Dark Space - Marianne de Pierres [55]
Djeserit called to the korm while Mira searched through the rubble for something to help them. She found it in what was left of the laundry amid the stench of smouldering chemicals—a roll of flex. She stumbled back to Djeserit but as she unwound it a prickling sensation crept along her spine. Nearby more explosions sounded. Were those other voices she could hear, calling out for help?
Mira tied the flex around her waist and told Djeserit to grasp her. Together they pulled the korm jerkily up to the lip of the hole. Then the edge crumbled away with the weight and she dropped again.
Mira’s weakness infuriated her. I need a man’s strength.
Djeserit tugged her arm. ‘Baronessa? Don’t give up. Per favore.’
The ragazza’s plea spurred her to try again. She planted her feet wide and began to pull backwards again. It was so hot now that it hurt to breathe. The flex bit through her gloves and pinched at her waist. Her muscles trembled uncontrollably with the weight of the load. Any moment now the fire would sweep through and take them.
Mira let obstinacy became her focus. The korm would not slip. This time as it reached the lip of the hole the korm gripped the edge with it strong beak and forearms and pulled itself out.
Mira did not wait to examine Djeserit’s and the korm’s wounds; she urged them from the ruins and back through the dry-garden to the lodge.
Trin was still inside, kneeling beside Istelle. In his arms he held a small bundle: a ‘bino. His face crumpled with relief when he saw Mira. ‘She had it in a sling under her arm,’ he said.
Mira took the tiny shape from him. It was crying, a bleating noise so gentle against the chaos. ‘Bino? I could have crushed you—’
The noise of another blast drowned her voice. The walls of the lodge trembled and Mira’s ears popped. Instinct drove her to the floor.
Trin had fallen across Djeserit, shielding her with his own body.
Noble but tardy, Mira thought. If he had helped her before, maybe others would have lived—maybe Faja. She didn’t need to look outside to know there would be no survivors now.
Closing her mind to it, Mira crawled to Istelle’s side. The ‘bino had fallen silent in her arms, its face wary like that of a tiny, scared animal.
‘Where’s the nearest medic, ‘Stelle?’
The Pagoin woman didn’t answer.
Mira ran her free hand over Istelle’s head, feeling for wounds to her scalp and neck. The poor cara must have been feeding the ‘bino when the blast had come. Where had Faja been? Did it matter? Faja was gone. Her sorella was gone.
But Istelle lived. I must help her. She stroked Istelle’s hair in a soothing movement.
Djeserit stepped forward and tugged her arm away roughly.
‘Istelle’s dead, Baronessa. We must go from here and find help.’
Dead? What did she mean? Mira continued her stroking but Djeserit shook her again, insistently.
‘See her, Mira!’ The harsh voice belonged to Trin Pellegrini.
Mira had forgotten about him but his hostile demand forced her to examine Istelle’s face; to watch her chest. Nothing. No airflow. No pulse. No life: only a trickle of drying blood at the corner of her mouth and a look of heartbreaking sadness.
Mira Fedor’s world collapsed. She crouched, unspeaking, suffocated by the wretched beat of her own heart.
* * * *
JO-JO RASTEROVICH
Jo-Jo reflected on his lucky escape over a squirt or ten of Noort-Cloud whisky. Not so lucky—for Jo-Jo, at least—had been the Lostolian fop’s perspicacity in having Jo-Jo sign a contract before he agreed to help him from the ménage lounge and back into a taxi.
When that was done, the dreadful lethargy and fog that had taken command of his body and had brought him near to a close encounter with Dieter Thighs, seemed to abate. Jo-Jo booted Salacious II out of Belle-Monde’s orbit like he had a supernova up his arse.
One complete resonance shift and a day or two of suffocation nightmares later, he began to settle back into his comfort zone. Or would have if the fop, Tekton, had not been on farcast to him.