Chaos Space (Sentients of Orion) Read online

  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 biozoon, 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. The
ir 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.

  A figure made its way along the tunnel, stepping over the others’ legs, speaking harsh apologies, until it stopped, hunched over before Trin.

  It was a woman with a babe in her arms. He knew this one and the child she carried: Mira Fedor’s ally carrying the Pagoin infant that Fedor called her own.

  ‘Si, Signora Mulravey? What do you want?’

  ‘Your men are all wearing suits or fellalos. Some of my women have nothing. They will not survive in the nightwinds.’

  ‘They made it to here.’

  Trin heard the intake of her breath, as if she had held in a sharp retort and replaced it with something else. ‘They did, but I can tell you one thing for certain, Principe Trinder Pellegrini. They will make it no further.’ She leaned towards him then. ‘And what will your men survivors do with no women?’ The last she spoke in a broken whisper.

  Next to him Djeserit stiffened. Trin wanted to stroke her arm, to reassure her, but not while this bold woman was their witness.

  ‘The Carabinere are your protectors. It is only logical that they should remain suited. If they need to fight...’

  ‘Fight?’ The woman raised her voice a little and it carried too far. ‘What need is there for that? You have given the word that the way is clear.’

  Trin lowered his own voice. ‘We cannot know such a thing absolutely. You must understand that, after what you have been through.’

  ‘The women must have protection.’

  ‘I will consider it.’

  ‘You will do better than that.’ Mulravey lowered her own voice and her breath laboured with emotion. ‘What—did—you—do—to—Mira—Fedor?’

  ‘Mira Fedor stole an AiV. She deserted you. All of us.’

  Mulravey shuffled closer until her stale breath was hot on Trin’s face. ‘By all the useless gods in this universe I do not believe that. And if you do not give my women suits to wear I will make sure that everyone else does not believe it either. Then we will see what respect you garner, Principe.’

  Trin pressed one hand against the rock wall, resisting an urge to thrust the woman away. Djeserit’s hand slipped into his other, and squeezed. He understood her message. She wanted him to listen.

  Mulravey had influence among her own, and not only with the females. A contingent of non-Latino males listened to her. Better that she should remain an ally for as long as possible. Mira Fedor must not become admired.

  ‘I do not like threats, Signora Mulravey, but I do understand compassion. Bring the worst ones forward and I will see what I can do,’ said Trin.

  The woman rocked back on her feet, suddenly drained of energy. What had it cost her, he wondered, to challenge the Principe?

  The reminder of his authority brought a warm flow to his veins. He could afford some benevolence. It was a lesson that Franco had never learned. He squeezed Djeserit’s hand and then let go.

  They had to move on.

  * * *

  The last stretch was a steep uphill crouched walk, very different to the wide road and gentle gradient at the beginning of the Pablo mine maze. They had travelled several hundred mesurs underground and the hardest section was the last.

  Juno Genarro and Seb Malocchi had gone above ground to clear away the rocky plug, al
lowing the waning sunlight into the vertical shaft. The final climb was by ladder and cut-in steps. Some would be too weak to make it unassisted.

  Trin stood at the bottom, blinking up into the light. He could barely contain his relief. Near him some of the Carabinere were shedding their fellalos at his order. Cass Mulravey stood by, making sure that the weakest of her women received the protection. For some inexplicable reason it angered Trin to know that his men were close to naked.

  ‘It is the right thing to do,’ whispered Djeserit as if she knew his thoughts. ‘It will draw them to you.’

  He stared at her in the shaft of sunlight. Her papery Lostolian skin was dry and cracked, and grime coated the ridges of her neck gills. He noticed the slight breathiness in her voice.

  ‘What is wrong with your breath?’

  Djeserit turned her head away in the way unique to the young; a way that told Trin that she did not want to answer his question. For the first time he saw the child in her and guilt surged through him. Had Mira Fedor been right? Was his relationship with the half-breed Miolaquan a corruption? He thought of Luna il Longa and all his father’s paramours. It was expected for a Principe to take many women.

  Had beautiful Luna died at his father’s side? Had Franco seen her as he drew his last breath? Or had his wife been with him?

  Trin did not want to think of his mother. It filled him with uncomfortable twisting emotions. In the way of most sons, he knew that something solid had been lost to him.

  ‘Principe!’ Juno Genarro called to him from the top of the shaft. ‘The sun fades.’

  ‘Vada!’ Trin instructed his Carabinere. Then he sealed his fellalo and began the difficult climb.

  JO-JO RASTEROVICH

  Jo-Jo Rasterovich was pissed off for a couple of reasons.

  Being stuck in a Dowl confinement cell with a raging case of claustrophobia was forcing him to use up his HealthWatch’s narcotic allowance to stay calm.

  His ship Salacious had been stolen by a man he knew only as Jud. And he couldn’t get at his Gal Bank account while he was officially a criminal, which meant that bribing his way out of this craphole wasn’t feasible.