Luna: Moon Rising

by Ian McDonald

  Lady Sun instructs her sharp young women and men to wait outside Amanda Sun’s apartment. Zhiyuan is present, Tamsin. The whole board. The surprise is Mariano Gabriel Demaria.

  ‘Is it Darius?’ Lady Sun asks at once. ‘What has happened to him?’

  ‘Darius is well,’ Zhiyuan says. ‘Mariano brings information about the Eagle of the Moon.’

  ‘Lady Sun.’ Mariano dips his head in respect. ‘Now that I have the board in full, I can deliver my information. Lucas Corta serves Amanda Sun, plaintiff in the case of Corta versus Corta, Sun and Luna Corta as an Academic Ward of the University of Farside, with a summons to satisfaction at the Court of Clavius. The time and location of this satisfaction to be mutually agreed, but within one hundred and twenty hours.’

  ‘Satisfaction?’ Amanda Sun says.

  ‘Trial by combat,’ Lady Sun says.

  ‘I know what it means,’ Amanda Sun snaps.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Zhiyuan says. ‘There hasn’t been a satisfaction by combat since…’

  ‘Since Carlinhos Corta opened up Hadley Mackenzie balls to voicebox,’ Amanda Sun says. She twists open a vape, inhales deep, exhales slow. ‘The Cortas have form here.’

  ‘He knows he was a weak case,’ Lady Sun says.

  ‘Or he needs to settle quickly,’ says Tamsin Sun. ‘Within five days.’

  ‘Obviously, he has been served with his own challenge to trial,’ Lady Sun says.

  ‘The only one with skin in the game is his sister,’ Amanda Sun says.

  ‘I see no legal advantage in Ariel Corta issuing a challenge,’ Zhiyuan says.

  ‘You didn’t see Ariel Corta putting her nephew on the witness stand at the preliminary,’ Tamsin Sun says. ‘To her eminent advantage.’

  ‘Get yourself a zashitnik, girl,’ Lady Sun says to her granddaughter.

  ‘I’ve already summoned Jiang Ying Yue.’

  ‘Jiang Ying Yue, who surrendered her blade to Denny Mackenzie and twenty grubby jackaroos,’ Lady Sun says. ‘You have the greatest knife-fighter on the moon, Nearside or Farside, sitting right in front of you. Write him a contract, pay him five million bitsies and post it on the Court Listings and Lucas Corta and whatever back-stabber he’s persuaded to step into the arena for him will fold.’

  Again, Mariano Gabriel Demaria dips his head respectfully.

  ‘You honour me, Lady Sun, but I am unable to accept your contract. I am already contracted as zashitnik in this case.’

  Consternation on the luxurious upholstery. Zhiyuan is on his feet; Tamsin’s familiar is calling security. With a whim Lady Sun could summon her entourage from the corridor but what would it avail but pointless blood? If Mariano Gabriel Demaria intended mayhem no force in this room, in the Palace of Eternal Light, could prevent him.

  ‘Whatever Lucas Corta is paying, I pay you five times,’ Amanda Sun says.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Lady Sun says. ‘He doesn’t need your money. This is personal. He was Carlinhos Corta’s second in the Mackenzie duel. He taught Carlinhos Corta the path of the Seven Bells. Old loyalties die hard.’ Lady Sun adds, with venom, ‘Though, it seems, not to his current pupil.’

  ‘I shall dedicate myself to Darius’s training,’ Mariano Gabriel Demaria says. ‘If Darius wishes to continue.’

  ‘He does not,’ Lady Sun snaps. ‘We too take personal loyalty seriously in the Palace of Eternal Light. You have earned my enmity. The enmity of the Suns. Please leave us.’

  A bow to all and Mariano Gabriel Demaria is gone.

  ‘Lucas Corta intends to frighten us off,’ Lady Sun says.

  ‘I propose we don’t give the satisfaction,’ Zhiyuan says.

  ‘I concur,’ Amanda Sun says. ‘We will face him in court. This family will not run again.’

  ‘He will cut us apart,’ Tamsin Sun says.

  ‘Of course he will,’ Lady Sun says. ‘We have no defence. But you of anyone should know that one hundred and twenty hours is a long time in law. Perhaps Lucas Corta is lying. Perhaps he is bluffing. Perhaps Mariano Gabriel Demaria’s legend greatly outshines his ability. And perhaps Lucas Corta will never go to trial at all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tamsin Sun says. Sun Zhiyuan nods. He understands.

  ‘Lucas Corta has an important vote in the LMA,’ he says.

  ‘Precisely.’ Lady Sun finds she is reaching for her flask. How good, how triumphant, how affirming and reassuring a sip of her gin would be now. No. This too is a rule. Dowagers of exalted houses, in their ninth decade, do not drink in the street. ‘Now, I must go and talk to the Three August Ones.’

  * * *

  Again, the voices beyond the stone doors. Again, the tap of heels, the click of cane on the smooth stone. Again, the flutter in the belly, the bladder, that makes Alexia press her fingers to the tightly buttoned waist of her two-piece Chanel suit. She could throw up.

  ‘Do you want me to announce you?’

  Lucas Corta shakes his head.

  ‘I want you up in the seats. I want you to read the room and report to me.’

  ‘Report what?’

  ‘Anything that takes your attention.’

  This is the day of the vote. The day when the future of the moon is decided. The Lunar Mandate Authority is in full session. The Dragons have arrived from their cities and palaces in their full panoply. The terrestrials in their poor suits and unfashionable shoes have ridden down from their mid-level executive apartments. They know, but have yet to understand, the lunar way; that the higher the status, the further from radiation it lives. To the Earth-born, status is always altitude. Legal counsels and advisers have been retained. The university, for half a century loathe to involve itself in the moon’s politics, has sent observers.

  ‘You hesitate?’ Lucas asks.

  Alexia grimaces.

  ‘Denny Mackenzie will be there.’

  ‘Denny Mackenzie will be everywhere from now on,’ Lucas says. ‘This is a small world. You will meet the same faces over and over again for the rest of my life. Love them hate them fuck them kill them. Again and again.’

  Alexia takes the staircase to the upper tiers.

  You hear me? she says on the secure channel.

  I hear you very well, Lucas answers.

  It’s a hell of a show, Alexia says. Lousika Asamoah has left her ward-animals outside the council chamber but she and her party fill their seats with colour and spectacle. Kente robes, staffs of authority, extraordinary hair arrangements: wings, inverted pyramids, cascades of braids, plaited loops. Yevgeny Vorontsov occupies his traditional ring-side seat while his young controllers jostle and brood in the high tiers, groomed to molecular perfection and so so easy on the eye. Yevgeny is flanked by two avatars; humanoid bots with pixel skins carrying the images of the two other aspects of VTO: Sergei Vorontsov, two seconds out of sync, for VTO Earth and Valery Vorontsov for VTO Space. Alexia has never seen Sergei Vorontsov before: he is less distinctive, less theatrical than the other two patriarchs. Burdened. Eroded by politics and gravity. Valery Vorontsov in avatar form is even more of a horror than when Alexia met him in his cylindrical forest in the core of Saints Peter and Paul. His attenuated limbs, his weak, spindly neck, his deceptively broad chest turn him into a puppet from nightmare, controlled by strings from orbit. That his feet don’t touch the ground compounds the horror.

  The Mackenzies command an entire sector of the council room. Gone are the grey men of Duncan Mackenzie’s reign. The White Women of Hadley stake their claim to the Council Chamber and the future of Mackenzie Metals. In the heart of the white dresses and suits is a bright yolk: Denny Mackenzie, in a very good suit of russet-gold synthetic tweed. Alexia’s attention snags on the woman at his side, ivory dress contrasting with dark skin. Irina. Irina Efua Vorontsova-Asamoah, of St Olga, who had come to her in tears and melodrama when she was to marry Kimmie-Leigh Mackenzie. And now looks well in with the Golden Boy of Hadley, from the way his smile displays his gold tooth when she whispers in his ear.

  Alexia knows that smile very w
ell.

  Irina notices eyes on her, then notices whose eyes. Her face lifts in recognition. Alexia exchanges the briefest of smiles. But she won’t bet on an invitation to that dynastic wedding.

  The murmur begins by the main door and circles the council chamber. The Suns are here. Not creeping, not shame-faced, not their single token delegate, but as Dragons. First a coterie of aides and assistants, girls and boys and others of a beauty to match the Vorontsov kids, a style that rivals the Mackenzies and hairstyles – sculpted, gelled, engineered, fighting gravity and inertia – that challenge the Asamoahs. Then, the advisers and legal representatives, impeccable, professional, diamond-bright. Last of all, the delegates from the Palace of Eternal Light. The murmur turns into a rumble and Alexia calls Lucas.

  Lucas, Taiyang just rolled up like a rock show. Your ex the Queen of Mean.

  The Suns overflow their assigned seats; Team Taiyang spills up into the top tiers, aides jostling Vorontsov bravos.

  Amanda Sun places herself in the seat directly beneath Alexia. She turns, smiles like murder.

  ‘Mão de Ferro. I know you’re in contact with Lucas. Tell him that unless he drops the court action against me, Taiyang will abstain in the vote.’

  ‘You’re bluffing. You’ll hand victory to the terrestrials.’

  ‘We will have all the victory we need when the sun-belt contracts start coming in. As for emasculating the Vorontsovs and Mackenzie dreams of space, can you blame us? We have nothing to lose here.’

  Alexia summarises to Lucas. Their familiars have made the mathematics clear to them, and the consequences of Lucas’s choice. The Suns abstain, the proposal fails. Lucas votes for the proposal, he declares war against the terrestrials. Lucas votes against, he makes himself the enemy of the Vorontsovs and Mackenzies. Lucas abstains, everyone draws blades against him.

  The VTO presentation team is in position, engineers and designer briefed and ready.

  What will you do? Alexia asks.

  The answer comes back at once.

  ‘Lucas says, see you in court.’

  The bafflement, becoming confusion, becoming fury on Amanda Sun’s perfectly made-up face is a pleasure to Alexia Corta. Lady Sun, seated at Amanda’s side, turns to Alexia.

  ‘You filthy little favelado whore,’ she whispers. ‘Sitting there in your suit imagining you’re quality. You are nothing but a ridiculous clown, a thief in stolen silks. You see this room? Everyone in this room laughs at you. Everyone in this room knows you are a joke. Iron Hand. Vainglory from the mouth of a four-year-old. Childish. Vain. Like all you Cortas. You are dirt and I will see you return to dirt. My only regret is that those fucking Australians did not finish the job, from that preening cretin of a CEO to his mewling brat.’

  ‘Sers,’ the public address announces, cutting short Lady Sun’s bile. ‘The Eagle has landed.’

  Lucas Corta crosses the floor to his seat. Every eye follows him, every body leans forward, rapt. The council chamber is as tense, as charged, as energised as a fusion containment vessel. Lucas waits for the growl of voices to subside. He stands, one hand on his cane.

  ‘Sers. I have reviewed my position as chair and president of the Lunar Mandate Authority and find that I have been compromised in my duty to conduct myself equably and impartially. Our legal system recognises bias and prejudice, but these must be evaluated and compensated for. I subject myself to evaluation pending compensation and therefore I must suspend myself temporarily from the functions and duties of the Eagle of the Moon and adjourn this vote.’

  He turns and clicks out of the Pavilion of the New Moon … Thunderstruck silence, then the tension fractures and the council chamber rises in shouting voices and yelled questions. Delegates are on their feet, jabbing accusing fingers but Lucas Corta is gone.

  Meet me, Lucas says.

  Hell yes, Alexia replies.

  Alexia scoops up her bag and bends close to Lady Sun’s ear.

  ‘Fuck you, old woman. We beat you, and we will beat you again, and again and again and then you will die beaten like a street dog.’

  Escoltas meet Alexia in the lobby and transfer her to the Eyrie where Lucas waits in his office, at his desk. Two glasses, a flask of his private gin in a cooler. He pours and pushes one glass across the desk to Alexia.

  ‘I know you don’t like it but drink.’

  She raises the glass.

  ‘Congratulations. A malandro move if I ever saw one.’

  ‘I bought a little time, nothing more. If I am to be saved by a malandro move, it must come from my sister, I think.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Alexia takes a polite sip from the glass. Neat gin. Flowery, astringent stuff.

  ‘The trial. Ariel issued the challenge, and she knows I have retained Mariano Demaria. Even if she replaces the zashitnik Abena hired for the preliminary hearing with Dakota Kaur Mackenzie, she still cannot beat my man. She has another move, one I have not foreseen and I cannot work out what it is.’

  ‘As long as you can push the vote back to after the trial…’

  ‘I’ve made sure of it. We go to court in forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Gods.’ Again, that invocation. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Can anyone ever be ready? Lê, I have no idea what’s going to happen. I find that liberating.’

  An entropic chill grips Alexia’s spine. It is a sobering realisation, the mark of adulthood: people in power are making it up as they go along. Alexia reaches across the table to take the flask of gin. It is deep frozen crystal, purifying and cold. Alexia tops up Lucas’s glass.

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We wait. We listen to bossa nova.’ Lucas takes a sip, hisses in pleasure at the bite. ‘We drink gin.’

  * * *

  Ariel smells it before she sees it: the electrifying blend of perfume, sweat, dust, printer-fresh fabric, hair products, make-up and shaving gels that can only be generated by one thing: a crowd. Her smile widens to a delighted grin as she rides the escalator up from Meridian’s private railcar station. The city has turned out for her.

  The impatient murmur becomes a rumble harmonised to the hum of camera drones as the ones at the front catch sight of the faux-feathers of Ariel’s Adele List hat, then an excited chatter, then exultation as she steps off the moving staircase.

  No handball team ever ran out to a reception like this. The station plaza is solid with bodies, pushing and craning to catch sight of the celebrity story of the year. Voices call her name, Ariel pauses at the top of the staircase to strike a pose. A thousand lenses capture her, a heartbeat later Ariel Corta in her Charles James suit, Ferragamo shoes, Guccio Gucci bag and deadly lipstick tops a million news feeds.

  ‘Get out of the fucking way,’ Dakota Kaur Mackenzie hisses, narrowly avoiding being pushed by the moving stairs into Ariel.

  Voices bay her name, craving a smile, a look, even a quantum of attention. Questions fall in barrages: Ariel pouts, smiles, lifts a gloved hand and snaps out a titanium vaper. There is a collective gasp, then rapturous applause as she takes a long draw and exhales plumes of fragrant vapour. Ariel Corta is back.

  ‘Isn’t it fabulous?’ Ariel whispers behind the smokescreen.

  ‘Your transport should be here by now,’ Dakota grumbles.

  A surge in the commotion: now Luna has reached the top of the stairs. The same beseeching voices call her name. A shout of ‘Show us the knife, Luna,’ is taken up with gusto. The knife, the knife! Luna clutches the case tight to her and moves to safety beside her madrinha.

  Silence sudden as depressurisation falls on Station Plaza.

  He is coming.

  Lucasinho steps off the moving staircase. He hesitates a moment, stunned by the size of the crowd. The crowd holds its breath. He is hospital-pale and thin, his hair is patchy from the treatments but he has shaved chevrons and concentric circles into the dark stubble. His eyes are dark and his cheekbones can shred dreams. He wears his old Moonrun pin on the lapel of his jacket. He stands surveying the crowd. He l
ooks uncertain. He smiles. He waves. The crowd explodes. Ariel beckons him to stand by her side. The drones swoop, the crowd surges forward; security moves to protect Team Lucasinho. Voices shouting, faces looming, bodies shoving: questions questions questions.

  ‘Gods!’ Ariel shouts into the bedlam. ‘I’ve missed this!’

  * * *

  Dakota harrumphs her way through the Han Ying hotel’s prospekt-level Armstrong suite. She frowns at the office, sniffs at the deep sofas and wide armchairs. Growls at the private spa with its sauna and five-person whirlpool. Rolls her eyes at the beds she can walk all the way around. Purses her lips at the personalised printer in every room. Sneers at the personal butler with such disdain that he flees.

  ‘This had better not be on the faculty account,’ she says to Ariel.

  ‘I booked it,’ Abena Maanu Asamoah says from the depths of an armchair the size of a rover.

  ‘Class is as class acts,’ Ariel says. ‘Perception is half the battle.’ She taps Dakota lightly on the wrist with the tip of her vaper. ‘And don’t worry about your academic budget; the gupshup channels are paying for all this. In return for exclusive content.’

  Ariel trickles two plumes of vapour from her nostrils.

  ‘I’m going to stick that thing up your hole,’ Dakota mutters. ‘And don’t vape in here. It’s antisocial.’ She puts herself between Ariel and the balcony. ‘And don’t go out there either. There could be a dozen drones waiting.’ To Abena, ‘And while you are congratulating yourself on your PR coup, have you had this place swept for security?’ She jerks a thumb at Rosario de Tsiolkovski, diligently working her way through the kitchen space in search of something to eat. ‘This is what you hired?’