at Vela’s most salubrious bar in no better mood.

  That was until an OLOSS circuit judge started buying drinks and drugs for the entire place.

  Jo-Jo rose to the occasion, deactivated his blood stabiliser, and imbibed enough to send any decent-sized sentient comatose.

  At one stage during the thirty-hour binge, he Cossack-danced naked with the OLOSS judge (Samuel L.) on the back of a pair of stocky Balol twins. His toes bled from the frill pricks, but during the process he and Samuel L. bonded for life.

  Hour twenty-nine of the binge saw them arm in arm on the lounge sofa, exchanging stories.

  Samuel L., who was inclined to be verbose at best, and at this stage of the proceedings was melancholy with guilt, produced images of his family and children at home on their privately owned world in the OLOSS system of Betelgeuse.

  As Jo-Jo surveyed the images through the smear of too many cocktails and not enough stimulants, something caught his eye. A rippling objet d’art the like of which he had never seen before. ‘Tell me, mate,’ he said. ‘What the fuck is that?’

  Samuel L got a rather sly look on his face.

  Which made Jo-Jo wonder if he’d cheated on the binge and left his blood stabilisers functioning.

  ‘That is an extraordinary little something I picked up from a planet way out west. Can’t remember what it was called now.’

  The ‘little something’ was a feature wall—in the entrance of his mansion—that shimmered and rippled and changed form. ‘It’s made of a shape-memory alloy: “quixite” is the common name. I’ve been on the circuit to some hick planets for a long time, never seen it in these quantities before. Rare combination of mineral. Did a little deal for it.’ He winked. ‘Course, it’s not something I spread around. Wouldn’t do for everyone to have one. The wife would never let me hear the end of it.’

  At that point Jo-Jo produced a rather nifty recording dice of the entire binge, including Samuel L.’s attempt to give adequate cunnilingus to the bordello’s mistress who had six state-of-the-art orifices. ‘And I don’t suppose she would let you hear the end of this, either.’

  Samuel L.’s newly implanted hair stood stiffer in alarm than his erection ever had in passion.

  ‘Now, mate,’ said Jo-Jo. ‘Where did you get that alloy?’

  MIRA

  Trin led Mira to the front of the villa’s ruins as if she were blind. Djeserit carried the crying ‘bino and the korm limped behind her. Rumbles from more explosions across the city shook the ground underneath their feet. Shots echoed between villas, followed by shouts and screams and the whirring of AiV rotors lifting into the air. Familia from the nearby Villa Cabuto stood, peering through their fence.

  Trin signalled for their help but they withdrew inside.

  ‘Cazzone!’ shouted Trin after them. ‘Who are you that you would not help your Principe?’

  ‘They don’t know you,’ said Djeserit. She rested a hand on his hip. ‘It’s us they avoid. They hated the Baronessa taking us in. They excluded her from their gatherings.’

  Faja, thought Mira. Faja.

  Trin made an angry noise and ran a few steps. He pointed to Villa Fedor’s collapsed gate pillars. They lay across the back of his vehicle. ‘We must walk further to get help,’ he said.

  ‘But the heat...’ Djeserit shaded her head with her arms. She wore only an indoor robe and no velum. ‘I can stand the heat but the sun...’ She showed him her palms. Already welts had appeared on them and on her face.

  The korm chittered as if agreeing, yet its reptile skin and patches of feather-fur looked as impervious as Balol skin armour.

  Trin glanced up and down the viuzza. One direction led out of the city, the other, which ran past the Villa Cabuto, intersected other viuzzas at a vehicle shelter. ‘There. The TerV-way.’

  They moved quickly towards it, Trin pulling Mira along. With relief they found the coldlock still functioning as they crowded into the passenger set-down.

  From an observer’s distance that meant as little to Mira as the cuts on her feet and the scoured grazes on her face, she heard them discuss her condition.

  ‘What is wrong with the Baronessa? Why won’t she speak?’ asked Djeserit.

  ‘Shock,’ said Trin.

  ‘How long will this last?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  Another explosion rattled their shelter, raining debris on the roof. Trin ran to the coldlock and flung it open.

  ‘Crux,’ he cried, falling to one knee, pounding his chest. ‘Villa Cabuto...’

  ‘What is it?’ said Djeserit.

  ‘It is gone.’ He stayed staring out into the hot daylight as if he could not believe it.

  Djeserit began to cry in carking sobs. The korm crouched closer to her, making sympathetic noises. Djeserit fondled its crest with her trembling fingers.

  Trin turned on them. ‘Stop it,’ he said harshly. ‘Stop now.’ He paced a little. ‘We must go to the Carabinere.’

  Djeserit’s face twisted in fear. ‘What will they do?’

  ‘They have transport. They can evacuate us.’

  Mira watched Trin pull Djeserit to her feet and draw her aside. ‘We should leave them. They will slow us,’ he whispered.

  ‘Why would we?’ Djeserit asked.

  Trin hesitated. ‘I can... I wish to help you.’

  Mira felt only detached curiosity as she waited for Djeserit to reply. What would the ragazza say? And why would Trin make such an offer—a ginko above familia?

  But Djeserit did not answer. ‘The ‘bino needs fluid,’ she said. She disappeared into the TerV-way’s washroom and came back with a wet cloth that she had torn from her robe. With it she dribbled water into the ‘bino’s mouth. It suckled at the material hungrily and choked a little. She repeated her action, returning to the washroom several times to rewet the cloth.

  When the ‘bino was sated the korm began chittering loudly, then left the TerV-way.

  ‘Where is it going?’ Trin demanded.

  ‘There is a market nearby. She will try to get food for us.’

  The idea of waiting agitated Trin but he seemed loath to leave Djeserit. ‘As soon as the sun has set we must go. Things may get worse.’

  * * *

  The korm returned with a tube of lig honey and packets of latte. She told Djeserit the market had been ransacked by ‘esques and that they had thrown rocks at her.

  The ‘bino sucked the latte in choking gulps and then vomited.

  Djeserit squeezed honey into Mira’s mouth, then pressed her lips closed and massaged her neck. The honey stung the back of Mira’s dry throat and she swallowed reflexively. It lessened her feeling of numbness and she began to tremble violently.

  ‘We should leave here soon,’ said Trin again.

  Stiff words escaped Mira’s lips. ‘Si, you should.’

  ‘Baronessa,’ cried Djeserit with relief.

  The korm trumpeted but Mira’s attention stayed fixed on Trin Pellegrini. ‘You may leave us now. I will watch out for them.’

  Trin crossed his arms in a stubborn gesture characteristic of his papa. His manner, which Mira had always thought regal, now seemed intolerably arrogant. She wanted to strike him but she could not lift her arm. Her shoulder ached as though it was broken and her belly ached nearly as much, from hunger and shock and misery. The cuts and grazes on her legs and face seemed worse than either Djeserit’s or the korm’s. ‘Please go.’

  Djeserit tugged her shoulder. ‘No, Mira,’ she begged.

  Mira winced in pain, her head spinning a little. ‘He has no honour. All he knows is how to take.’

  Trin gave a brittle laugh. ‘And just who is the misfit? The Principe’s son,’ he thumped his breast, ‘or the eccentric Baronessa Fedor?’

  They glared at each other until Trin looked away. ‘This is not the time for dispute,’ he said.

  Mira nodded, wondering at her own anger
and the false courage it lent her. ‘What is happening to the city?’

  ‘There was a fire yesterday at the grain silos. Perhaps it was not the accident the Carabinere thought it was.’

  ‘A deliberate fire?’ said Mira.

  Trin shrugged. ‘Who would wish that? Everyone on Araldis—even the ginkos—understand how quickly our oxygen-rich atmosphere and dry winds can spread flames.’

  Mira’s stomach contracted into a hard, tight lump. ‘Then obviously that was their intention. To create chaos; to destroy.’

  ‘Baronessa, we must stay with Don Pellegrini. He can protect us,’ interrupted Djeserit.

  Mira’s moment of complicity passed. ‘Protect you? A moment ago he was ready to abandon a tiny ‘bino and yet you would trust him.’

  ‘All I wish is to travel quickly,’ Trin objected. ‘I would have sent Carabinere for you.’

  ‘Liar!’ exclaimed Mira.

  ‘And again you forget yourself, Baronessa.’ Trin slapped her face with deliberate force.

  She staggered backwards, feeling blood on her face. The seam of his glove had cut a welt across her cheek.

  ‘Stop!’ pleaded Djeserit.

  The ‘bino began to cry.

  Mira pressed her hand to her cheek, struggling to subdue her emotions. She had never felt this uncontrolled before. Her anger had become a molten, living thing inside her. She wanted to hurt this man, and the turmoil of the feeling would not leave her. Sealing her velum, she strode out into the sunlight.

  Outside, the shadows of the TerV-way had grown longer. Mira crouched against the wall, letting tears flow until her velum was sodden with them.

  Faja is dead. The words recurred like little explosions in her head, scattering her thoughts to places where she could not follow. Istelle.

  She got to her feet and picked her way through burning debris. The viuzza was empty. There were no AiVs in the sky, only great drifts of smoke. The fire from Villa Cabuto and Villa Fedor raged northward, driven by gusts of wind. They would need to move on before the nightwinds came and brought the fire back on itself.