Dark Space - Marianne de Pierres [11]
Trin’s father woke him the next day.
Half drunk still, Trin dragged the covers up over his chest like a ragazzo shrinking from a bedtime monster.
‘I risked a great deal last night for your future,’ said Franco, coldly. ‘Making you Pilot First will cause discontent.’
‘I did not ask for that honour, father. I do not wish to be Pilot First. I wish to be Principe.’
Franco’s thick lips contracted into a cruel line. ‘Then you must learn the value of things.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Trin.
‘I have decided that tomorrow you will accept a position in the Carabinere, working for Jus Malocchi. The cost of replacing Riso’s uuli will be deducted from your gratis.’
Trin grappled for the pieces of the previous night. ‘It died?’
‘Yes. Aside from its visceral injuries, that particular subspecies of uuli does not tolerate the Araldis atmosphere. That was why it was sealed. You should have known that. You have bought an OLOSS humanitarian inquiry to my door when I have other matters, more important matters of concern.’
Trin hid his shock behind a sullen look. ‘I thought the containment was just an affectation, one of Riso’s circus tricks.’
‘The only circus tricks at Riso’s were yours.’ Franco stared at his son.
Trin sensed another unspoken grievance threatening to upset his father’s composure.
‘Why did you attack it?’ Franco said eventually.
Trin opened his mouth to explain but the words wouldn’t form. Franco would not believe him. He sat up straighter instead, forcing himself to drop the covers. ‘You care nothing for ginkos, Papa.’ He used the diminutive deliberately.
But Franco was unmoved by it. ‘No, I do not,’ he admitted.
‘Then why are you doing this? I do not wish to work for the Malocchis. The entire family is loco. Like the Fedors.’
Franco’s stern expression softened the tiniest bit. ‘In that case, my suggestion is that you are on time for your interview.’
* * * *
MIRA
Liveried vehicles crowded the tarmac behind the Studium cucina, their chauffeurs trading insults and boldly nudging each other as they waited for the graduation festivities to end.
Mira pressed the biometric stripe on her inner arm to the lock of a battered TerV that crouched between a large passenger AiV and a victuals haulier. When the door sprang open she slipped inside and dimmed the windows. If any of the chauffeurs had noticed her, they would be too distracted by the mayhem—she hoped—to realise that she was the Baronessa Fedor.
She fumbled with the navigation screen until it displayed a map for the Fleet hangars in Dockside. There! She set the tack, and as she watched for a gap among the jostling liveries, her mind ricocheted between past and present. Insignia’s entreaties had become such a constant in her mind that she hardly knew it from her own inner voice. Had it been so for her father—this endless monologue? Perhaps the stories of her ancestor Lancio Fedor were true? Perhaps insanity had truly claimed him? Indeed, it felt as if it would take her at any moment—due to fear and anger and disappointment at the very least.
Auto-drive sent the TerV climbing out of the Studium surroundings to follow a well-dusted path downward. Within a short time Mira had a panoramic view up at the Pell range. The Menagerie was a patchwork of brilliant hues linking the Studium to the Museo under one transparent dome. In the afternoon light the dome glistened like an enormous soap bubble.
East along the range, familia crests glowed in their dome fields above the lavish gilt villas. Mira saw the Silvios’ Purrcock and Crossbow and the Elenas’ Black Rainbow where their domes intersected midway down Mount Pell with the base of the Pellegrinis’ Berga-Lion Carrying Serpent.
Far away in the small town of Loisa, the Fedor Bear, Feast and Pearl was reflected only in the small stained-glass entrance of the Villa Fedor—there were no protective domes on the plainlands.
When Mira’s great-grandfather had been Pilot First—the one who’d led the fleet from Latino Crux to the new world—the Fedors had lived on Mount Pell. That had changed when Mira’s parents