by Ian McDonald
‘Robert would never do a thing like that. You cannot possibly suggest that your father – my oko, my husband – would order his own granddaughter assassinated. That is ridiculous. Ridiculous and odious. I’ve seen the report. It was a terrible robotic accident. Be thankful that the boy is unharmed.’
‘And the Cortas are parading him around like a newly signed handball star. When that idiot Rafa Corta isn’t swearing that he’ll cut the throat of every Mackenzie he sees. We’re on the edge of war because of this.’
‘Robert would never court the possibility of harm to the company. Never.’
‘You put a lot of words in my father’s mouth. I’d like to hear them from his lips. Let me through.’
Jade Sun takes a step forward. The only way to the lock is through her.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Like you say, Robert would never harm his own granddaughter.’
‘Is this an accusation?’
‘Why won’t you let me see my father?’
Duncan Mackenzie takes Jade Sun by the shoulders, lifts her, hurls her hard against the lock. She crumples. Hands fall on his shoulders. Strong arms wrestle him away from the gasping, shaken woman. Duncan Mackenzie tears free to confront his assailants. Four males in suits as grey and corporate as his own. Big men, Jo Moonbeams, heavy with Earth-muscle.
‘Leave us,’ he orders. The four men do not budge. Their eyes flicker to Jade Sun.
‘These are my personal blades,’ she says, still pale and shaking on the floor.
‘Since when?’ Duncan Mackenzie bellows. ‘By whose authority?’
‘Your father’s authority. Since I started to feel unsafe in Crucible. Duncan, I think you should go.’
The largest blade, a mountainous Maori with rolls of muscle down the back of his neck, lays a hand on Duncan Mackenzie’s shoulder.
‘Get your fucking paw off me,’ Duncan Mackenzie says and slaps away the hand. But there are four of them and they are big and they are not his. He lifts his hands: no trouble here. Security steps back. Duncan Mackenzie straightens the fall of his jacket, the alignment of his cuffs. Jade Sun’s blades place themselves between Duncan Mackenzie and his stepmother.
‘I will see my father. And I’m ordering my own investigation into what happened out there.’
Duncan Mackenzie turns and stalks away, a walk of shame and humiliation through the shafts of light from the smelting mirrors, but there is time for last thrown-back word, à l’esprit de l’escalier. ‘I am CEO of this company. Not my father. Not you fucking people!’
‘My fucking people stand shoulder to shoulder with your fucking people,’ Jade Sun shouts. ‘Vorontsovs are barbarians, the Asamoahs are peasants and the Cortas are gangsters straight from the favela. Suns and Mackenzies built this world. Suns and Mackenzies own it.’
‘She’s never out of that dress.’ Helen de Braga and Adriana Corta stand by the rail of the eighth-level balcony, between the stone cheekbones of Ogun and Oxossi. The cheeks are dry, the waterfalls have been shut down. Gardeners, robotic and human, dredge leaves from the ponds and stream.
‘Every time it gets dirty, Elis just prints her a new one,’ Adriana Corta says. In her beloved red dress, Luna runs barefoot through the puddles at the bottom of the pools, splashing the garden bots, skipping from stepping stone to stepping stone in a complex game: this one must be landed on left-footed, that right-footed, the other two-footed or skipped over entirely. ‘You must have had a favourite dress when you were that age.’
‘Leggings,’ Helen de Braga says. ‘They had skulls and crossbones on them. I was eleven and a proper little pirate. My mother couldn’t get them off me so she bought me another pair. I refused to wear them because they weren’t the same, but the truth was, I didn’t know which were which.’
‘She has little hiding holes and dens all over Boa Vista,’ Adriana Corta says. Luna disappears into the stand of bamboo. ‘I know most of them – more than Rafa does. Not all of them. I don’t want to know all of them. A girl has to keep some secrets.’
‘When will you tell them?’
‘I thought about my birthday but it seems too morbid. I’ll know the time. I need to finish with Irmã Loa first. Make a full confession.’
Helen de Braga’s lips tighten. She is a good Catholic still. Mass in João de Deus weekly; saints and novenas. Adriana Corta knows that she disapproves of Umbanda, under the eyes of pagan gods every day. What must she think of Adriana making holy confession to a priestess, not a priest?
‘Look out for Rafa,’ Adriana says.
‘Enough with that kind of talk.’
‘I will become less able and competent. I feel it already. And Lucas has his eyes on the throne.’
‘He has always had his eyes on the throne.’
‘He’s having Rafa watched. He’s using the assassination attempt to destabilise Rafa. And after what happened to Rachel …’
Helen de Braga crosses herself.
‘Deus entre nós e do mal.’
‘Rafa wants an independent investigation.’
‘That will never happen.’ Helen de Braga and Adriana Corta are of a generation, the pioneers. Helen was moneyed, an accountant, a Tripeiro from Porto. Adriana was self-made, an engineer, a Carioca of Rio. Adriana reneged on her vow never to trust a non-Brazilian. More than nationality, more than language; they were both women. Helen de Braga has quietly directed Corta Hélio’s finances for over forty years. She is as much family as any of Adriana’s blood.
‘Robson is safe,’ Helen de Braga says. Adriana’s children have always been her second family. Her own children and grandchildren are scattered across the moon in a dozen Corta Hélio facilities.
‘That filthy nikah,’ Adriana says. ‘I’ve already had demands for compensation from Crucible.’
‘Ariel will shred that in court.’
‘She’s a good girl,’ Adriana says. ‘I fear for her. She is so terribly vulnerable. Is it silly to want her here, at home, with us and Heitor and fifty escoltas between her and the world? But you never stop worrying, do you? The Court of Clavius, even the Pavilion of the White Hare, they won’t protect her.’
‘How did we get to be two old women standing on a balcony worrying about vendettas?’ Helen de Braga says. Adriana Corta rests her hand on her friend’s.
At the heart of the bamboo grove is a hidden place, a whispering special place. Natural dieback has exposed the soil and inquisitive hands and feet have picked and trodden it into an enchanted circle. This is Luna’s secret room. The cameras can’t see it, the bots are too big to follow her path through the stems, her father knows nothing and she’s pretty sure that Grandmother Adriana, who knows everything, doesn’t know this one. Luna has staked her claim with scraps of ribbon tied to the the canes, print-ceramic Disney figures, buttons and bows from loved clothes, pieces of bot, cat’s cradles of wiring. She crouches in the magic circle. The bamboo stirs and whispers above her head. Felipe the head gardener once explained to her that Boa Vista is big enough to have its own small winds but Luna doesn’t want there to be a scientific reason.
‘Luna,’ she whispers and her familiar unfolds its wings. The wings open to fill her vision, then close to form her mother.
‘Luna.’
‘Mãe. Hi. When can I see you?’
Lousika Asamoah glances away from her daughter.
‘It’s not so easy, anzinho.’ She speaks Portuguese to her daughter.
‘It’s not fun here any more.’
‘Oh love, I know. But tell me, tell me; what have been doing?’
‘Well,’ says Luna Corta, holding up fingers to count off, ‘Yesterday, Madrinha Elis and I played animal dress-up. We got the printer and the network kept showing us things and we kept printing out animal clothes. I was an anteater. That’s an animal, from the other place. It’s got a big long nose that touches the ground. And a big long tail.’ She folds a finger, one transformation counted. ‘And I was a bird with a big … What’s that thing on their mouths?�
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‘Beaks. They are their mouths, coracão.’
‘A beak and it was as long as my arm. And yellow and green.’
‘I think that’s a toucan.’
‘Yes.’ Another counted. ‘And a big cat with spots. Elis was a bird, like Tia Ariel’s familiar.’
‘Beijaflor,’ Lousika says.
‘Yes. She liked that one a lot. She asked me if I wanted to be a butterfly but a moth is really like a butterfly so I said she could be the butterfly, I think she liked that a lot too.’
‘Well, that sounds fun.’
‘Yessss,’ Luna concedes. ‘But … It’s always Madrinha Elis. I used to go to play dates in João, but Papai doesn’t let me do that now. He won’t let me see anyone who isn’t family.’
‘Oh my treasure. It’s only for a while.’
‘Like you said you would only go away for a while.’
‘I did, yes.’
‘You promised.’
‘I will come back, I promise.’
‘Can I come to Twé and see real animals, not dress-up ones?’
‘It’s not so easy, my love.’
‘Do you have ant-eaters? I really want to see ant-eaters.’
‘No, Luna, no ant-eaters.’
‘You could make me one. Real small, like Verity Mackenzie’s pet ferret.’
‘I don’t think so, Luna. Your know how your grandmother feels about having animals around Boa Vista.’
‘Daddy’s been shouting a lot. I hear him. From my special place. Shouting and angry.’
‘It’s not you, Luna. Believe me. It’s not me either, this time.’ Lousika Asamoah smiles but the smile puzzles Luna. Now Lousika’s smile vanishes and in its place she seems to be chewing her words as if they taste bad. ‘Luna; your tai-oko Rachel …’
‘She’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Gone to Heaven. Except there is no Heaven. Just the Zabbaleen who take you away and grind you down to powder and give you to AKA to feed to the plants.’
‘Luna! That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘Helen de Braga believes in Heaven but I think it’s a silly thing. I’ve seen the Zabbaleen.’
‘Luna, Rachel …’
‘Dead dead dead dead dead. I know. That’s why Daddy is upset. That’s why he’s shouting and smashing things.’
‘He’s smashing things?’
‘Everything. Then he prints it out new and smashes it up again. Are you all right, Mamãe?’
‘I’ll talk to Rafa – your daddy.’
‘Does that mean you’re coming back?’
‘Oh Luna, I wish I could.’
‘So when will I see you?’
‘It’s Vo Adriana’s birthday at the end of the lune,’ Lousika says.
Luna’s face brightens like noon. ‘Oh yes!’
‘I’ll be here for that. I promise. I will see you, Luna. Love you.’ Lousika Asamoah blows a kiss. Luna leans forward to place her lips on her virtual mother’s face.
‘Bye Mamãe.’
Lousika Asamoah unfolds Luna into moth form. The familiar returns to its ordained place above Luna Corta’s left shoulder. As she twists and twines back along the twisty path through the bamboo, Luna becomes aware of a change in the the air, a humidity, and a noise. The gardeners have completed their tasks and turned the cascades on again. Water drips, tears, gushes, then torrents from the eyes and lips of the orixas. Boa Vista is filled with the gleeful rush of playing waters.
The ball bends. It’s a beautiful fast arc curving in from right to left, from the height of a throwing hand at the apex of a dive to the bottom left corner of the goal-line. The goalkeeper never moves. It’s in the back of the net before Rafa hits the deck.
The elegance of LHL, what makes handball the beautiful game on the moon and an Olympic oddity on Earth, is its relationship with gravity. With and against. The size of the net, the dimensions of the court and the goal area constrain the advantages of lunar gravity, while gravity makes possible the tricks of spin and slice and ball bending that make spectators gasp at the magic skills of the top players.
‘You’re supposed to stop the ball,’ Rafa Corta laughs. Robson sullenly picks it out of the back of the net. How competitive can a father be against his children? How much can he gloat when he scores against them? ‘Come on.’ He dances back across the court, feet barely brushing the wood. This handball court at Boa Vista is Rafa Corta’s indulgence. The playing surface is perfectly sprung. The sound system was installed by the same engineer who built Lucas’s listening room, though its acoustic is geared for rousing go-faster beats rather than the subtleties of old school bossa. There are concealed bleachers for private invitation matches between Rafa and his LHL rivals. It’s the most perfect court on the moon, and Robson can’t throw, can’t catch, can’t run, can’t score, can’t do anything on it. Rafa intercepts Robson’s dribble, the boy scrambles back and in under a second he is picking the ball out of the back of the net again.
‘What did those Mackenzies teach you, eh?’
Corta security rushed Robson straight from the BALTRAN capsule to the Boa Vista medical centre. His escape from Crucible had left no physical damage but the psych AIs noted a reluctance to speak and a compulsion to show a card-trick to any human who showed an interest in him. Psych recommended a prolonged course of trauma counselling. Rafa Corta’s therapy is more robust.
‘Didn’t they teach you this?’
Rafa throws the ball hard and flat. It strikes Robson on the shoulder. He cries out.
‘Didn’t they teach you to dodge and weave?’
Robson throws the ball back at his father. There is venom in it but no skill. Rafa neatly picks it out of the air and curves it back at Robson. Robson tries to move but it strikes him on the thigh with a clear slap.
‘Stop doing that!’ Robson says.
‘So what did they teach you?’
Robson turns his back and drops the ball. Rafa scoops it up and throws it at point blank range with all his strength. Handball game-suits are tight and thin and the smack of ball against ass is loud as a bone breaking. Robson turns. His face is tight with fury. Rafa catches the ball on the rebound. Robson lunges to slap the ball from his father’s hand but it’s not there: Rafa has dribbled it, turned and scooped it up again. He slams it hard. The court echoes with the boom of ball on flooring. Robson recoils from the ball bouncing up in his face.
‘Afraid of a ball?’ Rafa says and it’s back in his hand again. Again Robson lunges. Again Rafa skips around him, a circle of bounces around his son. Robson turns, turns but he can’t follow the ball. His head turns this way, that way. Boom! He turns into the bounce and it takes him in the belly.
‘Once afraid of a ball, always afraid of a ball,’ Rafa taunts.
‘Stop it!’ Robson yells. And Rafa stops.
‘Angry. Good.’
And the ball is back, bouncing, hand to hand. Badam badam badam. Shoot. Robson yelps at the slap of weighty handball. He yells and throws himself at his father. Rafa is big but fast and light of movement. He dances effortlessly away from his son. The mocking ease with which Rafa outclasses Robson stokes the boy’s anger higher.
‘Anger is good, Robbo.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Why not, Robbo?’ Dribble, shoot, sting. Catch and bounce, always a blink ahead of Robson’s fingers.
‘That’s what they called me.’
‘I know. Robbo.’
‘Shut up shut up shut up shut up!’
‘Make me, Robbo. Get the ball and I’ll shut up.’
Robson doubles over at a point-blank impact to the stomach.
‘Your mama is dead Robson. They killed her. What does that make you want to do?’
‘Go away. Leave me alone.’
‘I can’t, Robson. You’re a Corta. Your mamãe. My oko.’
‘You hated her.’
‘She was your mother.’
‘Shut up!’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I want you to stop!’
‘I will, Robson. I promise. But you have to tell me what you want to do.’
Robson stands stone still in the centre of the court. His hands are held low, outstretched a few fingers’ breadth from his body.
‘You want me to say I want them dead.’
The ball smashes him in the back. Robson rocks but does not move.
‘You want me to say I will get back at them for Mamãe, however long it takes.’
To the belly. Robson wavers but does not fall.
‘You want me to swear like vengeance and vendetta on them.’
Belly, thigh, shoulder.
‘And I do that and they do it back and I do more and they do more and it never ends.’
Belly. Belly. Face. Face. Face.
‘It never ends, Pai!’ Robson punches out. He hits the small, dense handball a glancing blow, enough to deflect it. In an instant it’s back in Rafa’s hand.
‘What they taught me in Crucible,’ Robson says. ‘What I learned from Hadley.’ Rafa can’t clearly see what Robson does, but in a sly fast heartbeat he steps inside his father’s reach and the ball is in the boy’s hand. ‘They taught me to take a man’s weapon and use it against him.’ He flings the ball the length of court and walks off to the sound of its slow, dying bounces.
Badam. Badam. Badam.
From its claw-hold on the inside of the Oxala’s right eye, the spy-fly observes the board table of Corta Hélio.
The Serpent Sea floats in Lucas Corta’s augmented vision. Socrates and Yemanja display identical maps to Rafa and Adriana Corta.
‘A prospecting site at Mare Anguis.’ Toquinho zooms in, rings the named areas. ‘Twenty thousand square kilometres of mare-regolith.’
Lucas lifts a finger and taps the illusory map. Data from selenological surveys overlay the grey and dust. Rafa flicks over the information but Lucas sees his mother’s eyes narrow with concentration.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of running a cost-benefit analysis. Corta Hélio starts turning a profit in the third quarter after the claim is licensed. We can reposition extraction plant from Condorcet. Condorcet is eighty per cent mined out; we have materiel mothballed. Within two years we will be extracting half a billion dollars of helium-3 annually. We estimate the life of Mare Anguis at ten years.’