Dark Space (Sentients of Orion) Page 6

  A buckled deskfilm hung over a large lump of ore on a desk littered with shrivelled data-sponges. A single chair and some uneven wall shelving comprised the only other furniture.

  Rantha gave him a single direct look. ‘I apologise for my... manner. I am easily angered these days.’ She turned and left.

  Trin slumped into the chair. What to do now? His welling self-pity was tempered by annoyance. Jus Malocchi will pay for this. And so will Franco.

  He reached for the deskfilm. He laid it flat and stabbed his finger at the thin, scratched screen. It switched itself on and tried to straighten, flickering for a while before the picture resolved. He used the administration menu to find the climate controls, which he boosted.

  Dust stirred all around him and the enviromentals rattled into life trying to filter it. Aggravated by the clutter on the desk, Trin collected the sponges and shoved them onto the sagging shelves. The force of his action knocked other precarious piles to the floor.

  In the space behind them Trin glimpsed a bubble—a result of the catoplasma malformations. As a ragazzo he had burst similar bubbles in the AiV hangars at the Palazzo. He lifted the shelving aside to have a better look and on impulse he jabbed a finger into it. The polymer coating punctured as he expected, but then the wall around it crumbled. Immediately he felt a draught of hot outside air.

  Trin scrambled back to the deskfilm to boost the climate controls to cover the temperature change and quickly locked the door. Then he returned to the hole and carefully felt around the inside. The crumbling of the wall appeared to have left a gap between rock and building.

  How far along does it go?

  He slipped his head through the hole. In one direction was solid seam. The other way was a crevice with hot daylight flooding down it. He guessed it might come out near the upper AiV pads.

  Widening the hole enough for his body, Trin squeezed through and flattened himself against the rock. It was hot to touch and the space was only barely wide enough. He edged along the distance towards the light and peered out. Sure enough, across a small expanse of rock he located the AiV pads. The discovery both pleased and displeased him. The structural fault might prove useful—perhaps he could come and go from the building without being observed—yet it also seemed to emphasise the disrespect with which he was being treated.

  Trin returned to the office and began looking for things to block the gap up. Pushing the shelving back into place, he replaced the stacks of sponges and sat down at his desk. He flicked idly through the film menu, wondering what to do. Malocchi had given him no tasks.

  He reached for a random data-sponge and laid it against the deskfilm. It displayed details of familia births, deaths and marriages.

  Trin’s irritation evaporated into curiosity. First, he searched the statistics for his immediate family, his cousins Josef, Pesca, Antonia, Juni, Deboraah, Aldo. Then he moved on to Franco’s generation: tia Marchella, tio Kotta, tia Mari. Slutty tia Ghia, he realised, had been lying about her age. And tio Kotta’s first wife had been a ginko. The records showed that the marriage had been annulled. And hushed up! His curiosity flared into a tiny surge of excitement. He glanced at the shelves. Perhaps the sponges held information that would keep him amused for a time...

  Attaching a number of them to the film, Trin settled deeper into his chair and read until hunger drove him out.

  * * *

  Like Malocchi’s office, one wall of the Centrale refectory was a window given over to the panorama of the mining plains. Today, though, Pellegrini A and B mines were invisible because of a gargantuan wall of dust. Only the silver-snake conveyors winding their way into the storm, like tributaries to a larger stream, gave any indication of the mines’ positions.

  Trin stood and watched, relieved to be safely on Mount Pell. Only once had he been caught in a dust storm, when he had flown out to meet with a bravura dealer. Even now he could feel the panic of choking.

  ‘Don Pellegrini?’ The ragazza serving behind the food-warmer interrupted his thoughts. ‘Pardon, but you must wait in line to be served.’

  Embarrassed and angry, Trin stepped back to the end of the queue. When his turn arrived he held out his plate the way the others had.

  She piled it inelegantly with food. ‘Signor Malocchi has asked me to inform you that your food costs will be deducted from your first pay.’

  Trin kept his expression carefully neutral. The ragazza was Scali or Cabone. Of all the Nobile they were the familia that he valued most—the ones he had played with from childhood. They weren’t obsequious like the Galiottos or arrogant and obsessive like the Malocchis and the Montfortes. This situation was as uncomfortable for her as it was for him.

  Ignoring the curious looks of the other diners, he took his food to a corner seat and ate without speaking to a soul. As he sipped his mocha, waiting for its essences to fortify his poise, he became aware of another presence.

  Rantha.

  She stood uncertainly before him. He glanced across to the next table and noticed that the women from her office had spread their frittata plates out so that there was no place for her.

  Trin had no wish to ally himself with this angry, pregnant Nobile but she seemed as friendless as he—and, he reminded himself, she had helped him. He needed allies here, not enemies. Rantha worked in a section that saw and heard most things.

  He nodded to the empty chair opposite and forced some unfelt charm into his smile.

  ‘Grazi,’ she whispered as she sank into the chair.

  * * *

  Over the next day Trin familiarised himself with the extent of the recorded data. He discovered that the cross-reference organics were inadequate and unable to generate a report or factfilm.

  He called Rantha.

  ‘Scalis handle that. I’ll route you through to one of them,’ she said.

  ‘Fine.’ Then, after a moment, he added: ‘Are you well?’ On his damaged deskfilm her crimson skin looked oily and peculiarly sallow.

  ‘Sick,’ she whispered. ‘Ask for Joe Scali. He is helpful and... nice.’

  Trin checked the Industrial Services directory. A surprised voice in IS told him that Joe Scali would be there within a short time, and, scuzzi, but could he give them directions?

  Joe Scali arrived juggling diagnostic sticks and a frothy mocha in a tall mug. He had thick dark hair and a well-muscled physique that looked more suited to troubleshooting conveyor-belt automats on the plains than the delicacies of programming organic trees.

  Scali wrinkled his nose with distaste as he looked around. ‘I did not know there was an... office here.’

  Trin grimaced. ‘You Scalis do not get out enough.’

  ‘Si. And I detest that.’ The young man gave a heartfelt sigh.

  It made Trin curious. ‘Why not reassign, then?’

  ‘I was with Carabinere out in Ipo. Got in a disagreement with the Cavaliere—a Montforte.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Next thing I was back here.’

  Trin nodded. ‘Malocchis and Montfortes...’ He held up crossed fingers.

  ‘Thicker than my mama’s cannelloni.’ The Scali eyed him keenly. ‘I am guessing that you might have suffered from a similar problem. Why else would the Principe’s son be confined in a... cave?’

  ‘Because I killed an uuli.’ The words were out before he realised. And flirted with my papa’s woman.

  Scali whistled and rolled his eyes again. ‘Any reason?’

  ‘An accident that I have no wish to speak of... Now, I need a tree that will cross-check all these...’

  ‘I am Josef.’

  ‘Well, Josef, can you do. this?’ Trin pointed to lists on the menu.

  Scali’s eyes opened wide in astonishment when he saw the lines that Trin was tracing. ‘What do you want all that for?’

  Trin waved his hands at the piles of data on the shelves. ‘These records are useless for anything. I wish to change that. Can you do it, Nobile?’ he cajoled.

  Scali sipped his mocha. ‘Si. Perhaps.’

  �
�Rantha Cabone tells me that you are the best in your section.’

  ‘Rantha, eh?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Man-hater, that one.’

  ‘No.’ Trin surprised himself with his mild defence of her. ‘She thinks you are... how did she put it... nice.’

  Scali cleared his throat with embarrassment and picked up his empty mug. ‘I will give this my priority, Don Pellegrini, but I cannot be sure of the outcome.’

  Trin nodded his understanding. The Ciprianos had brought only rudimentary processing organisms with them to Araldis. They should have been superseded, so the Studium interactives informed him, but the great cost of starting a new society on a brand new world had demanded that the funds be syphoned elsewhere.

  Far-cast communications were worst affected by preserving the primitive system. Far-news was always delayed and scant. Most of Araldis hadn’t even heard about the Stain Wars until the forces concerned had been skirmishing for half an Araldis year.

  The Scali familia showed the most aptitude for managing the crude biosystem but even they were often lost when it came to growing new applications.

  Trin slid his hand from his pocket and opened it. Multicoloured bravura grains rolled around his palm. ‘Could you could keep it quiet from Signor Malocchi?’

  Scali glanced nervously around the office as if Jus Malocchi might jump out from behind something. ‘Is it as good as they say?’ he whispered.

  ‘Better.’

  A light sweat broke put on the technician’s upper lip. ‘As you wish, Don. But should anyone ask me, I will tell them that you said Malocchi ordered the new programme, eh?’

  ‘Call me Trinder.’ Trin pinched a couple of precious grains into Scali’s mocha.

  After two sips the swelling between Scali’s legs was tenting his fellalo.

  Trin and Scali burst out laughing.

  TEKTON

  Tekton’s design for Sole flowered in his free-mind. The trouble was, his logic-mind regularly reminded him, that he had the idea but not the material with which to construct it.

  So Tekton buried himself in study. Somewhere there had to be a metal that rippled like liquid in its solid state. Yet it seemed that everywhere he searched Ra had been before him—consuming information at a shocking rate. There were traces of him on the Vreal Studium’s geological data files: his signature in the mineral catalogues sign-on, his credit on the OLOSS assay register.

  Ra had become a foregoing malignant ghost.

  Was his cousin trying to second-guess him? Or were their ideas uncannily taking them to the same places?

  Tekton’s free-mind liked to think it was the former, indicating that, perhaps, Ra might feel somewhat threatened by Tekton, despite his apparent arrogance.

  Tekton’s logic-mind, however, told him that this notion was based purely on ego and that evidence suggested that Ra merely had an inquiring mind and a strong work ethic. And if knowledge was power—Ra was growing more powerful. So be warned!

  To distract himself from what, his logic-mind also hastened to tell him, was creeping paranoia, he took up perving.

  It was easy enough to justify his actions as empirical observation. However, justification had become a sort of moot point now that his mind had been re-formed. His internal life had become all about choice, in which he could as easily turn off recrimination and doubt as peel a Balol ugli-peach.

  And Tekton loved it.

  He set about wooing Dieter Miranda with the sole (he excused himself the pun) ambition of gaining a closer inspection of her thighs.

  On their first date he took her for a shuttle ride around Belle-Monde. As the creaking tug wallowed its way around the pseudo-world close to Sole-space. Tekton wondered what Sole was thinking, or if, indeed, Sole thought at all. When you knew almost everything, what would there be left to wonder about?

  To his disappointment, Miranda was wrapped in a voluminous silvery garment that covered most of her flesh. Tekton mind-instructed his moud to alter the enviro setting to ‘uncomfortably warm’. He then apologised for it, grumbling excuses about the pseudo-world’s poor maintenance.

  By the time the heat began to make him feel a little light-headed, however, there was little show of Dieter Miranda’s flesh.

  ‘How marvellous this feels, Tekton—I’ve been cold ever since I got to this damn place. Might even sweat off a few joules. Or is that jowls?’ She laughed heartily. The act of mirth filled her false cheeks with air and wobbled them.

  The frisson of delight Tekton experienced nearly equalled that of the night when he had witnessed her ‘thighs’ in action (though he had taken to keeping his robe tightened in company, so as not to alert his colleagues to his feelings). He felt so gratified by her display that he picked the scorched lobster for lunch and ordered up a bottle of Lostol vintage spritzer.

  Miranda’s eyes sparkled at the extravagant fare. ‘You do know how to treat a girl. Now Tekton, tell me all about you—and about that rather deliciously brooding cousin of yours. We’re dying to know.’

  She flirted and bantered as she polished off the best part of his month’s complimentary food allowance.

  ‘And what of your affairs, Miranda? Have you sorted out your differences with Lawmon Jise?’

  She sniffed, giving her best impression of grievance. ‘The man is impossible—such a pedant. Not a person to trust either, Tekton. Why, I heard he was offering information on your project—for a price. Of course I declined the knowledge. This is not a competition between us, is it, Tekton? We are more a family. A brilliant, clever family, of course.’

  At that point Miranda lifted the tail of her shift and crossed her legs, showing a large measure of undulating thigh flesh.

  Something in the artful timing of it triggered a thought. Moud? Has Dieter Miranda been on any other dates recently?

  Date is a difficult term to define, Godhead. However, she has been in the company of others.

  Who?

  Most regularly, Lawmon Jise.

  What do you mean by ‘in company’? Evenings? Have they been sleeping together?

  Yes, Godhead.

  Thank you. Dear, devious Dieter Seeward—but not devious enough.

  Tekton told the moud to instruct the tug to cut short the slow approach and finished up the date early, before cognac, leaving Miranda with a courtly bow on the docking bay. No matter how much she inflated her cheeks, he vowed silently, she would not entice him to disclose an iota about his project premise—nor would he buy her spritzer ever again!

  Tekton went back to his rooms in a huff.

  ‘Moud. Tell me where Lawmon Jise is located. And how I might spy on him.’

  The moud floundered for a moment. Could you give me more information, Godhead?

  ‘What privacy rules have been set in place?’

  Each occupant may secure their rooms if they so wish.

  ‘How many do so?’

  All—with the exception of you, Godhead.

  ‘Even Ra?’

  Most certainly Godhead Ra, Godhead.

  ‘Has my room been entered by anyone?’

  Yes. You did not set the privacy conditions.

  ‘Who?’ Tekton could not keep the shrill note from his mind-voice.

  Sentient?

  ‘YES, sentients!’

  Lawmon Jise, Dieter Seeward and... The moud took what Tekton imagined to be a deep breath. Ra.

  ‘Good Sole!’ mind-shouted Tekton. ‘What were you thinking, letting them in here?’

  You did not stipulate your wishes. The default is programmed to an open room.

  ‘Why? What was this place before? A bordello?’ Tekton snapped.

  The moud took another ‘breath’. Yes, Godhead. It was.

  MIRA

  ‘Remove the mask,’ said the man in clumsy Latino.

  No hand extended to help her; no apology came for knocking her down. Breaking the seal on her velum, Mira folded it back and climbed shakily to her feet. Her shoulder blade felt bruised and her neck was already stiffening.

 
‘What are you doing here?’ The man spoke again. He stood on her left, the Balol on her right. The female’s musky odour was so strong that it overpowered the astringent scent of the objects behind her.

  ‘Please. I-I cannot see,’ Mira protested shielding her eyes from their flashlights with her hands. ‘I am here by mistake ... an accident.’

  The man uttered a few discordant sounds and switched his light off. The Balol lowered the beam of hers to the floor.

  Mira blinked several times to refocus her eyes. The pair stood close together. The man looked unkempt but not dim-witted. His blanched hair and elongated physique suggested that he had spent time in space, and she sensed that he was older than he seemed. His features were misaligned, crooked—not an easy face to forget.

  The Balol wore no clothing over her amour-thick skin and bore many ridges of decoration scars on her chest and arms. Mira could not recall the significance of them: Balols were not a species she had chosen to learn about; their coarse habits had always made them an unattractive study subject. She had preferred the musically gifted uuli and the simple bellodina.

  ‘Then tell me, signorina, why is the entire Araldis Carabinere roaming the docking tubes in search of you?’

  She tried to identify the man’s origins and could not. The humanesque diversity in the Orion system exceeded anything on Araldis.

  He stepped forward unexpectedly and began patting her body for weapons.

  Mira trembled under his rough, invasive handling. ‘This is not necessary—I am unarmed and I am unused to—’

  His fingers halted on her bruised shoulder and gripped her until she cried out. ‘Not used to what? Trespassing? I could push you straight out of the lock for that, or inform the Carabinere that I have you. You think you can stand here and make demands?’ he snarled.

  The pain robbed her of speech and she could not stop her body swaying under his grip.

  Sensing that she was close to fainting the man let go of her and stepped back.

  Mira bent forward and swallowed gulps of air while the Balol sent the beam of her light darting from ceiling to wall, searching for something.