Chaos Space - Marianne de Pierres [53]
Mira frowned in disbelief. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because I was the hired meat. That’s how I met Ludjer Jancz. He was my Capo.’ Rast gave a short laugh. ‘He said it would be short and sweet and lucrative. But things got out of control. The Extras only had a small force but they were close to home and, as I said, their weapon tech was classy. I mean, you’d expect that, I guess, but it seemed to take OLOSS by surprise.’ Rast’s stare fixed on the last measure of wine in the demijohn. She swirled it around. ‘I’ll sure never forget it.’ She drained the demijohn and tossed it onto the table. ‘Don’t ever underestimate Extras, Fedor. They don’t think like any humanesque or alien I’ve ever met. Damn near impossible to predict and not given to fits of compassion.’
Rast rocked her chair back to the floor and closed her eyes. A moment later she was asleep.
Mira was astounded that the mercenary could relax so instantly, bolt upright and in company: just another disparity between them.
She sat for a while, watching Rast’s face. The mercenary seemed more feminine in sleep, her skin smooth and her lips soft. But the shadows under her eyes and the bruise along one cheekbone kept the picture real. Rast was as unpredictable and pitiless as the Extropists she had fought against and yet Mira felt envy again at the woman’s freedom. Was it as easy as that? Could you just grasp it? Or did you have to be able to kill and fight and view life through a sieve of cynicism?
Would she swap her life with Rast?
Even with the weight of tradition and her enslavement by her altered biology she would not. But she could transform herself with knowledge.
Mira dragged herself to her feet and went to her cabin where she removed her fellalo and laid it onto the steam couch. While it was cleaned she examined herself in the small mirror. It reflected a person vastly different from the one who had looked back at her on Araldis.
This person was thinner and had lost much of her vibrant crimson colouring. As with Rast, there were exhaustion shadows under her eyes and her skin had developed a waxen texture. It was the kind of fatigue, she knew, that did not quit easily: the fatigue of a person living in constant dread and uncertainty.
It gnawed at her that she had not been able to say goodbye to Cass Mulravey, nor give her a word of explanation.
‘Don’t let her return to the mine,’ Trin had told his Carabinere. Then he had driven away.
The muzzles of their rifles had stabbed into her back as they forced her inside the cabin of the AiV. They’d shared Trin’s righteousness, the imperative that his line should continue, that a woman should be accepting of everything.
But nothing in Mira accepted Trinder Pellegrini’s act.
The memories began to well up but she clamped down on them. What had Trin told the women about her, she wondered? That she had stolen an AiV and run away? He would have been careful to ensure that she did not become more than him to them; more of a hero. And now she carried his child.
My child, not his! My child. My child. Mira intoned the words as she crawled into bed and let oblivion finally claim her.
Insignia woke her.
There is a farcast from Scolar, Mira.
She surfaced instantly, as if her sleep had been only a breath below wakefulness.
Si. Si. What does it say?
You have been granted an emergency meeting with Sophos Mianos, the OLOSS delegate for Orion Edge. The meeting will occur in twelve hours.
How can that be? We are days out still.
Insignia hesitated. I enhanced the length of your sleep cycle and nourished you.
Mira jerked up out of bed. You sedated me!
It was for the best—for the baby. Your blood pressure was elevated and your liver function had degraded. You are refreshed now. Your organs are coping better.
Anger flared hot through her body. Do not do that again. Never do that.