by Ian McDonald
‘We had nothing to do with that.’
The silent speech is becoming impassioned, betraying itself in clenched jaws, tense throats, moving lips. Ariel looks across from her seat at the round table. Adriana knows her daughter is a talented lipreader. It’s a useful courtroom skill.
‘Who profits if we fight?’
‘When Dragons fight, everyone burns,’ Adriana says. It’s a Sun proverb, of recent, lunar provenance.
‘I’ll rein my people in if you do the same for yours.’
‘Agreed.’
‘That includes your family.’
Adriana’s mouth twitches with anger at the presumption. Rafa takes his hot temper from his mother, but she has a control, shaped over decades of corporate wars and board-room battles, investor pitches and legal tussles that he has never needed to learn. Anger is one of his many privileges.
‘Rafa is bu-hwaejang.’
‘I’m not saying demote him. I would never presume that. I’m suggesting maybe he could share responsibilities.’
‘With whom?’
‘Lucas.’
‘You know my family too well,’ Adriana says.
‘We didn’t try to assassinate Rafa,’ Duncan says aloud.
‘We didn’t kill Rachel,’ Adriana says. Heads are turning now. ‘Excuse me, Duncan. I’ll pass the word. I’m expected to make a speech now.’ She taps her cocktail glass with her chopstick, a clear chime that silences the chattering room. Adriana Corta rises to her feet.
‘My dear guests; friends, colleagues, associates, family. I am eighty years old today. Eighty years ago I was born in Barra de Tijuca in Brazil, on another world. For fifty of those years, over half of my life, I have lived on this world. I came to it as one of the first settlers, I have watched two generations grow up; my children’s and my grandchildren’s, and now it seems I am a Founding Mother. The moon has changed me in many ways. It has changed my body so that I can never go back to the world I came from. To you of the younger generations, that is a strange notion. You have never known anywhere other than this world, and though I talk about the changes the moon has worked on me, they are nothing compared to the ones I see in you. So tall! So elegant! And my grandchildren, why, I think I would need wings to be able to fly up to kiss you! The moon has changed my life. The girl from Barra, Outrinha, the Plain One is the owner of a powerful corporation. When I go up to the observation dome and look with my bare eyes at the Earth, I see those webs of lights across night on Earth and I think, I light those lights. That’s another thing the moon changes in people: there is no gain from modesty.
‘The moon changes families: I see friends and relatives and colleagues from all Five Dragons, I see retainers and madrinhas; but I am not like you. You came with your families, you Suns and Asamoahs and Vorontsovs, you Mackenzies, you of no great family. When I set up Corta Hélio I offered every member of my family back on Earth the chance to follow me to the moon and work with me. Not one took my offer. Not one had the courage or the hope to leave Earth. So, I built my own family; my dear Carlos and his family, but also dear friends who are as close to me as family; Helen, and Heitor. Thank you for your years of service, and love.
‘And the moon has changed my heart. I came here as a Brazilian, I stand here as a woman of the moon. I gave up one identity to build another one. It’s the same for all of us, I think; we keep our language and our customs, our cultures and our names, but we are the moon.
‘But the greatest thing the moon changes is itself. I’ve seen this world go from a research base to a handful of industrial habitats to a full civilisation. Fifty years is a long time in a human life; it’s even longer in the life of a new nation. We are no mean satellite; we are a world now. Down on Earth they say we’ve raped it, taken its natural beauty and despoiled it with our tracks and our trains and our extractors, our solar batteries and server farms and our billions and billions of eternal footprints. Our mirrors dazzle them, down there; our King Dong offends them. But the moon always was ugly. No, not ugly. Plain. To see the beauty of this place, you have to go under the surface. You have to dig down to the cities and quadras, the habitats and agraria. You have to see the people. I’ve played my part in building this wonderful world. More than my company, even more than my family, it’s my proudest achievement.
‘At the age of eighty, it’s time to enjoy my achievements. My world is in good shape, my family are proud and respected, my company has gone from strength to strength, not least our recent successful acquisition of the Mare Anguis fields. So, for Adriana Corta, at last, a rest. I am stepping down from my position as hwaejang of Corta Hélio. Rafael will be hwaejang, Lucas will be bu-hwaejang. You’ll find nothing changed: my boys have been effectively running the company for the past ten years. For me, I shall enjoy my retirement and the company of my family and friends. Thank you for your good wishes for this day; I shall treasure them in the days to come. Thank you.’
Adriana sits down to consternation. Around the room, around her table, mouths are open in astonishment. All but Duncan Mackenzie, who leans close to Adriana and whispers, ‘I sure picked the right party to crash.’ Adriana answers with a small laugh but its bright, silvery; almost a girl’s. An unburdened laugh. Ariel is leaning across the table, Rafa is on his feet, Carlinhos, Wagner; everyone asking questions at the same time, until a loud, steady handclap cuts through. Lucas stands, hands raising, applauding. Across the room another pair of hands replies; then two, then four, then the whole party is standing, raining applause on Adriana Corta. She stands, smiles, bows.
Lucas’s is the last pair of hands to fall silent.
After the shock, the questions.
Helen de Braga slides in a whisper before Ariel’s arrival.
‘I thought you said it was too morbid for your birthday.’
‘I only said I was retiring,’ Adriana says. She squeezes her old friend’s hand. ‘Later.’
Ariel kisses her mother.
‘I thought for one hideous moment you were going to give me a job.’
‘Oh, my love,’ Adriana says, then finds her tone of command to her entourage. ‘I’m very tired. It’s been a demanding day. I’d like to go home.’
Heitor Pereira summons security. They cordon Adriana from the inquisitions of her guests.
‘Congratulations on your retirement Senhora,’ Heitor says, ‘but with respect to my position; it’s no secret that Lucas wants rid of me.’
‘I look after my own, Heitor.’
The guards part for Rafa. Behind him is Lousika Asamoah. Rafa embraces his mãe.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘I’ve thought about the succession long and hard.’ Adriana strokes his cheek.
‘Succession?’ Rafa asks but Adriana is already receiving a stiff embrace from Lucas.
‘Whatever possessed you, Mamãe?’
‘I’ve always been attracted to the dramatic.’
‘In front of that Mackenzie.’
‘He’d have found out. Whispers fly around the world in an instant.’
‘The CEO of Mackenzie Metals. They tried to kill Rafa.’
‘And I gave him my word that we would not go back to the old corporate war days.’
‘Mãe, you’re not hwaejang any more.’
‘I didn’t give him my word as hwaejang.’
‘They’ll break it. Duncan Mackenzie may give his word, but his father doesn’t forgive. The Mackenzies repay three times.’
‘I trust him, Lucas.’
Lucas purses his fingers, dips his head but Adriana knows he cannot concur. After him come Carlinhos, Wagner, the madrinhas and the children: Adriana progresses down an aisle of ringing applause and smiling faces. At the door she sees a figure among the ornamental trees.
‘Let me through.’
Irmã Loa lifts her crucifix from among her beads. Adriana Corta bends to kiss it.
‘When will you tell them?’ Irmã Loa whispers.
‘When the succession is se
cure,’ Adriana says. Familiars are listening, they can hear whispers but they can’t parse private code. Irmã Loa takes out a flask and sprinkles Adriana Corta with sacred water.
‘The blessing of Saints Jesus and Mary, Jeronimo and Our Lady of Conception, Saint George and Saint Sebastian, Cosmos and Damian and the Lord of the Cemeteries, Santa Barbra and Santa Anne on you, your family and all your projects.’
Motos glide in to the lobby, silent and accurate.
*
Ariel’s heels are glorious and impractical but they add elegance to her flounce to the lobby. But Marina is surface-fit, a Long-runner and she catches Ariel by the elbow.
‘I don’t like it either, but your mother ordered me—’
A hand, a grip, a twist and Marina follows the path that doesn’t end in dislocated joints, snapped bones. The party spins and she’s on her back, winded on the waxed wooden floor.
‘When you can do this to me, maybe then I’ll need a bodyguard,’ Ariel says and steps into the moto that has opened up like before her like a hand.
‘It’s still my job,’ Marina mutters as Corta security picks her up and sets her on her feet again but the moto is a half of Kondakova Prospekt away by now, a bright bauble of advertising, tracked by the balloon bestiary.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
Abena’s touch on Lucasinho’s arm.
‘You doing anything?’
‘Why?’
‘Just, some of us are going on to a club.’
She could have messaged him through Jinji, but she came in person, to touch him.
‘Who?’
‘Me, my abusua-sisters, Nadia and Kseniya Vorontsov. We’re meeting up with some of the folk from the Zé Ka Colloquium. You coming?’
They’re looking over at him, in their party clothes and coloured shoes and he wants more than anything to go with them, to be with Abena and look for chances; to redeem himself, to impress her. Two images won’t leave his head: his father’s two suits on either side of him. Flavia huddled among her saints, fighting to breathe.
‘I can’t. I really have to go spend some time with my madrinha.’
*
Parties decay by half-life. Conversations lose momentum. Topics are exhausted. It’s tiring to talk. Everyone who should be cruised has been cruised. The hook-ups have hooked up, or failed and no one’s listening to the music any more. The staff begin to clear. There is an evening service in an hour’s time.
Lucas lingers, aware that he is in the way and that his presence is barely tolerated but wanting to bestow thanks here, a handshake there, a tip or a bonus. He has always appreciated work well done and believed it should be rewarded.
‘My mãe was delighted,’ he says to the restaurateur. ‘I’m very happy.’
The band pack their instruments. They seem pleased with their performance. Lucas thanks them individually; Toquinho is generous with its tips. A whisper to Jorge: A moment, if you would.
A look from Lucas clears the balcony.
‘Another balcony,’ Jorge says. Lucas leans on the glass wall, looking down the length of São Sebastião Quadra. The birthday blimps have been flown down to ground level, puny humans struggle to wrangle the floating gods with ropes and grapples and deflate them.
‘Thank you, Jorge,’ Lucas says and there is a tone in his voice that kills every quip or levity in Jorge’s conversation. A rawness, a choke.
‘Thank you, Senhor Corta,’ Jorge says.
‘Senhor …’ Lucas begins. ‘You made my mamãe’s day. No, this isn’t what I want to say. I am bu-hwaejang of Corta Hélio, I argue strategy in the board, I talk for a living and I can’t speak. I had a preamble, Jorge. All my justifications and realisations. All about me.’
‘When my fingers freeze, when I can’t get a line, when I feel the music wrong in me, I remember that I’m there because I’m doing something no one else in that room can,’ Jorge says. ‘I’m not like everyone. I’m exceptional. I’m allowed to be arrogant about that. You, Lucas; you’ve every right to say whatever you want, whatever you think.’
Lucas starts, as if realisation were a nail driven between his eyes. His hands grasp the glass rail.
‘Yes. Simple.’ He looks at Jorge. ‘Jorge, will you marry me?’
This time, Duncan Mackenzie is summoned to the glasshouse. The shuttle has arrived, Esperance announces. Duncan adjusts the lie of his lapels, the fall of his trouser turn-ups, the length of his cuffs. He checks his appearance once more through Esperance. A whistle of breath through the teeth and he steps into the shuttle.
His father waits among the tree ferns. The air smells of damp and rot. Duncan can no longer read any emotion in his father’s face. Everything is age, lines deep moon-carved. How easy to pull that plug, tug that line, rip out that tube and watch his father leak and gurgle himself to death all over the floor of his precious Fern Gully. Compost to compost. Food for plants. The medics would only bring him back to life again. They have done it three times already, catching that light in his eyes before it guttered out and using it to rekindle his ruin of a body. This is what I have to look forward to.
Behind Robert Mackenzie stands Jade Sun.
‘Her birthday. Did you sing “Happy Birthday to you, dear Adriana”?’
‘Not her.’ Duncan flicks a look at Jade Sun.
‘Whatever you say to Robert you say to me,’ Jade Sun says. ‘With or without familiars.’
‘What she says,’ Robert Mackenzie says. ‘I thought we were a laughing stock before. Jesus God boy, you went to her birthday party.’
‘I talked to her, Dragon to Dragon.’
‘You talked to her pussy to pussy. You’ll rein our people in? Our people? What kind of pussy deal is that? You’d tie our hands and let those thieves turn us out bare-ass naked on to the surface. In my day we knew how to deal with enemies.’
‘Forty years ago, Dad. Forty years ago. This is a new moon.’
‘The moon doesn’t change.’
‘Adriana Corta is retiring.’
‘Rafael is hwaejang. Fucking clown. Lucas will run the show. That cunt has the right stuff. He’d never sign up to some kind of gentleman’s agreement.’
‘Ariel is a member of the White Hare,’ Duncan says. The old man sheds spittle as he rages. In lunar gravity it flies in long, elegant, poisonous arcs.
‘I fucking know that. I’ve known that for weeks. Adrian told me.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘And a good thing too. It would just have sent you running and hiding. She’s much more than a White Hare, Ariel Corta.’
‘Ariel Corta has been inducted into the Lunarian Society,’ Jade Sun says.
‘The what?’ Duncan Mackenzie shakes his head with confused frustration. There is nothing he can hold in this fight, no grips on his father.
‘A grouping of influential industrial, academic and legal talents,’ Jade Sun says. ‘They advocate lunar independence. Vidhya Rao has recruited her. Darren Mackenzie is a member.’
‘You kept this from me?’
‘Your father’s political beliefs differ from ours. The Suns have always been staunch for independence, since we threw off the People’s Republic. We believe it was the the Lunarian Society leaked the information about the claim release to Ariel Corta.’
‘We?’
‘The Three August Sages,’ Jade Sun says.
‘They’re not real.’ It is one of the legends of the moon; birthed as soon as Taiyang began to thread its AI systems through every part of lunar society and infrastructure: the computers so powerful, the algorithm so subtle, that it could predict the future.
‘I assure you they are. Whitacre Goddard has been running a quantum stochastic algorithmic system we built for them for over a year now. Do you really think we’d let Whitacre Goddard run our hardware without installing a back door?’
‘Yeah yeah,’ Robert Mackenzie. ‘Quantum voodoo. White Hare and Lunarians: what matters is; we need to be able to wheel and deal. To do busines
s our way. You’ve threatened our business model, boy. Worse, you’ve brought shame on the family. You’re fired.’
The words are tiny, shrill as the bird whistles in this terrarium; heard but pushed to a distance.
‘This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.’
‘I’m CEO now.’
‘You can’t do that. The board—’
‘Not this again. The board—’
‘I know about the fucking board. You can’t because I resign.’
‘You know, you always were a petulant little shit. That’s why I did it five minutes ago. Your executive authorisations are revoked. I’m in sole possession of the codes.’
The shuttle has arrived, Esperance says.
‘I’m back, son,’ Robert Mackenzie says and now Duncan sees emotion where before there had only been rage and impotence. The body still pops and hisses, the stench is still sickly but that light that is Robert Mackenzie’s life burns bright and hot. There is tension in his jaw, resolve in the set of his mouth. Duncan Mackenzie is defeated. He is sick with shame. The humiliation is absolute but not yet complete. The final humiliation comes when he turns the heel, walks away through the moist, rattling ferns to the shuttle lock.
‘Do I have to call Hadley?’ Jade Sun asks.
Duncan Mackenzie swallows bile-sick anger. He will never stop hearing the sound of his defeated heels on the deck.
‘You’ve done this!’ he shouts from the lock at Jade Sun. ‘You and all your fucking family. I will punish you for this. We’re the Mackenzies, not your fucking monkeys.’
EIGHT
Marina, running. Meridian is fine running terrain, under trees, up ramps steep enough to test her thighs, with staircases when she needs a tougher workout, over slender bridges with colossal panoramas on either side; over soft grass. She’s never run anywhere better than Aquarius Quadra and she never wants to run there again. Her first run she went out in body paint, the tassels of Ogun around her arms and thighs. She ran for hours, listening for the chants of a Long Run, seeking the beautiful undulating wave of the bodies. The other runners she met smiled at her; some whispered to each other or giggled. She was gauche, she was clearly provincial. There was no Long Run here, no merging into a unity of breath and muscle and motion, into the body of a running god.
