Luna: New Moon (17 page)

Rachel touches Robson on the knee. He starts; his eyes are wide with fear.

‘When I say go, follow me. We’re going to have to finish this on foot.’

The rover drops with a jarring crash to one side. Rachel is thrown hard against her restraints. The rover is immobile, capsized at a crazy angle. The drone has cut away a wheel. Then it takes out the final camera.

‘Robson, my love: go.’

The hatch blows. Dust and hills and the flat black heaven. Rachel grabs the side of the hatch and propels herself out. She hits the regolith, runs. Glances over her shoulder to see Robson land light as a hummingbird and run. The drone is crouched over the wreckage of the rover. Rachel thinks of Bryce Mackenzie, of cancer, if cancer could walk and hunt.

Now the bot raises itself on its manipulators from the wreckage of the rover. Unfolds cutters and long sharp plastic fingers. Climbs down on to the surface, picks its way towards her. It’s not fast, but it is inexorable. And there are operations Rachel needs to perform before she and Robson can catapult to safety.

‘Robson!’

Step by step, the bot gains on the boy. He is slew-footed on the regolith. He doesn’t know how to move in vacuum, how to avoid kicking up blinding sheets of dust. His father kept him too long in the coddled womb of Boa Vista. Should have taken him up to see the Earth at age five, the Mackenzie way. Should have could have would have.

The hatch is ready,
Cameny says. The personnel lock will only take one person at a time. Out on the Mares, the BALTRAN system is rough and ready, prioritised for bulk transport.

‘Get in!’ Rachel shouts. Robson scrabbles at the lock. He is so clumsy.

‘I’m in!’

Cameny closes the hatch. Now Rachel must rotate in the capsule. Slow. Why is it so slow? Where is the bot? She doesn’t have time for even a glance behind. Breath hisses through teeth in supreme concentration as Cameny powers up the launch sequence.

The pain in her right calf is so sharp and clean Rachel cannot even cry out. Her leg won’t hold her. Something has been severed. Helmet displays flash red; she gasps as the sasuit fabric tightens above the breach, sealing the suit, compressing the wound.

Your right hamstring tendon has been severed behind the knee,
Cameny announces.
Suit integrity is compromised. You are bleeding. The bot is here.

‘Get me in,’ Rachel hisses and then the pain comes, more pain than she imagined could exist in the universe and she screams; terrible, bellowing agonised screams. Screams that sound impossible from a human throat. A movement, a dart, a second clean slash, and she’s down. The bot is over her, a shadow against the black sky. Her suit lights glint from three drills, descending on her helmet visor.

‘Launch it, Cameny! Get him out of here!’

Launch sequence initiated,
Cameny says.
The probability of your survival is zero. Goodbye Rachel Mackenzie.

Drill bits shriek on toughened visor. And at the end Rachel Mackenzie finds only rage: rage that she must die, that it must be here in the cold and dirt of lonely Flamsteed, rage that it is always family fucks you. Her visor shatters. As the air explodes from her helmet she feels the ground shake, sees the flicker of the BALTRAN capsule from the mouth of the launch tube.

Gone.

Rafa Corta is ire and thunder, striding at the head of his security detail. João de Deus is his town; his face is familiar among the Corta Hélio workers and ancillary staff, but not like this: an icon of rage and joy. He is Xango the Just, São Jeronimo, judge and defender. His people glance away from his eyes and make way for him.

The boy has already exited the lock. He stands alone in the arrivals, still in sasuit and helmet, smeared with dust, his familar hovering over his left shoulder.

‘He taught me a trick,’ Robson says. Joker relays his words to the world beyond the helmet. ‘It’s a real good trick.’ Gloved hands take a deck of playing cards from a thigh pocket. Robson fans them out. His voice is dead, flat, alien. Joker catches every tone. ‘Pick one.’

The cards fall from his fingers. His knees collapse, he pitches forwards. Rafa is there to take him.

‘Your mother.’ Rafa shakes the trembling boy. ‘Where is your mother?’

FIVE

Duncan Mackenzie storms through Crucible. Humans make way for him, machines accommodate him. The CEO of Mackenzie Metals is not to be kept waiting for trivial safety regimes. Not in his pale wrath. Duncan Mackenzie’s anger is grey, like his suit, his hair, the surface of the moon. Esperance has hardened to a ball of dull pewter.

Jade Sun-Mackenzie meets him at the lock to Robert Mackenzie’s private car.

‘Your father is undergoing a routine blood-scrub,’ she says. ‘You’ll appreciate the process can’t be disturbed.’

‘I want to see him.’ Duncan Mackenzie’s voice is cold as the metal above his head is hot.

‘My husband is undergoing a delicate and important medical treatment,’ Jade Sun restates. Duncan Mackenzie’s grip is at her throat. He slams her head back against the lock. A fat drip of blood runs slowly down the white lock.
You have a scalp contusion and possible impact trauma,
her familiar Tong Ren says.

‘Take me to him!’

I have images,
Esperance says. The familiar overlays Duncan Mackenzie’s lens with a high-angle view of the old horror in a diagnostic cot. Nurses, human and machine, surround him. Tubes and lines pulse red.

‘That’s not real. You could have fed that to Esperance. You fuckers are clever like that.’

‘You. Fuckers?’ Jade Sun whispers. Duncan Mackenzie releases his grip.

‘My daughter is dead,’ Duncan Mackenzie says. ‘My daughter is dead, do you hear?’

‘Duncan, I’m so sorry. A terrible thing. Terrible. A software error.’

‘The recovery team found precise cuts in her sasuit. That bot hamstrung her.’ Duncan Mackenzie covers his mouth with his hands to hold in the horror. After a moment he says, ‘They found drill marks on her helmet. That’s a very precise software error.’

‘Radiation regularly causes soft fails in chips. As you know, it’s an endemic problem.’

‘Do not fucking insult me!’ Duncan Mackenzie roars. ‘Endemic. Endemic! What kind of word is that? My daughter was killed. Did my father order this?’

‘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?’

‘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.