Luna: New Moon

And he’s gone. He’s a middle-ranking Lunar Development Corporation civil servant in a suit better than his salary, who hired a nikah advocate better than his salary, to allow him to marry the Sun boy he loves with all his generous, weak heart.

‘Lucas,’ Ariel murmurs to Beijaflor. Her brother is on instantly. He’s been waiting for this call all night.

‘An Xiuying,’ Ariel says.

‘Thank you.’

‘And don’t ask me for any more favours Lucas,’ Ariel says and breaks the connection. She straightens her back, uncoils the day’s tensions and tightness. Confidence is the most alluring necklace. She suits the sexy jewels of power. She suits them so well.

Movement, noise at the door. A figure in pink beyond the bots and the obdurate human security. Some want, some grudge, some hope. Some petition. The Chinese are looking now.

‘Senhora Corta?’ Ariel did not see the aide approach. All of a sudden a voice is at her ear. That is what aides are supposed to do, approach inconspicuously. An eagle pin on the upper breast of her Suzy Perette dress identifies the aide’s allegiance. ‘Do you know a Lucas Corta Junior?’

‘My nephew.’

‘He would like to see you. Outside, if you would be so kind. His dress is not appropriate.’

The figure in pink recognises her. What is that, a suit-liner? But there is no mistaking the handsome big lunk. No mistaking those love-god cheekbones, that big heart-melting grin.

‘Tia, he says in Portuguese. ‘I’ve run away from Boa Vista. Can I stay at yours?’

Cake and mint tea wait for Ariel in her tiny, unused kitchen space.

‘I made you cake,’ Lucasinho says. ‘To say thank you. For the hammock.’ Ariel’s apartment is very small. Living for one. She sent Lucasinho there from the door of the Chinese reception. A hammock was waiting for him in the printer hopper. By the time she returned he was lolling in it, deeply unconscious, mouth open, limbs loose and sprawling in deep sleep beneath the wall-sized print of Richard Avedon’s full-face photograph of Dovima. It’s her only decoration: bleached-out face, soft dark eyes and mouth, holes for nostrils.

‘You won’t tell Papai?’ Lucasinho says.

‘Lucas will find out,’ Ariel says. She takes a slice of the cake. Lemon, light as a breath. ‘If he hasn’t already. He will ask me.’

‘What will you say?’

‘My brother owes me.’ Lucas would have been awake all night, calling in debts, tapping up allies, marshalling his agents biological and informational down on Earth. All his resources he would bring to bear on An Xiuying, but most of all his deliberate, relentless intelligence, that would never rest or relinquish until Lucas Corta had what he wanted. Ariel is almost sorry for the poor man. Lucas will play the coercion sudden, sharp and impossible to escape. ‘So I can say what I like.’ This time. But she isn’t clean. A seat in the Pavilion of the White Hare and she has already betrayed privileged information; under the eyes of the Eagle of the Moon himself. Lucas has never approved of her seeking a life and career outside the family. Now, making this one, tiny betrayal for family, she has given her brother an edge. Not now. Not soon. But some day, when he needs it most. For the family. Always for the family. ‘This cake,’ Ariel takes another bite. ‘Where did you learn this?’

‘Where does anyone learn anything? The network.’ Lucasinho slides the cake towards Ariel for her inspection. ‘I’m good at cake.’

‘You are.’

‘It was kind of tricky. You don’t have much stuff in your kitchen. Actually, just water and gin.’

‘Did you order it in?’

‘Ingredients, yeah. Stuff I couldn’t print. Like eggs.’

‘Then you’re very tidy too.’

He grins and his pleasure is plain and guileless.

‘Ariel; can I stay?’

Ariel imagines him a fixture in her apartment. Something bright and funny and unpredictable amid the severe whites and pure surfaces, the bespoke gin and the pure water in her cooler, the vast face of a long-dead 1950s model, eyes closed, teeth catching lower lip. Something cute and kind.

‘He doesn’t owe me that much.’

He shrugs.

‘Okay. I understand that.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Friends. Girls. Boys. My colloquium.’

‘Wait.’ Ariel slips into her room and takes paper from her bag. ‘You’ll need this.’

Lucasinho frowns at the bouquet of grey slips in his hands.

‘Is this?’

‘Money.’

‘Wow.’

‘Cash. Your father’s frozen your checking account.’

‘I’ve never … Wow. It smells funny. Kind of hot. And like pepper. What’s it made from?’

‘Paper.’

‘That’s …’

‘Rag fibre, if that means anything. And yes, it’s not LDC sanctioned, but it’ll get you where you need, and beyond there, where you want.’

‘How did you get it?’

‘Clients are often imaginative in settling accounts. Try not to blow it all at once.’

‘How do I use it?’

‘You can count can’t you?’

‘I made you a cake. I can count. And add. And take away.’

‘Of course you can. Hundreds, fifties, tens and fives. That’s how you use it.’

‘Thanks Ariel.’