Luna: New Moon

‘I would have thought Lucas Corta was far too canny to gamble on the forwards market.’

‘He is. It’s Rafa. Lucas insists he only use his own money.’ Rafa has explained Rao forwards several times – too many times. They are financial instruments, a variant of a futures contract that exploits the 1.26 second communications gap between Earth and moon: the time it takes any signal, travelling at the speed of light, to cross 384,000 kilometres. Time enough for price differentials to open between terrestrial and lunar markets: differentials traders can exploit. The Rao forward is a short-term contract to buy or sell on the LMX exchange at a set price. If the lunar price drops, you are in the money. If it rises, you are out. Like all futures trading, it is a guessing game; a good one, adjudicated by the iron law of the speed of light. That is where Ariel Corta’s understanding ends. The rest is voodoo. To the AIs that trade in milliseconds on the electronic markets, 1.26 seconds is an aeon. Billions of forwards, trillions of dollars, are traded back and forth between Earth and moon. Ariel has heard that the Vorontsovs are considering building an automated trading platform at the L1 point between moon and Earth, setting up a secondary forwards market; time delay .75 of a second. ‘Lucas believes that you should never invest in something you don’t understand.’

‘Lucas Corta is a wise man,’ says Vidhya Rao with a smile. The doors to the suite open. Inside are low tables, deep sofas upholstered in vat-grown leather, tasteful art works.

‘Shall we?’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for the Eagle?’ Ariel asks.

‘Oh, he’s not invited,’ Vidhya Rao says. ‘Marin is our liaison.’ E nods at the celebrity chef.

‘It’s all very informal,’ Judge Rieko says at the door. With Niles Hanrahan she remains outside as Ariel follows Vidhya Rao into the room. Then the hotel staff close the doors and the Pavilion of the White Hare is in session.

‘Hey.’

Kojo Asamoah lies facing the wall. Medical bots flit and dart around him. At the sound of Lucasinho’s voice he rolls over, sits up in surprise.

‘Hey!’ A wave of the hand banishes the medical machines. They flock in the corners of the room; digitally concerned. Access to the medical centre had not been so easy now that Lucasinho was Kid Off-grid. Grigori Vorontsov had swung it. He had always been the best coder in the colloquium.

‘What are you wearing?’

Lucasinho shows off in the suit-liner. The clothes Ariel printed are top-marque, of the mode, but he tried them on once and then consigned them to the backpack. He likes the look of the suit-liner now. It turns him into a lean rebel. People notice. Eyes catch him as he swings past. That’s good. He might even become a fashion.

He kisses Kojo on the mouth, like a boy.

‘How are you?’

‘Bored bored bored bored bored.’

‘But you are all right?’

Kojo leans back, arms behind head.

‘Still coughing up bits of lung but at least I can lie on my ass now.’ He lifts his left foot. It’s enclosed in what looks like a sasuit boot, with tubes running from it into the base of the bed. ‘They’re growing me a new toe. They printed a bone out, and the stem cells. It’ll be back in about a month.’

‘Brought you something.’

Lucasinho takes the seal-pack from his bag and opens it. The medical bots flutter in distress as their sensors register chocolate, sugar, THC. Kojo props himself up on his elbow and takes an offered brownie, sniffs at it.

‘What have you got in this?’

‘Fun.’

‘That’s what I heard you were having with Grigori Vorontsov.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Afua.’

‘This time she’s right.’

Kojo sits up in the bed. His face is puzzled.

‘What happened to Jinji?’

‘I’m not wearing him.’

Not wearing a familiar is like not wearing clothes. Or skin.

‘Afua said you’d run out on the family. Your father cut you off.’

‘She’s right about that too.’

‘Wow.’ Kojo studies Lucasinho closely, as if looking for sins, or parasites. ‘I mean, you can breathe all right?’

‘He’d never do that. Grandmother would never forgive him. She loves me. Water is okay too, but he has frozen my carbon and data accounts.’

‘What do you do for money?’

Lucasinho spreads a fan of cash.

‘I have a useful aunt.’

‘I’ve never seen this before. Can I smell it?’ Kojo riffles notes under his nose. He shudders. ‘Just think of all those hands that have touched it.’

Lucasinho sits on the bed. ‘Kojo, how long are you going to be in here?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Just, if you’re not using your place …’

‘You want my place?’

‘I saved your life.’ At once Lucasinho regrets playing his ace. It’s unbeatable, it’s low.

‘Is that the reason you came here? Just to hide out at my place?’

‘No, not at all …’ Lucasinho backtracks. No words will convince. He offers a brownie. ‘I made these for you. Really.’