Mirror Space (Sentients of Orion) Read online

  The ignominy of the situation threatened to totally shake Tekton’s composure. Fenralia, the filthy little skieran, had used their acquaintance to sculpt this ridiculous likeness.

  Or was it ridiculous?

  A disturbingly exhibitionistic and egoistic streak ignited in Tekton. After all, his sexual prowess was formidable, even to the likes of the voracious Dieter Miranda Seeward. Legendary even. And perhaps there was potential for this to turn his way. He just had to figure out how best to use it.

  He would, however, strangle Fenralia later. Preferably with its own rapacious and bizarrely elongated sexual organ.

  But for now...

  ‘Msr?’

  Tekton suddenly found himself surrounded by balol soldiers wearing grey uniform. The one with the most stripes stood in front of him. ‘Commander Farr requests the pleasure of your company in his lounge.’

  Tekton nodded graciously and gave a little wave to his disappointed audience. ‘Lead on,’ he announced in a cavalier way.

  The spectators began to whistle and stamp and then to Tekton’s and the soldiers’ astonishment, they followed them along the dais to a marquee decorated ingeniously with metal and aluminium scraps.

  The soldier in charge ushered Tekton inside, then returned to keep the assembled mob in order. The crowd noise continued though, as they called for Tekton to return and deliver autographs.

  ‘I see you’re acquainted with the very talented Fenralia, Tekton of Lostol,’ said a quiet voice.

  Lasper ‘Carnage’ Farr was seated in a formal chair next to a comfortable but luxurious couch.

  Tekton approached him and sat on the couch without invitation. He was quite disappointed.

  He doesn’t look at all terrifying, free-mind criticised. He’s so thin, and old-looking. Where are his battle scars?

  Fool, said logic-mind.

  Tekton tended to side with free-mind on this. Of all the humanesques in Orion, Lasper Farr should be immense and impressive, not a lean, gaunt grey-eyed man who had clearly not taken the time to use regular rejuvenation cosmetics.

  ‘A chance encounter of mine with the artist seems to have whetted its creative muse. I had no knowledge of the sculpture until just a few minutes ago,’ said Tekton blithely.

  ‘And yet you have already incited a near-riot.’

  Tekton waved his hand. ‘Amusing indeed.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Farr, without the hint of a smile. ‘I believe that you bought my sister passage from Rho Junction. I will arrange for your reimbursement.’

  ‘Most appreciated, Commander Farr. And how fares the young scholar? Both he and your sister were adamant that you could best treat his condition here, even though we had access to medical help aboard The Last Aesthetic.’’

  ‘It is a rare bacterium, Tekton, and I have a superior laboratory. Some would say the best there is. May I offer you some champagne?’

  ‘Delighted,’ replied Tekton. Farr might not be impressive but he was refined and mannered enough for a martial type.

  They sat in silence while Tekton waited for the glass to be produced and poured and brought to him by a uniformed aide.

  ‘The young man will recover,’ said Farr as an afterthought. ‘He says that your appearance in the clinic on Rho Junction was providence—some might say a Godsend—if of course you are of a mind to believe in deities, which I am not.’

  ‘An interesting conversation point, Commander, seeing as I am currently a tyro to one perceived as such.’

  He’s a heathen, free-mind sniffed.

  He’s playing you, logic-mind warned.

  This time Tekton gave logic-mind free rein to give advice. With each quiet word Lasper Farr spoke, Tekton felt less steady. The man’s eyes were as cold and pitiless as Lostol’s ice caps.

  ‘In my opinion,’ said Lasper, ‘studium academics do not always care about their research topics. The intellectual exercise is enough for them. It also gives them a platform for dissembling and self-aggrandisement.’

  ‘I won’t take offence, Commander, but I would suggest that it is foolish to tar all academics with one brush. We might surprise you.’

  Farr leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Surprise me then, Tekton of Lostol.’

  Truth, urged logic-mind. Now.

  Obediently, Tekton cut to the chase. ‘I know the creator of the DNA that you sent young Berniere to retrieve. Quite well, as luck would have it. I am seeking information, and so are you. A perfect set-up for... a negotiation.’

  Farr sucked in his cheeks for a moment before he spoke, lending his face a skeletal appearance. Then suddenly he smiled. ‘Or I could just torture you to find out what I want.’

  The unsteadiness Tekton had been feeling began to border on dizziness, but a surge of anger came to his rescue. He would not be bullied as if he were some ordinary ‘esque. ‘What? Risk an incident that would have ramifications across Orion? And’—he waved his hands towards the entrance of the marquee—’your own world.’

  Farr gave a short laugh. ‘You mean your eager audience out there? You have a high opinion of yourself.’

  ‘I know my worth. There is an immense difference, Commander.’

  ‘And I know what I am capable of doing, without consequence.’

  Tekton’s heart fluttered. He had never been overtly threatened by anyone significant before—at least, not physically—and it spawned a curious mixture of excitement and dread within him. He felt his akula swell and himself stiffen.

  He longed for the Hunter device he’d been forced to relinquish before boarding The Last Aesthetic. Yet killing Lasper Farr outright would achieve nothing except problems. He needed, instead, to use him. ‘Such aggression on your part must surely mean I offer threat, and I have little desire to do that. My request is simply a fair trade.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘In exchange for everything I know about the creator of the virus, I wish you to undertake to support the reclaiming of the mining world Araldis.’

  ‘Ah, Araldis. Again. Again.’

  ‘In my conversations with the young scholar and your sibling, they informed me that you had an agreement with the unfortunate Baronessa Fedor to restore the world to its legal ownership.’

  ‘You know the Baronessa?’ asked Farr.

  ‘I did not have the pleasure of her acquaintance, and now I believe she is in the company of the Extropists.’

  Farr’s expression became tense and wary. ‘Not company she chose, but even so, it does call into question my agreement with her.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tekton sanguinely, ‘our choices often define the choices we are left with—if you understand me.’

  ‘Like you and I, here today.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So tell me why your information is worth me embarking on such an expensive and risky venture.’

  ‘You said yourself that your laboratory is the best in Orion. Which, I would surmise, means you control most of the bio-trade. A new player of this credibility on the scene might upset things for you. You also have a personal investment on Araldis worth protecting. A niece, I believe. I would also surmise that you have some interest in why Araldis has been so aggressively overrun, and by whom. If you don’t already know, that is?’

  The tension left Farr’s face, and a small smile played at his lips. ‘You are clever enough, Tekton. I would expect nothing less of a tyro from Belle-Monde. But can you play well to the end?’

  ‘That sounds like a challenge, Commander.’

  ‘I’m a competitive man. It would be wise not to forget it. I’ll consider your offer and we shall speak again soon. Enjoy the remainder of the Fest and your new-found fame.’

  Without any obvious instruction from Lasper Farr, a soldier presented himself at Tekton’s side and escorted him from the tent.

  As the soldier drew back the flap, a sprinkle of spontaneous applause broke out and voices called again for autographs.

  Tekton stepped graciously into their midst and gave a littl
e bow.

  The applause grew louder, as did the ribald comments. The attention went a long way to salving the irritation and upset that Commander Farr had caused him.

  MIRA

  Since their conversation, Wanton-poda’s behaviour had become erratic. At first Mira put it down to her ignorance of its nature, but each day she noticed a slight deterioration in its colour and physical integrity. The translucent skin had developed darker patches and its normally ever-moving fringe seemed sluggish and stiff.

  The Siphonophores returned regularly, often when Mira was asleep. She knew because Wanton-poda’s pitiful high-pitched wails woke her in time to see it descend into its recovery tank, away from whatever torture had been inflicted on it.

  Mira waited. The next time it happened, she climbed from her bed and beat her fists against the translucent barrier. ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘Leave it alone!’

  The Siphonophores left without even appearing to have noticed her.

  She stayed awake, leaning against the wall, thinking of Insignia. Please find me. Please.

  She felt the faintest tug in response to her plea. So faint that it could have been imagined. And yet she hoped, believed, it was Insignia. What else was there for her to keep faith in? Rast Randall? Josef Rasterovich? A selfish mercenary and a vagrant wanderer; neither of them would care about her abduction.

  And Thales Berniere? Would the young scholar miss her?

  Now, finally, that most things had been laid bare in her life, she could admit to herself that Thales’s affection for Bethany Ionil had wounded her. Was she so unappealing that he would find an older woman more attractive than her?

  She sighed and returned to her bed, rolling to her side to ease the baby’s weight on her backbone. How could she expect any regard from such a gracious young gentleman when she was but a pregnant refugee? Thales Berniere would be shocked if he knew what had happened to her, and repulsed.

  ‘Mira-fedor should ingest some food.’

  ‘Wanton-poda?’ Mira’s eyes flew upward.

  The little cephalopod hovered above her bed looking grey and lethargic.

  ‘It is not right that they treat you like this. I am eating and have put on weight.’ She caressed the small mound of her belly. ‘You told me the baby is thriving again. There is no need for them to be hurting you.’

  ‘My circumstances are not your concern, Mira-fedor.’ Then it added, ‘But it is kindly of you to care for poda.’

  ‘Is there somewhere you and I could both go?’ she whispered. ‘Could we leave here together? Go to a place where you won’t be hurt and I will be able to have my baby without interference?’

  ‘Mira-fedor shall not speak of these things.’

  ‘Look at you,’ declared Mira passionately. ‘You are sick. I don’t know much about your physiology but it appears to me that your host—poda—may die. But then I suppose you don’t care much for your host.’

  ‘Your statement lacks veracity, Mira-fedor. Poda is dear to Wanton.’

  ‘Then save poda before it is too late.’

  The creature began to spin in its thinking rhythm.

  ‘You must know somewhere you can go, away from these... bullies.’ Mira slid her feet to the floor, and stood so that Wanton-poda’s ear flaps were at her eye level. ‘I know oppression, Wanton-poda. That’s where I came from. That is why I am carrying the child of a man I loathe. Oppression is wrong, whether it be amongst humanesques, aliens or Post-Species. You have a right not to be afraid.’ The words tumbled so fluently from her mouth it was as if she had stored and practised them, and now was the most important time for their delivery. Oppression had killed Faja and Estelle. ‘I have a right not to be afraid.’

  Its spinning slowed down, and it moved closer so that it almost settled on Mira’s shoulder. Instinctively, she reached up and brushed her fingers along its fluted edge.

  It uttered a peculiar noise. ‘Poda finds that soothing,’ it said.

  ‘I don’t understand why they are so cruel to you.’

  ‘Wanton-poda has had many important tasks. Before the task of Mira-fedor, Wanton-poda was charged with adapting a water species to land. Most rewarding. However, Highness Most Capable: Evolution is not satisfied.’

  Something stirred in Mira’s consciousness. She thought carefully about how she would elicit her next response, lapsing back into more indirect speech so as to learn what she sought. ‘That must have been a complex task. I can’t fathom why anyone would go to that trouble.’

  ‘Adaptation of species receives priority amongst Host scientists. Although I do not know the specific use of this adaptation, Wanton-poda was told it would carry much prestige.’

  ‘Not enough to stop you being hurt by the Siphonophore hosts.’

  ‘Wanton-poda’s title of Highness Most Capable of Cultivation is not as influential as some despite its expertise in genetic procedure.’

  ‘What you describe is not unlike humanesque communities. Talent and hard work are often not rewarded. In fact, quite the opposite.’

  The creature made a sound that could have been a sigh. ‘Mira-fedor speaks with veracity. It is difficult to recognise the superior evolution of Post-Species sometimes. Wanton-poda finds this depressing.’

  The thought of a parasitical Post-Species sentient being depressed fascinated Mira. Post-Species—well, at least the Host variety—clearly retained the ghosts of emotional variations. Mira chose not to take offence that Wanton-poda considered itself a more advanced sentient than her. For the most part it was true.

  ‘Progression is not always linear,’ she proffered.

  The creature lifted off her shoulder and floated in the direction of its tank. ‘Wanton-poda would have had pleasure knowing how its water species has fared.’

  Mira felt the stirring again. Stronger, this time, like a memory bobbing its way to the surface of her mind. ‘Is it possible... that Wanton-poda’s adaption... was tardigrades?’

  Wanton-poda halted its forward motion and reversed, its ear flaps coming erect. ‘Mira-fedor is very astute. Wanton-poda is surprised.’

  Mira swallowed to ease her suddenly dry mouth. Her heart beat painfully in her chest. ‘Mira-fedor has a story Wanton-poda should hear.’

  The cephalopod swayed gently before her while she told it of the Saqr and their invasion of Araldis. It didn’t interrupt or alter its listening pattern until she finished the telling and asked for some water.

  Then it floated to its mobile canteen and returned with a fresh water tube. ‘Wanton-poda has some thinking to do.’ It left her and returned to its tank.

  Mira drank and ate and went through the simple routine of calisthenics she’d adopted to combat the inactivity caused by her confinement. After that, she attempted the meditation exercise Thales Berniere had explained to her. At first her mind wandered, but she persisted until she gained some respite from the turmoil of questions and worries that plagued her waking moments.

  Afterwards she ate again and slept, to be woken by another visit from the Siphonophores. This time they congregated around her bed, saying nothing, doing nothing that she could perceive.

  Then as quickly as they appeared, they left.

  Wanton-poda floated down from a high corner of her cell, descending until its fringe brushed her chest. It had never been this close to her face before.

  She sensed its distress. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mira-fedor’s baby is to be removed. Wanton-poda has been directed to do it.’

  Mira sat up so quickly that Wanton-poda was forced to slide down onto her lap. ‘Why would they order that?’

  ‘There is evidence that this is the optimum time to study the development of the Innate gene; optimum time to modify it.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mira hollowly. ‘Of course that’s what they want.’ She felt a deep welling of bitterness. ‘It’s what everyone wants.’ She stared down at the cephalopod. ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘Wanton-poda suggests Mira-fedor accompany it to a safer place.’ />
  Mira’s eyes widened. ‘You’re saying we should escape?’

  ‘Mira-fedor should eat and drink in readiness for a journey. Timing is crucial.’

  Hope glimmered alive inside her. Insignia.

  Her thought was rewarded with the faintest of tugs, yet something more palpable than before. She sprang from her bed and ate food cubes from the tray.

  Wanton-poda hovered around her, waiting. ‘In a moment, when Wanton-poda disintegrates the containment wall you must not speak again, even if directly addressed. You may not say a word until Wanton-poda uses the words “Mira-fedor, you are safe.’“

  Mira nodded. ‘Is there anything else I should know? How should I behave?’

  ‘It will be assumed you are a Host body that has not yet fully integrated with its Post-Species and cannot talk.’

  Mira stared at Wanton-poda in shock. ‘You mean hosts are sometimes humanesques?’

  ‘Accurate,’ said Wanton-poda. It spun away from her, passing through the transparent field a number of times in quick succession until the field flickered and disappeared, and she was trapped in silence, unable to get more information about the terrifying thing she had just learned.

  Extropists with humanesque bodies. She had no idea. And neither, she was sure, did the rest of the Orion.

  Wanton-poda had settled into a hovering position an arm’s length in front of her and at shoulder height. ‘Follow behind,’ it said.

  They left the laboratory through a spongy door similar to the walls of her confinement cell, and stepped directly out into brilliant sunshine and a warm, light breeze.

  Mira took a deep, deep breath and blinked repeatedly. All her senses told her that she was standing on the shore of a small island gazing at a string of tiny atolls in a sunrise-dappled ocean. She glanced behind. There was no evidence of the door they had come through.

  Turning back, she surveyed the vista again: sun, water and a myriad of islands so like the Tourmalines. But unlike the scantly inhabited waters of her home, this sea brimmed with creatures, floating around her, and across the waves, and in the waves, all moving at abnormal speeds. Hundreds of different varieties of water species.