To Crush the Moon

by Wil McCarthy

  chapter thirteen

  in which the demands of

  beggars are voiced

  It was, of course, the Fatalists with whom Perdition communicated, and while the details of their exchange were quantum-encrypted and thus impossible to decipher, archaeologists and historians agree on this much:

  First, that the exchange was hundreds of petabytes long in both directions—more than adequate for a self-aware data construct to be passed back and forth several times. Or, alternatively, for several constructs to make the crossing once.

  Second, that the Queendom recipients of these messages were, without a doubt, located well away from Earth and Mars and Venus. Mercury and the moons of Jupiter are considered unlikely but cannot be ruled out altogether. Almost anywhere else in the system is possible; no physical traces have ever been found.

  Third, that the virus released into the Nescog on Lune Day was of Eridanian origin, or evolved from an Eridanian template which in turn traced its heritage back to the early Queendom. Sol had endured crippling network attacks during the Fall, and the “Eridge” plague showed a cunning grasp of both the strengths of that ancient assault, and the weaknesses of the contemporary network.

  These weaknesses were few and slight, so the virus spread at only a tiny fraction of the classical speed of light, and was not truly lethal in its effects. Still, it was stealthy, and raised no conclusive alarms until it had wormed its way to the heart of every switch and router, collapsiter and precognitor in the system.

  Conrad Mursk first learned of the attack indirectly, faxing home from a meeting with the Europan Ice Authority. As he stepped out of the print plate into his penthouse apartment in the city of Grace, he found himself staggering for a drunken moment. This was not entirely unheard of, for Grace was a floating city, and the Carpal Tower at its center was very slightly flexible. On windy days, you could feel the roll and sway of the city here as nowhere else.

  But never this much. Though his balance reasserted itself, Conrad felt at once that something was wrong. For one thing he was covered with a fine white dust, like talcum powder. For another thing, the evening lights of the city below were not all lit. Some were flickering; others were simply out.

  Worse, he had the distinct sense that there was something different about him. Inside, in his mind or his memories or his immortal soul. Nothing monumental—he was still Conrad Mursk of Ireland and Sorrow, Lune and Pacifica—but it seemed to him that he was suddenly peppered with small absences. With tiny half-remembered things, now wholly forgotten. Or was he imagining it?

  “Call Xmary,” he said to the ceiling, but he needn't have bothered, for moments later she spilled out of the fax in person. This was, after all, dinnertime, and she'd've called him already if her gubernatorial duties required her to be late, or to spawn an extra copy or two.

  She was also covered in powder, and looked startled and subtly off-kilter.

  “What just happened?” she said, fixing her eyes on Conrad, her hands on the black hair hanging down past her neck.

  “I don't know,” he admitted. “Are you all right?”

  “I . . .” I think so, she'd been about to say. But something stopped her. She didn't think so.

  “Maintenance,” Conrad instructed the apartment. “Fax diagnostic, now.”

  “All functions nominal, sir,” the fax said, sounding ever-so-slightly offended.

  “Seconded,” said the ceiling. “No sign of anomalies.”

  “Not here,” offered the floor. “But look at sir and madam. They're quite disturbed. Perhaps they encountered a transit glitch.”

  “Impossible,” the fax replied.

  “Improbable,” the floor countered, “and yet—”

  “Everyone shut up!” Xmary commanded firmly. “Conrad, do you feel . . .”

  “Funny? Full of holes? Dusty? Yes. Something's happening.”

  Xmary looked up at the ceiling. “News.”

  “Today's top story: Travelers report fax anomalies. No details available. Please propagate this message on supraluminal channels where possible.”

  Well, that was helpful.

  “That could mean anything,” Xmary grumbled. “What travelers? Where? Us? Update the top story every time it changes, please.”

  “Yes, madam. Today's top story: This is a travel advisory. Travelers in the vicinity of Earth and Mars report minor cellular injury after Nescog transport. Citizens are advised to avoid Nescog travel wherever possible. No further details available. Please assign this story top priority on all civilian supraluminal channels.”

  And then, on the heels of that: “Today's top story: Her Majesty has declared a state of emergency. Please remain where you are, or limit necessary travel to licensed air, ground, and space vehicles. The Nescog is hereby reserved for authorized emergency personnel.”

  “Damn,” Xmary said. “I'd better get back to the office.”

  “How?” Conrad wanted to know. The Central Pacifica governor's office was on Cooper Ridge Construct, eight hundred kilometers away.

  “I'm emergency personnel,” she pointed out. “I must be.”

  “But do you want to risk the damage? It could be permanent. For all we know it could be fatal.”

  “Hmm. I could take a glider, I suppose. Or maybe a boat. There are boats here, right? It's an island.”

  She was spared any further thought on the matter by a crackling from the fax machine behind her. It coughed out a cloud of dust, then a sizzle of blue sparks, and finally the staggering body of a heavy, bearded man.

  Bruno de Towaji, the King of Sol. Presently, he put an arm out and fell flat on his face.

  “Blast,” he said woozily, “that is a nasty smack, isn't it? Am I still me?”

  “Your Highness!” Conrad and Xmary said together. “What are you doing here?” Conrad added, while Xmary asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Scrambled,” the king said, picking himself up, brushing the dust from his eyebrows and beard. “If that's the worst they can do I'll be happy, but still. How dare they do their worst!”

  “What's happening?” Xmary asked him. “Why are you here?”

  “I set up a point-to-point filter between this apartment and the Beach Palace, but someone had to go through it first. As a calibration article.”

  “Why?”

  He didn't answer, but turned groggily back toward the fax again. “I'm close to a breakthrough on the wormhole front. I can feel it! But Maplesphere and Earth are suddenly very far apart. It'll take us months to filter this irritant from all possible routes. Indeed, it may be quicker to purge the virus entirely than to design emergency workarounds.”

  “What virus?”

  “Eh?” Bruno looked over his shoulder. “The one they've attacked us with.”

  “Who?”

  “The Fatalists. The Eridanians. The dark angel of unintended consequences. My errors return to me, young lady, a thousand times magnified.” To the fax he said, “Royal Override. Apply calibration results and clear your buffer. Begin point-to-point transfer.”

  The Queen of Sol stepped out of the plate, with no more fuss than if she'd stepped through an ordinary doorway.

  “Thank you, darling,” she said to her husband. “I appear to be intact. And you?”

  “I will be,” he said, “when I can get my hands on a previrus backup. They've taken down the first-tier error correction. The damage is minor but . . . disconcerting.”

  “All right,” she said brusquely. “Give me safe passage to Malu'i. For two.”

  Malu'i. Protector. The navy's flagship.

  “Are we under attack?” Conrad asked stupidly. He'd fought a dozen battles in his life, and they were all different, all surprising. But they shared this characteristic: he never really believed they were happening until he was in the thick of it, fighting for his life or his freedom or for some empty principle he'd barely remember afterwards.

  “Play message Doxar twenty-one,” the queen said to the apartment walls, instead of answering Con
rad directly. “Full exchange, half duplex.”

  A hollie window appeared near the fax, and in it the face of an Eridanian man. There was no mistaking the Eridanians, for their heads were overlarge and overround, their dark eyes glaring out from beneath bushy white eyebrows and thick manes of curly silver hair. Their skins were as pale as chalk, except in the shadows and creases, where they were as black as coal. This was a trick that helped them radiate excess body heat, but it made them look . . . exaggerated. False. Like comic drawings designed to highlight particular emotions: here is HAPPY! Here is ANGRY! Here is FILLED WITH THE ENNUI OF TOO MANY CENTURIES IN A CAVE! Their small size—about two-thirds the height of a natural human—only exaggerated the effect.

  This particular Eridanian was ANGRY.

  “I am Doxar Bagelwipe,” he said self-importantly, “of Humanitarium Perdition. Y'all poseth unacceptably, y'hear? We will not end our travail in forgettable parking orbits, for yet more centuries of unlife. To prove the sincerity of our conviction, we assail your teleport network. Consider it declared: no less than full sanctuary is acceptable, for all persons stored cold or warm aboard this vessel.”

  Next, Queen Tamra's own image replaced Doxar's. “Captain,” she said calmly, “the people of Eridani will be resettled in the Queendom of Sol as space and resources permit. Your impatience is understandable, and in sympathy with your plight we're doing all we can to prepare new worlds for habitation. But this sabotage is counterproductive, and can only hurt your standing with the people of Sol. Please reverse it immediately, and proceed to your designated orbit.”

  Doxar reappeared then, for his message was interactive, and carried with it the full force of his personality. Why wait for the speed of light, when you can send your image to negotiate in your stead? Particularly when your position is inflexible, and no persuasion can hope to alter it. “Unacceptable. We declare the right to escalate,” Doxar's image said, and then winked out.

  Damn.

  The king said to Conrad, “If they actually enter the Queendom, right now and all at once, they'll destabilize the economy. We must delay them. Meanwhile, my boy, you and I are traveling to Lune, and thence to Callisto and Europa. Just in case things go astray, we've got to get as much water onto that dustball of yours as we can in the next seven weeks.”

  When Perdition was due to arrive. With guns blazing?

  Said Queen Tamra to Governor Xmary, “You captained a starship for hundreds of years. You know how starship crews think, how they react. And you have actual combat experience, correct? You fought a space battle.”

  “Once,” Xmary protested.

  “Not a police impoundment,” the queen pressed. “Not a simulation or staged maneuver, but a to-the-death battle against a determined and capable opponent. From the forces of my son, King Bascal.”

  “Once!”

  “That's once more than anyone else, Governor. You won the fight, correct? You survived, and your opponent didn't.”

  “That's accurate, yes.”

  “Then come with me,” the queen said. And to Bruno: “Is the fax machine ready?”

  “It is.”

  “Then kiss your husband good-bye,” the queen instructed Xmary. “Your respective duties may keep you apart for some time. I wish I could say how long.”

  Conrad reeled. Was this truly happening? Was Xmary being drafted right in front of his eyes? Sent off to fight for her life in the wilds of space?

  “I—,” he said, but nothing else came out.

  “Don't,” Xmary told him, turning into his arms, putting a finger to his lips. She looked scared and somewhat dazed, but fully in control of herself. “You know how these things go. All we need is a show of force, then a show of compassion, and then a get-to-know-you coffee in the observation lounge. I'll see you soon.” She kissed him then as he had rarely been kissed, in a thousand years of life.

  “Be careful,” he said, clutching her in his arms, unwilling to let go. But she extricated herself anyway, and answered, “Always.”

  She nodded to the queen then, who was kissing her own husband good-bye. Then the two of them—the strongest women Conrad had ever known—stepped into the fax plate and vanished.

  What happened next is history, in all the great and small senses of the word, for it is written in the Ballad of Conrad Mursk, “They faxed from the house / the queen and his spouse / and he never saw neither no more.”

  chapter fourteen

  in which consequences are

  weighed and chosen

  The error-correction virus turned out to be merely the first salvo in a battle that would later be known as Eridge Kuipera. The damaging effects on travelers turned out to be incidental to the bug's real purpose, which was to prop open a small vulnerability in the Nescog, paving the way for further attacks.

  The second and third viruses rebounded from a growing thicket of Queendom defenses, but the fourth one—named by different authorities as Heater, Snaps, and Variant Delta—managed to pick its way through the obstacles and squeeze itself into some twenty percent of the Nescog's scattered nodes. Its effects were rather more serious, being fifty percent lethal to traveling humans and, ominously, to their buffer images and unsecured backups as well.

  As a precaution, citizens were advised to back themselves up at their earliest convenience, at any of the Queendom's thousands of secure, off-network repositories. But with tens of billions of customers flooding in all at once, the Vaults were overwhelmed, and waiting lists quickly grew from weeks to months to well over a decade.

  Meanwhile, Perdition continued downsystem on a course that could only be described as belligerent, for its exhaust of coherent gamma rays cut straight through the heart of the Queendom, sweeping dangerously close to the Saturnian system and in fact bathing several asteroid-belt settlements with sublethal but highly obnoxious radiation. Shipping lanes were disrupted; ring collapsiter segments flickered and flashed with secondary Cerenkov emissions.

  And unless the starship's course was altered, that beam would eventually—if briefly—play right across the Earth at much closer range, sickening tens of billions of people on the ground and, in all probability, vaporizing anyone in orbit, where the shelter of a planetary atmosphere was moot. Plant life would not be much affected, but the animal toll on the worst-hit continent of South America would be steep.

  Too, the atmosphere itself would heat up in a hurricane-sized bullseye pattern—elevated by ten or twenty degrees Kelvin at the center—and the oceans beneath would warm slightly as well. This would be enough to play havoc with the weather for months, or perhaps longer. And then Perdition itself would ease into a high orbit, from which further assaults on the Earth would be trivially easy.

  These Eridanians meant business.

  So did the crew of Malu'i, though, and the queen to whom they answered. Tamra had never asked to rule this system, but she'd never shirked from the responsibility, either, and damn if she'd let some gang of colonial hooligans tear the place up, no matter how sad their story might be.

  “If we're forced to target your engines,” Tamra tried explaining to the invaders, “there may be considerable hazard to your passengers and crew. And even if you escape without injury, you'll be moving through the Inner System at several hundred kps. You'll fly right through, and back out to interstellar space before we can arrange to decelerate you. A rescue operation could then take weeks to mount, and years to bring you to the park orbit we've already assigned.”

  “Prick yer five holes, y'all shite-bathed daughter of pigs,” replied the image of Doxar.

  Given the length of the Queendom's history and the size of its population, we can assume that fouler curses than this had been directed, from time to time, at Tamra-Tamatra Lutui. If so, however, no record of them has survived. Certainly, the immediate shock and indignation of the men and women on the bridge of Malu'i suggests that such outbursts were rare indeed.

  Nevertheless, Tamra's response was well measured. “Such language may be commonplace in the cave
rns of Aetna, Captain, but here in the cradle of humanity we've found that mutual respect yields better results. And surely you understand that with the security of our citizens and biospheres at risk, we're quite prepared to fire on your vessel.”

  “And we'm prepared to crash your Nescog, missus. Completely and utterly, I kid you not. Y'all think we can't?”

  “I suspect you can,” she conceded. “Or your agents here in the Queendom can. You'll find them dangerous allies, I daresay, but they've certainly inconvenienced us before.”

  “Then give. Because I will not.”

  “No one surrenders so easily,” said Tamra coolly. “We're not inflexible, Captain, but neither are we stupid, nor craven, nor weak. You will alter your course, and divert your drive beam away from populated areas. Then we'll negotiate. From receipt of this message, you have five minutes to comply. Or rather, the true Captain Doxar does. You, his pale shadow, may fly back to him now with my regards.”

  She blanked the hollie, ending any further communication with Doxar's image. It could hang around if it wanted to, but the real Doxar's reply would overwrite it in any case. Of course, Perdition and Malu'i were five light-minutes apart, so with round-trip signal time it would be fifteen minutes before anything actually came of this exchange.

  “Well played, Majesty,” said Brett Brown.

  “Thank you,” she acknowledged, mindful of his pride, his authority before the bridge crew, and indeed before the whole of the navy itself. “I'd like to discuss the matter with you later, if you have time.”

  In fact, Brown had nothing but time, and while his strategic and diplomatic skills were not in question, this was unarguably a tactical situation. Still, appearances mattered, for he had been this vessel's captain for nearly six hundred years, and his sudden replacement by Governor Li Weng—a comparative greenhorn—was bound to raise eyebrows, even if Tamra had promoted Brown to admiral in the process.

  Fortunately, the past two weeks had proven Tamra right, for Xmary was a cunning fighter who'd steered Malu'i onto a vector that took maximum advantage of her maneuverability, and minimized the options of the faster but much heavier Perdition. Brown had fought in thousands of simulated engagements, and won the vast majority of them, but bloodlessly. He had never once witnessed an actual permanent death, whereas Xmary had seen hundreds, and personally caused at least twenty. More, if Fatalist ghouls were to be counted. So if it came to blows—and it might!—Tamra figured the safe money was on known killers.