Dark Space - Marianne de Pierres [22]
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