Luna: New Moon

‘I’m family. I’m all right. I’m all right, Wagner.’ He hears a fearful, stifled sob. ‘Go!’

I’ve lost the connection, Sombra says.

‘Get her back.’

I’m not able to do that, Wagner.

Families mill on the platforms. Children’s voices echo and the echoes encourage them to shout louder. Noodle cartons blow in the strange winds of the under croft, evading trash bots. Up there, Cortas and Mackenzies battle. Down in the station, people change trains for work, family, friends, love, pleasure. If they saw the man huddled against the pillar with his knees pulled in to his chest, would they ever imagine that he’s fighting for his life?

Analiese is back there. He doesn’t know what’s happened to her.

Go, she said.

Wagner gets up from his pillar and crosses the platform to the opposite track. Exile then, in the company of wolves.

Kondakova Prospekt trembles again. Dust dislodged from the high roof drops in sparkling clouds as soft as grace. The street comes to a standstill. The people look up first, then at each other.

Breaches at Santa Barbra and São Jorge main locks, each familiar relates to its client. Elevator security is compromised.

‘They’re coming through the roof,’ Rafa says.

Armed and hostile units at the main station.

‘Show me,’ Carlinhos orders. São Jorge shows him bodies in anti-stab body-armour disembarking from the train locks and forming up into squads on the platform. They wear crossed blades and taser holsters. A mundane invasion, on the 87 Limited. Passengers frown in confusion: is an episode of Hearts and Skulls being filmed? Train passengers and civilians are not legitimate targets. ‘How many?’

Fifty. Ten in the Santa Barbra lock and the São Jorge lock. Five each in the São Sebastião elevators. São Sebastião Quadra shakes to another blast. We’ve lost integrity on the emergency lock. My cameras are down.

The sunline flickers. The sunline never flickers. A terrible fearful moan washes up and down Kondakova Prospekt. The greatest fear is to be trapped in the dark, and the air leaking away. Enemy personnel in São Sebastião Quadra. Enemy personnel advancing on Kondakova and Tereshkova Prospekts.

‘They’ll slaughter us down here,’ Carlinhos says. ‘Heitor, I want two escoltas on Lucas and Rafa. Rafa …’

‘I need to be with my kids. They could be in Boa Vista …’

‘You can’t access the station from this side of the quadra. Take the perimeter tunnel and come out at West 12th. Use the Serova Prospekt entrance. Lucas.’

‘I’m sounding the general evacuation alarm.’

‘Good man. But you need to get out of here too.’

‘I stay with the family.’

‘You’re not the fighter here, Luca. They will cut you apart, man.’

‘They tried to kill Lucasinho, Carlo. They tried to kill my boy.’

‘You’re Corta Hélio now. Sorry Rafa. Save the company. You have a plan?’

‘I always have a plan.’

‘Go on go go.’

The skyline flashes. Seven short flashes, one long. General evacuation. The thing you fear worst; it just happened. Radiation, unconfined fire, depressurisation, roof-fall, breach. Invasion. Get safe, get to the refuges, get out. A thousand familiars on Kondakova Prospekt and on every level and prospekt and quadra of João de Deus echo the alarm. The quadra keeps a moment of shocked stillness then explodes into movement. Motos swerve and steer their passengers to the nearest muster point. Pedestrians breaks into runs; fliers swoop down to the safety points shown to them by the familiars. Shops, cafés, bars, clubs empty. Panicked drunks stare at the sky as if it is falling. School teachers gather their classes and hurry their weeping charges to the refuges. Where’s Mãe, Pai? Parents call out for their children, lost children cry in panic, bots locate the waifs and lost and shepherd them to safety. Families will be reunited after, if there is an after. In the noche and semana quadras, the sleepers, the early morning people, the shift folk are shocked awake. Fear, fire, fall! Offices, apartments empty; feet pound on levels and walkways. Bodies pour down staircases, drop from the lower levels in low-gravity leaps.

Figures in combat armour advance up Kondakova Prospekt, ignoring the people fleeing around them. Behind them, the offices of Corta Hélio explode, one after another, sprays of construction plastic, cheap wood and soft furnishings.

‘São Jorge, print me my armour.’

Available at West Fifteen public printer in three minutes.

‘Heitor, give me my knives.’