Dark Space - Marianne de Pierres [85]
Rast shrugged. ‘Some might call it smart. Now tell me, Mira Fedor: if the Principe and his son are dead, who does the title fall to?’
Mira shook her head. ‘I-I am not sure. That is ... I am not sure that he is dead.’
Rast took her arm and pulled her into the shade of the town hall roof overhang. ‘You’ve seen him?’
‘His son? I think so—at the Carabinere compound. He left when they evacuated.’
‘Deserted!’ snorted Cass.
Mira felt the blood draining from her head. She could no longer think well enough to keep ahead of the inquisitive mercenary. ‘We need food for our bambini.’
‘We’ve got a temporary mess set up in the bistro off that dust bowl of a town centre you’re all calling a piazza, past where the TerVs are parked. We eat in shifts.’
‘I’ll tell Innis and Marrat,’ said Cass. She walked off leaving Mira.
Rast watched her go. ‘She’s tough, that one. We pulled her man out of the Juanita mine collapse only a week ago. She came and identified him. Never showed a thing, no tears, no screaming.’ Rast’s voice was tinged with admiration. ‘You were lucky to hook up with her.’ She slipped a casual arm around Mira’s shoulder. ‘I’ve known a few pilots but never an aristo. I like refined women.’
Mira clutched Vito tighter. She would not let Rast intimidate her. ‘I haven’t eaten properly for days.’
Rast let her arm drop. ‘You might still score breakfast if you hurry.’
* * * *
The mess was a jumble of chairs and tables collected from the casas and spread through the market place’s all-weather tents and adjoining bistro. Innis, Marrat, Kristo and Cass sat at a table in the bistro section room, enjoying plates of kranse bread and farfalli.
Mira went to the food-server. The room sweltered as the environmentals struggled against the heat from the overworked ovens and the constantly opening cold-lock. She saw the korm squatting in a corner of the cucina, chewing at a mound of raw kranse.
The korm raised its head and chittered. Though still crusted with blood, it seemed more lively; its crest looked less shrivelled.
Mira went to help herself to a plate of stewed quark eggs but was stopped by a solid Latino-looking woman with a determined face. Her protecsuit was stripped back to her waist and her crimson skin glowed with the heat. Sweat dripped freely from her forehead, down her cheeks and onto the neck of her undershirt. ‘Just so you know. It’s one plateful only. Some have been taking more than their share. Sign for your meal here.’ She pointed to a touchpad.
Mira placed her finger on the pad and it moulded around her finger for an instant.
‘Do this each time,’ said the woman. ‘If you don’t…’ She glanced behind her to an ‘esque rocking back on a chair, a rifle resting across his thighs.
Mira nodded, took her one slice and one plateful and went to Cass’s table, not sure that she could eat the food. She bit into the bread and moistened it in her mouth.
‘I can’t feel my feet,’ complained Kristo.
Mira looked under the table. Cass’s older child was asleep on the floor, head resting on Kristo’s feet. Mira felt a sudden softening towards the man, guessing that he had also seen to the korm.
‘Your ragazzo,’ she said to Cass.
Cass got down on her knees and moved the ‘bino’s head, freeing Kristo’s feet.
Kristo nodded his thanks and smiled at Mira, stamping the blood back into his feet. The warmth of his expression should have meant something but her tiredness and grief had suddenly gone beyond something she could explain, beyond civility, beyond manners and breeding. She could not care at that moment. All she knew was that the food hurt her stomach and the thought of the woman’s sweat dripping from her face made her feel sick. She wanted to eat and yet she wanted to vomit. She lowered Vito to the floor and slumped in her seat.
‘Baronessa?’ Cass stared at her.
Mira forced herself to take another mouthful of bread. She chewed it mechanically When it reached the pit of her stomach the nausea abated some. She found herself longing to lie next to Vito on the floor. Her thoughts began to wander a