Dark Space - Marianne de Pierres [54]
Tekton surmised that it was not the adrenalin and, in fact, perhaps Jo-Jo was a little deranged—but that was of no matter.
‘That’s very simple, Mr Rasterovich. It would take a rare mineral amalgam,’ he said.
* * * *
MIRA
The intruder, dressed in a once-white Carabinere fellalo, rolled onto his knees, clutching the back of his unhooded head.
‘Trinder Pellegrini? What are you doing here? Dressed that way?’ Mira heard the shrill fear in her voice.
‘Mira Fedor?’ he whispered, hoarsely. ‘What in the cazzone are—’
A deafening explosion shook the room, knocking Mira to the floor, against Trin. After pushing him away, she scrambled for her boots and ran to the door.
‘Stay inside,’ he shouted at her. But she ignored him, flinging the door open.
Another explosion knocked her backwards as if she’d been kicked in the chest, robbing her of breath and hearing.
Stunned, Mira levered herself up onto her elbow to see Villa Fedor crumbling in the pink dawn light like a sand palazzo before a breaking wave. Fragments spewed outwards in a roar and a chunk of catoplasma struck her shoulder; gravel from the dry-garden stung her face. She rolled onto her stomach, moaning, fumbling to seal her velum.
A lull followed the shock, and in its aftermath came another noise. Worse. The cries of injured ‘bini.
Mira’s heart beat in painful spasms. Faja and Istelle. Crux. . . oh, my Crux! She climbed to her feet and ran outside. Fire consumed the ruins without conscience for those still alive who were trapped inside.
‘Trinder,’ she screamed over her shoulder. ‘The Carabinere.’
But Trin did not answer, nor did he come outside.
‘They’ll burn to death,’ she cried. What could she do? Nothing. She could do nothing. But what if Faja was alive? What if Istelle—
A segment of the villa wall cracked with a noise like a rifle shot and fell. The rest would follow. There would be no survivors when it did.
Mira ran towards the heat and rubble, the ground burning her as if she was walking barefoot on coals. Smoke and dust choked her breather, forcing her to take shallow breaths. She felt light-headed. The cucina? No! Si! I think so. Crux. What is that? Ragazzo? Arm? Cannot tell. Tears hampered her progress—no sadness, only panic—blurring her vision as they poured from her eyes.
Dining room, covered with beds fallen from the first floor. Korm nest. Smouldering. Other end of dining salon. Fallen cots from above. ‘Bino in cot still. Somehow. Dead. Arms twisted. Istelle! Scrape debris away. Istelle in her arms. ‘Istelle?’
The woman coughed. ‘Faja. Bambini,’ she whispered.
Mira strained to lift the thin woman in her arms.
Istelle whimpered, clutching her robe around herself. Mira dragged her through the flames, legs shaking from the effort, staggering by the time she fell against the wall of the lodge. ‘Trinder, please . . .’ She thumped against the door.
Trin opened it and she fell inside. He took Istelle from her, carrying the injured woman to the bed.
Mira climbed to her feet. ‘Where are the Carabinere?’
Trin’s expression was strange, disconnected. ‘I’m not there, so they cannot know.’
He made no sense but she did not wait. She returned to the villa, covering the same rooms: cucina and dining hall and back. More collapsed beds. Some bodies. ‘Bini she didn’t know or couldn’t recognise. Dead. All dead.
One last glance at the cucina. A deep hole had appeared in the floor. The cellar. She lay flat on her stomach and crawled to the edge, her throat so choked with smoke that she couldn’t swallow.
She heard a noise below. A chitter. A korm alive.
Mira plunged her arm down as far as she dared without toppling in. Smaller fingers grasped it. Elation suffused her with strength and she tugged the ‘bino upwards.
Djeserit’s frightened face appeared through the smoke. She bled from wounds on her cheeks and forehead. ‘The korm is still down there.’
Mira dragged her away