The Sentients of Orion Page 21

  Mira shook her head. ‘I-I am not sure. That is... I am not sure that he is dead.’

  Rast took her arm and pulled her into the shade of the town hall roof overhang. ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘His son? I think so—at the Carabinere compound. He left when they evacuated.’

  ‘Deserted!’ snorted Cass.

  Mira felt the blood draining from her head. She could no longer think well enough to keep ahead of the inquisitive mercenary. ‘We need food for our bambini.’

  ‘We’ve got a temporary mess set up in the bistro off that dust bowl of a town centre you’re all calling a piazza, past where the TerVs are parked. We eat in shifts.’

  ‘I’ll tell Innis and Marrat,’ said Cass. She walked off leaving Mira.

  Rast watched her go. ‘She’s tough, that one. We pulled her man out of the Juanita mine collapse only a week ago. She came and identified him. Never showed a thing, no tears, no screaming.’ Rast’s voice was tinged with admiration. ‘You were lucky to hook up with her.’ She slipped a casual arm around Mira’s shoulder. ‘I’ve known a few pilots but never an aristo. I like refined women.’

  Mira clutched Vito tighter. She would not let Rast intimidate her. ‘I haven’t eaten properly for days.’

  Rast let her arm drop. ‘You might still score breakfast if you hurry.’

  * * *

  The mess was a jumble of chairs arid tables collected from the casas and spread through the market place’s all-weather tents and adjoining bistro. Innis, Marrat, Kristo and Cass sat at a table in the bistro section room, enjoying plates of kranse bread and farfalli.

  Mira went to the food-server. The room sweltered as the environmentals struggled against the heat from the overworked ovens and the constantly opening coldlock. She saw the korm squatting in a corner of the cucina, chewing at a mound of raw kranse.

  The korm raised its head and chittered. Though still crusted with blood, it seemed more lively; its crest looked less shrivelled.

  Mira went to help herself to a plate of stewed quark eggs but was stopped by a solid Latino-looking woman with a determined face. Her protecsuit was stripped back to her waist and her crimson skin glowed with the heat. Sweat dripped freely from her forehead, down her cheeks and onto the neck of her undershirt. ‘Just so you know. It’s one plateful only. Some have been taking more than their share. Sign for your meal here.’ She pointed to a touchpad.

  Mira placed her finger on the pad and it moulded around her finger for an instant.

  ‘Do this each time,’ said the woman. ‘If you don’t...’ She glanced behind her to an ‘esque rocking back on a chair, a rifle resting across his thighs.

  Mira nodded, took her one slice and one plateful and went to Cass’s table, not sure that she could eat the food. She bit into the bread and moistened it in her mouth.

  ‘I can’t feel my feet,’ complained Kristo.

  Mira looked under the table. Cass’s older child was asleep on the floor, head resting on Kristo’s feet. Mira felt a sudden softening towards the man, guessing that he had also seen to the korm.

  ‘Your ragazzo,’ she said to Cass.

  Cass got down on her knees and moved the ‘bino’s head, freeing Kristo’s feet.

  Kristo nodded his thanks and smiled at Mira, stamping the blood back into his feet. The warmth of his expression should have meant something but her tiredness and grief had suddenly gone beyond something she could explain, beyond civility, beyond manners and breeding. She could not care at that moment. All she knew was that the food hurt her stomach and the thought of the woman’s sweat dripping from her face made her feel sick. She wanted to eat and yet she wanted to vomit. She lowered Vito to the floor and slumped in her seat.

  ‘Baronessa?’ Cass stared at her.

  Mira forced herself to take another mouthful of bread. She chewed it mechanically. When it reached the pit of her stomach the nausea abated some. She found herself longing to lie next to Vito on the floor. Her thoughts began to wander a little. Where had Trin taken Djeserit? Why had Trin taken Djeserit? Desire didn’t seem enough of a reason. Not for Trin Pellegrini.

  It had not been enough for him before when he had taken Mira to the Tourmalines. Their date drifted to the surface of her mind—the gently warm sea water, and the cerise sand that had been vivid against her white bathing skin. She had felt unsure of herself, unsure of whether she liked the young Principe or not. Certainly she had been flattered, and excited. But then he had left her abruptly, after they had shared a kiss. It seemed so trivial now—the event that had caused her such embarrassment—but the water... how she longed to feel its honeyed touch.

  Lost in the memories, she failed to notice Innis shift his seat closer, until he draped his arm over the back of her chair and breathed wine into her face.

  Her focus sharpened onto the empty jug and the two men who’d been drinking from it—Innis and Marrat. Kristo and Cass and her children, she realised, had left.

  ‘My sh-ister’s taken to you,’ slurred Innis.

  Mira leaned away from him instinctively.

  He tried to pull her closer. ‘You ain’t got much to be stuck-up about now, Baronessa. Your type don’t run the place no more.’

  Mira didn’t like his tone or the way heads were turning to listen and her skin crawled at his touch.

  ‘Anyway, how come you know so much about ginkos?’ He poked a foot at the sleeping Vito, startling the infant awake.

  Mira shrugged off Innis’s arm and bent to Vito.

  ‘Do not touch my ragazzo. Do not touch me.’ She spoke the words loudly and clearly so that the message was unmistakable to Innis and to everyone else within earshot.

  His mouth pinched tight. ‘Aristo-bitch,’ he hissed softly.

  ‘What are you gabbing about, Innis?’ Cass was back, standing beside them, taking in the empty jug and Mira kneeling protectively over Vito. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  He pouted like a sulky ragazzo. ‘All I said is... how come she knows so much about ginkos?’

  In front of everyone there, Cass slapped his face; a sharp, belittling sound that brought tears of embarrassment to his eyes. ‘I told you not to drink again. Ever. Not after...’

  Mira stood up, clutching Vito tightly against her body. Not after what?

  Cass held out a latte bladder. ‘I got this from the market next door. Basic amenities are being pooled and shared out. The kitchen will fill it for you.’

  Mira took it from her, not trusting herself to speak, and went to the cucina.

  The woman who had served her the eggs filled the bladder from the spout of a drink dispenser. ‘It’s not vitamin-enriched—we’re all out of additives. But it will do. That ‘bino of yours looks half-starved. And you look half-dead. I’ve finished my shift now. I can show you where the closest dormitory is.’

  The korm gorged down the last of the kranse stalks and brought the empty bowl over to them, looking for more.

  The woman shook her head. ‘No second helpings for anyone. Two meals a day and that’s all. May get down to less than that if this drags on.’

  Mira took the bowl from the korm and passed it to her. ‘Grazi, signorina,’ she said.

  The woman frowned, as if the polite form of address displeased her. ‘I am not a signorina. I am Mesquite.’

  * * *

  Mira followed Mesquite down the dirt road, past the flapping market tents to a flat-topped structure that had been a leisure club. Goldtanks and deskfilms had been pushed aside against the walls and every space was crammed with thin roll-up bedfilms. Only about half of them had covers.

  ‘The men have got the same thing. They don’t like it. Most of them want to sleep near the TerVs,’ Mesquite rolled her eyes, ‘or with a woman. But we separated them up to cut down the trouble. Don’t know that it worked but when your population goes from one to five thousand in a couple of nights you got to try something.’

  Mira gave a small smile and held out her hand. ‘Mira Fedor.’

  ‘I know,’ said
the woman. She shook Mira’s hand, then began folding covers. ‘Word travels quicker here than most places. You’re from the pilot familia?’

  Mira took a bedfilm and cover from her. ‘Si.’

  ‘Well, that’s your corner over there.’ Mesquite disappeared outside, then returned with an armful of kranse stalks and some rags. ‘Korms need to roost, don’t they? Keep it tidy. Some of these women are real prejudiced against aliens. More so now.’ For all her abrupt manner, Mesquite hadn’t used the word ‘ginko’. It stood her apart from just about everyone else.

  Mira pulled her bedfilm away from the corner and with fatigue-numbed fingers built a nest for the korm wedged between her and the wall. Then she coaxed the korm onto the jumble of rags and the alien roosted instantly, exhausted.

  Laying Vito on the bedfilm Mira curled herself around him and went straight to sleep.

  TRIN

  Juno Genarro handed Trin a rifle and a combat web to fit under his hood. The landing pad on the top of Malocchi’s enclave was deserted apart from the four Loisa craft. Smoke drifted across from the fires burning below at Dockside.

  ‘You might be the last Pellegrini alive. I’d hate to have the death of the newest Principe on my conscience.’

  Trin listened for the humour in Juno’s voice. When he couldn’t hear it, resurgent dread shivered through him. Malocchi’s enclave was eerily quiet and he didn’t know what to do about Djeserit. She slept now, curled into her seat, gills moving only faintly.

  ‘Someone should guard the AiVs,’ he said, fumbling with the safety on the rifle. He’d had basic instruction at the Studium but it was not something he’d ever taken seriously. The Cavaliere were his protection. Had been.

  ‘You would volunteer, I expect.’ Christian loomed at his side, his expression obscured by the distortion of the combat webbing.

  Trin tried dissuading him again. ‘We’ve had no communication from Malocchi. There are fires all over Dockside and the pad is deserted.’ He looked along the edge of the building to the blunt edge of the stairs. ‘Where are the TerVs? Where are the Cavaliere?’ His voice sounded thin and high with fear.

  The Carabinere gathered around, waiting for Christian to respond. Trin could see Juno Genarro moving among them, whispering.

  Christian also noticed. ‘Juno, You stay with the AiVs,’ he said, frowning.

  Genarro shook his head and slapped the butt of his rifle. ‘I’m more use to you in there, Capitano.’

  Trin thought Christian wavered, knowing he was right. ‘Vespa Malocchi will stay then. Seb will lead one team, Genarro another. I will take the third. Test your shortcasts.’

  Trin struggled not to panic as he activated the webbing. It moulded tightly over his nose and he felt something thrust into his ear and tug at his lip as the audio settled into place. He forced himself to breathe deeply a couple of times, and the membrane over his nostrils and mouth thinned enough to allow the passage of air. It still didn’t feel comfortable, like trying to breathe in a dust storm.

  Remembering his basic instruction he worked his jaw to find the shortcast frequency. Static crackled on most of the channels but one was filled with unintelligible shouting. He clicked on until he found Christian’s voice.

  The Capitano divided the groups. Trin listened to his simple plan and watched a display flicker alive and steady in his right eye. The webbing was a more advanced version than the ones they had practised with at the Studium and he couldn’t interpret many of the icons.

  ‘Pellegrini, you are the only one without body armour. You should stay behind here as well,’ said Christian.

  Trin felt a prickling suspicion. Why the sudden change of heart?

  ‘I’m more use to you in there.’ He deliberately used the same words as Genarro. ‘I know the building well. I worked here, remember.’

  Christian only hesitated for a few seconds. ‘Bueno. I want it on record that you chose to come in.’

  So that was it. ‘I choose to enter Carabinere headquarters of my own volition.’ Trin made sure his words were crisp for the web’s recorder.

  ‘I’ll watch him, Capitano,’ Juno volunteered.

  ‘One sweep and out on my order.’

  ‘Where will we go then?’ asked one of the others.

  Christian didn’t answer.

  * * *

  Inside the coldlock they split up, one team heading for Malocchi’s office, another to the main office floors, the last to the beacon.

  Trin’s thoughts turned to Joe Scali as his team of six, headed by Juno Genarro, crept towards Technology.

  ‘Don Pellegrini, come up here behind me and call out the floor plan. Anyone starts shooting, you find the floor.’

  Trin could barely hear Juno’s order over his own ragged breathing. Spots faded in and out before his eyes. Hunger and exhaustion had begun to steal his sense of reality. He gripped Juno’s shoulder.

  Genarro tensed under his fellalo but didn’t look back at him. ‘Your biostats are weak. Bite down on the pickup. You’ve got a small reserve of water in the web that has glucose in it.’

  Trin did as instructed and moisture squirted into his cheeks. He tongued the sweet flavour and his vision cleared almost instantly.

  ‘You can probably do that twice more before you run out.’ Genarro paused. ‘Will that be enough?’

  Trin let go of his shoulder. ‘Si.’

  They crept into the labyrinth of offices, finding no one. Some desks looked as though they had been cleared for the day, others were abandoned as if the person had left suddenly.

  The pattern was repeated through every office on every floor. Each window gave them another panorama over Dockside with the same view: smoking fires and the absence of orbital traffic in the purple sky. For the first time since its settlement nothing was coming in or going out of Araldis.

  Seb Malocchi’s third group reported in that they’d found the beacon unattended, but intact and functioning normally. No signs of damage.

  Christian ordered them to rendezvous with Juno’s group. He was at the door to Malocchi’s office but couldn’t get in.

  ‘Nothing here either, Capitano,’ said Juno.

  Trin felt clammy and claustrophobic under the webbing. The glucose was wearing off fast and he desperately wanted to get out of the building and back to Djeserit but something stronger than this urge compelled him to push the search further. ‘What about the refectory? We haven’t looked there.’

  ‘You think maybe they’re all taking a siesta?’ said Juno.

  Laughs congested the shortcast.

  Trin waited until it quieted. ‘It is the largest space in the building. If someone wanted them all in one place...’

  ‘Capitano?’ asked Juno.

  ‘Rendezvous with Seb, then check it out. We’re nearly through breaking this seal. Should be in Malocchi’s office in a few moments. I’ll know more then.’

  The clamminess that had beset Trin turned to unrestrained sweating. He gripped the rifle hard to keep it from sliding in his grasp. Spots danced before his eyes again and he bit again on the glucose release.

  Juno gestured an order to his team, pointing for Trin to take the position at his shoulder. ‘On the bottom floor?’ he asked.

  Trin nodded.

  Seb’s team met up with them on the stairs above the bottom level. Juno and Seb exchanged the barest of tactical instructions. Juno would count them in from opposite doors. They would enter low and cautious.

  ‘I can smell food.’ Someone broke the agreed silence.

  Trin could smell it too. His mouth watered so violently that he dribbled. He felt slight pressure from the web as it absorbed the moisture.

  Genarro slid open the double doors and crawled in, rifle first.

  ‘We’re in.’ Christian’s voice broke shortcast silence again.

  Weapon fire started up almost simultaneously.

  Trin froze with the confusion of noise. Who’s shooting? He was pushed down onto the floor as the shortcast channel clamoured with competing vo
ices:

  ‘What in the Crux’s holy—’

  ‘Juno. I need back-up!’

  ‘Principe be our father. Care for us in our unspoiled world and deliver us from—’

  Someone was praying. Trin tried to sort through the cacophony for a voice he recognised. The weapon fire, he realised, was up on Malocchi’s floor.

  But the prayer came from Juno inside the refectory. Trin forced himself to crawl through the doors after him. Juno was on his knees, fingers steepled together, rifle discarded.

  At one end of the large room tables and chairs were piled high against the windows. To the far side, overcooked, dehydrated food crackled on the warmers. In the space between the two lay a mound of casually heaped bodies.

  Trin’s gaze was drawn to the matted clots of darkness in their faces. They seemed untouched apart from the bleeding holes that had been their eyes.

  Automatically, without wanting to, he sifted the muddle of flesh, seeking out familiar faces. Not Joe Scali. Not Rantha. Please...

  Rising acid burned away the glucose taste in his mouth. He wanted to run back to the launching pad, to Djeserit and escape this. Swallow or suffocate. He grappled with his bodily reactions for a few moments, trying to subdue his gag reflex. When he could, he called out hoarsely. ‘Genarro.’

  His team leader had stopped praying and was watching Seb Malocchi’s team who had entered through the other door. One of Seb’s men ran to the pile of bodies and fell onto it.

  ‘Nathaniel!’ shouted Seb.

  But young Nathaniel ignored him and began plucking at the mound of flesh, mumbling names. ‘Kosta, Lorrena Scali—’

  Trin knew exactly what the young Carabinere was doing and the sight transfixed him.

  Genarro climbed to his feet, purposefully, the shock waning. ‘Nathaniel, the Capitano needs our help. These people do not,’ he said.

  ‘What if there’s someone alive?’ Like a drunken dancer changing partners Nathaniel struggled to move the bodies. A woman in his grip slipped to the floor, her head rolling slightly askew.