The Luna Deception (39 page)

The ancient prince opened his eyes. Chrome and faceted glass. “Young man, my son is
dead.
He died in the battle to save humanity, and he shall be avenged, insha’Allah.”

“Yes, s—your royal highness, we’re doing the best that we—”

But the prince wasn’t finished. “Do you know how old I am? I was born in Mecca.”

Mendoza’s jaw dropped. Mecca was no more than an idea nowadays. A flat place in the jungle. Aerial bombardment had obliterated the holy city during the last Sunni-Shi’ite war, which had ended in 21-something, The House of Saud had led the losing side into exile on Luna. The prince was saying he’d been alive back then. Even if he’d been a a babe in arms at the time, that made him at least 150 years old.

“Pre-birth genetic tailoring. Endless side effects. Endless treatments. So sick of bots poking at me. Point is, I’ve seen it all. War, famine, plague, genocide. But when I saw the PLAN, I saw death cupped in a telescope. I saw the death of Allah, whom you call God. That is why my brothers and I agreed to fund the project that Trey Hope, with typical low humor, named D.I.E.”

“You’re very wise, your royal highness,” Mendoza said, overcome.

“I’m old enough to know what’s what. But I’m not too old to feel. Listen to me! I’ve sired one hundred and three sons, but Abdul was my
habbat ayenee,
the pupil of my eye. And the PLAN will pay for his death, if I have to pilot that damn Fragger myself.”

The prince stopped talking, and his mouth sagged open.

Nadia tugged Mendoza’s arm. “He’s asleep,” she said. “All the old ones are like that. Are we going to fuck, or what?”

xxix.

Back in Hopetown, Youssef abandoned the search for his lost swarm of Dust. The news of Frank’s crash pulled him, not back to the office, but to the mosque.

The mosque of Hopetown stood exactly
the same height as Notre Dame de la Lune, counting its minaret—an emblem of the cultural balancing act that the Hopes performed on a daily basis. Taking off his shoes outside, Youssef saw that hundreds of people were already here. The Hope workforce included every type of person: Earthborn, spaceborn, purebloods, normals, Muslims, infidels. They all got along fine. But when disaster struck, people sought the comfort of the familiar. Youssef had noticed this after 9/29, and it seemed to be happening again now.

He went into the men’s side of the prayer hall and sat down on the carpet at the back. Maybe the imam would have some news about Frank’s condition. After 9/29, the Islamic authorities had lined up solidly behind D.I.E., framing it as a new jihad.

Youssef had been on board with D.I.E. since
long
before that. Naturally, he believed Allah was on their side. Generations of Islamic scholars had issued fatwas against the PLAN. But Youssef wasn’t big on metaphysics. He was a techie, and he’d been converted to the cause by D.I.E.’s technological innovations.

Such as the Fragger. Such as a gengineered bacteria that was going to bite the PLAN in its soft underbelly, and gnaw the fucking guts out of it, once and for all.

As he waited for the imam to arrive, the portable transceiver, which he’d set down beside him, sent an alert to his BCI. The instrument had detected a signal at the 512 MHz frequency.

Hiding the screen with a fold of his dishdasha—you were supposed to keep all electronics switched off inside the mosque—Youssef located the source of the signal.

Hey. Looked like his lost swarm was in here. Funny. But not unexpected. The Dust gravitated to crowds of people, for whatever reason.

Youssef was running the command program on his BCI.
~SWARM COMMAND,
he subvocalized.
~Head over to the women’s side and grab me some pix of that hottie from HR.

A stir announced the entrance of the imam. Youssef turned the RF detector off and backgrounded the command program.

Tears streaked the imam’s bearded cheeks. Voice breaking, he said, “Frank is dead.”

“Oh no,” Youssef shouted, with the others. “Not
Frank!”

Amidst his grief, he did not notice that his command to the swarm went unacknowledged.

Someone had pranked his swarm—removed it from his control.

The transceiver indicated that the swarm’s signal was getting stronger. Coming closer.

But Youssef noticed nothing.

★

The ancient prince woke from his doze.

“Oi! I was talking to you!”

Mendoza, feebly resisting Nadia’s flirtatious banter, jumped as if he’d been shot. He hurried back to the mobile throne, followed by a now-sulky sheikha.

“Not a coincidence,” the King barked.

“What isn’t a coincidence, your majesty?”

“Abdul. Vicky. Raul. And now Frank.”

“Oh no,” Nadia cried.

“He’s dead. Just heard.”

Mendoza felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He fought to keep his voice steady. “I agree, your majesty. It’s not a coincidence. Can’t be.”

“Someone’s sabotaging us.”

Mendoza stiffened. He had not allowed himself to think about that possibility. It …

… didn’t seem far-fetched at all.

“Earth,” the prince grunted, echoing Mendoza’s thoughts. “May Allah smite those polytheistic dogs. The UN bombed Mecca, you know. Destroyed the Kaaba! We were all mad in those days. But Hsiao’s gang is worse than mad: they’re frightened.”

Hsaio, Tiffany Hsiao. The President of the UN was known for her conservatism.

“They’ll do anything to stop us from exposing their weakness.”

“They must have a spy inside D.I.E.,” Mendoza realized

“Yes. Exactly. And I have an idea who it is.”

“Who?” squealed Nadia, getting drawn in.

“Think. Who wrote the control software for the Dust? Who is currently facing criminal charges that may end his career, or worse? What would
you
do, to get out of being sent to Pallas? He must have struck a deal with them. He’s sabotaging D.I.E., in exchange for leniency.”

“Derek Lorna,” Mendoza breathed.

In his sterile bubble, the ancient prince smiled.

★

Mendoza hoped that the Saudis would take over at this point. With their wealth and power, they had a better chance of stopping Derek Lorna than he did. But all the prince offered him was better transport.

Nadia explained, “My dad can’t do much without consulting the King. And the King doesn’t want to hear about it. He says you should never attribute to malice what can be explained by metal fatigue. Also, he’s very sensitive to bad publicity. So it’s just us.”

“Uh, did your father say you could come?”

“He didn’t. I wouldn’t listen if he did. I’m my own woman. That’s why I had to break up with Jian Er. He was just as controlling as my father and uncles.”

Mendoza accepted the situation for what it was. He also accepted the prince’s offer of transport: a Moonhawk, one of the high-end flying cars that the Saudis used for surface trips. It had room for a mobile throne in the back. Despite its poetic name, it resembled an SUV. The gimballed cold-gas jets underneath its chassis provided twice as much thrust as the Grasshopper’s. Mendoza overshot New Jeddah and, humiliatingly, had to back up in little hops. Nadia cackled. “Shall I drive?”

“Autodrive only inside the dome,” Mendoza said, managing to align the Moonhawk with the New Jeddah roadlock.

Outside his apartment building, he said to her, “Stay here. I’ll be back in five. I just need to grab some stuff.”

She nodded, kneeling in the back of the Moonhawk, her wings hiding her like a black cloak.

Mendoza hurried upstairs. For once, his apartment was deserted. The Copts must have gone out. Mendoza bent over the home printer in his bedroom, flicking through designs he hadn’t touched in months. Behind him, the door of the walk-in closet stood slightly ajar.

The printer hissed. The smell of fixative filled the room. Mendoza snatched each item as it emerged. Stiff white shirt. Detachable collar. Tie. Socks. The trousers, being made of heavier fabric, took longer. While he waited, he depilated his stubble and rubbed some dry shampoo through his hair. He noticed that Gerges had left his carebot lying on Mendoza’s bed. That was weird. But the little guy had been getting better; maybe he didn’t need it anymore …

“Item complete,” said the printer into the silence.

Mendoza hauled his new trousers on, still warm, and fastened them with the same suspenders he’d worn to work today. No one would notice.

Shoes!

He didn’t have the right liquid to print fake leather. He glanced at the walk-in closet, noticing that the door was slightly ajar. He might have some black lace-ups in there. Or the Copts might.

In the kitchen, something exploded.

Mendoza dashed through. Abraam stood in front of the microwave, a sickly smile on his face. That sound had been something exploding in the microwave. Noisome smoke trickled from it.

“What the hell did you put in there? One of your carebots? I agree, those things are too cute by half, but …”

Abraam spread his hands helplessly. He didn’t speak English.

Giving up, Mendoza tossed some ReadiPak meals and drink pouches into a gym bag. God knew if this stuff would meet with a Saudi princess’s approval. It was all he had.

Screw the shoes.
Sometimes
the Victorians must have worn brown ones.

Abraam hovered, watching, as Mendoza bounded towards the door.

“I may be gone for a few days. The place is yours.”

The door closed behind Mendoza, plunging the apartment into a deathly silence.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, finding no one in the kitchen … no one in the living-room … no one in the bathroom.

From the bedroom came a lifeless thump. The door of the closet opened a few centimeters wider, pushed by a weight that had rolled down against it from inside.

A foot and ankle, clad in a black shoe and sock, lolled out.

xxx.

A couple of weeks into the
Monster’s
captivity on Tiangong Erhao, Kiyoshi ran out of
cijiwu
. The
Nan Yang
had left for the Belt, and the crew of the colony ship that had taken its berth weren’t selling. Likely, they’d been ordered not to have anything to do with him.

“I’m going to the festival,” he told Father Tom.

“Will they let you?”

“Sure. Even the convicts are going.”

“I’m not.”

“Killjoy.” Kiyoshi dolloped some Gravity Gel into his hair to make it lie flat. He was wearing a newly printed edition of his dirtside outfit, complete with buckles and chains. He thought about wrapping the chains around his wrists and ankles, as a protest, and decided the Chinese would not appreciate it.

“Where is this festival?” said Father Tom.

“Dunno. I’m going with the guys from the
Hagiographer
’s
Complaint.”

“Have fun,” Father Tom said. Kiyoshi thought he added something else under his breath, but he let it go.

At the airlock, Kiyoshi spoke into the air. “I’ll see if I can find out anything useful.”

Jun did not answer. Maybe he was just too busy to talk. Kiyoshi
hoped
that was the reason for his silence.

Since they returned to Tiangong Erhao, Jun had been arguing for their lives. It seemed like a replay of his previous argument with the civilian ship. But the 11
th
Brigade of the China Territorial Defense Force was no rabble of haulers and colony-ship AIs. They meant business. They were
interrogating
Jun. And there was nothing Kiyoshi could do to help. He didn’t know what the CDTF wanted. Didn’t even know whether he and Father Tom were part of whatever Jun stood accused of, or just hostages to Jun’s compliance.

So all Kiyoshi could do was what he did, and right now, that meant
cijiwu.

His solemn vow in the sight of Christ to get clean, his promises to Jun and the boss-man—none of that counted for anything here.

The guys from the
Hagiographer’s Complaint
—a tramp freighter, here to sell Belt-mined yttrium and lanthanum to the Chinese—had lent him a coverall-style EVA suit so he could wear his own clothes underneath.

A shuttle came to Docking Bay 14 to collect the festival-goers. Kiyoshi and the crew of the
Complaint
squeezed in among convicts in throwaway EVA suits (print the coverall, splart it to a reusable rebreather set).

“Talk about a captive audience,” said the
Complaint’s
captain, looking around at the off-white thermal sacks with legs.

The shuttle glided along the length of Tiangong Erhao to one of the station’s knobbly ends. It slid into a ship-sized airlock. The passengers spilled out into a pressurized bay a kilometer across, two deep. ‘Below,’ piers stuck out like crags from metal cliffs that narrowed into a dark ravine choked with machinery. ‘Above,’ there was no sky. The only light came from floodlights set up on the piers.

More shuttles disgorged convicts like clouds of gravel. A handful of private spacecraft floated in the middle of the bay on stability tethers.

One of the piers had a stage set up on it. Kiyoshi and the
Complaint’s
crew floated across the gulf to that one. Might as well be near the front. They took off their suits, bundled them up, and tethered them to the floor with twang cords. Around them, others were similarly marking out their territories.

A Chinese girl appeared on stage. She wore a gold robe and had her hair gelled into spikes like the top of a pineapple. Her voice filled the bay, surreally loud.

“The acoustics in here are going to be shit,” said the captain of the
Hagiographer’s Complaint.

“What’s this festival in aid of, anyway?” Kiyoshi said.

The trekkies shrugged. They didn’t know. Or care. They hadn’t come for the music.

As soon as the opening act bounced on stage, the audience began to schmooze under cover of the noise. The strobing lights made everyone look like purple-faced ghouls, but Kiyoshi had no trouble picking out the non-Chinese. Every indie hauler, trader, smuggler, recycler, pirate, and real estate scout currently parked at Tiangong Erhao had come to the festival, for the rare opportunity of talking to each other. You were ordinarily not allowed to travel from one bay to another, and no one trusted wireless comms, with the Chinese AIs potentially listening in. So here they were, yelling into each other’s faces, swapping news, rumors, jokes, and resumes.