‘What’s going on?’ Lucasinho asks. Jinji answers in the same instant as Abena’s face turns to shock.
There has been an attempt on the life on Rafael Corta.
The edge of the knife lies against Marina Calzaghe’s throat. If she moves, if she speaks, if she takes too deep a breath, it will part her flesh. The blade is so insanely sharp it is almost anaesthetic: she would not feel the slitting of her windpipe. But she must move, she must speak if she is to live.
Her fingers tap the stem of the cocktail glass clamped upside down on the tray.
‘The fly,’ she hisses.
Flies didn’t move like that. Marina Calzaghe knows flies. She worked as a flycatcher. On the moon, insects – pollinators, decorative butterflies like the ones the Asamoah kids sent wafting through Boa Vista, are licensed. Flies, wasps, wild bugs threaten the complex systems of lunar cities and are exterminated. Marina Calzaghe has killed a million flies and knows they don’t fly like that, in a straight attack line for the exposed soft skin in the corner of Rafael Corta’s jaw line. She lunged with the glass, caught the fly millimetres from its target and clapped the empty martini glass to the tray. A cocktail prison. And in the same instant, a knife whispered out of a concealed magnetic sheath to her throat. At the end of the knife, a Corta escolta in a tailored suit with a perfectly folded square in his breast pocket. He still looks like a thug. He still looks like death.
Heitor Pereira squats stiffly to examine the thing in the glass. For a first-generation, he is a big man, square built. A big ex-navy man peering into an upturned cocktail glass would be comedy but for the knives.
‘An assassin bug,’ Heitor Pereira says. ‘AKA.’
In an instant blades ring Lousika Asamoah. Their tips are millimetres from her skin. Luna wails and sobs, clinging to her mother. Rafael hurls himself at the security men. Men in suits pile on him, pinion him.
‘For your own safety, senhor,’ Heitor Pereira says. ‘She may be harbouring biological agents.’
‘It’s a drone,’ Marina Calzaghe whispers. ‘It’s chipped.’
Heitor Pereira looks closer. The fly batters itself against the glass but in its moments of stillness a pattern of gold tracery is clearly visible on its wings and carapace.
‘Let her go.’ Adriana Corta’s voice is quiet but the tone of command makes every security man and woman flinch. Heitor Pereira nods. The knives are sheathed. Lousika scoops up the howling Luna.
‘And her,’ Adriana Corta orders. Marina gasps as the knife is removed from her throat and realises she has not inhaled since security grabbed her. The shaking starts.
Lucas is shouting, ‘Lucasinho? Where is Lucasinho?’
‘I’ll take that now.’ Heitor Pereira places his hand on top of the glass. He takes a pulse-gun from a small holster. The device is the size of his thumb, a silly, camp weapon in his huge hand. ‘Shut down your familiars.’ Up and down Boa Vista familiars wink out of existence. Marina blinks off her own Hetty. That camp little gun possesses enough power to take down the whole of Boa Vista’s network. There is nothing to see or hear, but the little wired fly goes from moving to still and dead.
Lucas Corta leans close to his Head of Security and whispers to him.
‘They tried to kill my brother. They got into Boa Vista; into our home, and they tried to kill my brother.’
‘The situation is under control, Senhor Corta.’
‘The situation is that an assassin came within the thickness of a cocktail glass of killing Rafa. In front of guests from every one of the Five Dragons. In front of our mother. That doesn’t strike me as a situation under control, does it?’
‘We’ll analyse the weapon. We’ll find out who’s behind it.’
‘‘Well that’s not enough. There could be another attack any moment. I want this place secured. This party is over.’
‘Senhors, senhoras, there has been a security incident,’ Heitor Pereira announces. ‘We must secure Boa Vista. I have to ask you to leave. If you could make your way to the tram station. It’s now safe to relog your familiars.’
‘Find my son!’ Lucas orders Heitor Pereira. Lucasinho’s friends mill, lost and overshadowed. Their moon-run, Lucasinho’s saving of Kojo Asamoah, are eclipsed. Boa Vista security shepherd guests out of the gardens towards the station. A guard escorts Corta grandees indoors. Lucas Corta considers Marina Calzaghe with ice and iron. She is shivering with shock.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Marina Calzaghe.’
‘You work for the caterers?’
‘I work at what I can get. I am – I was – a Process Control Engineer.’
‘You work for Corta Hélio now.’
Lucas offers a hand. Marina takes it.
‘Talk to my brother Carlinhos. The Cortas owe you.’
And gone. Still numb with shock, Marina tries to work out what happened. The Cortas try to slit her throat, now she works for them. But: the Cortas. Blake, it will be all right. I can get you meds. We’ll never be thirsty again. We can breathe easy.
TWO
Luna Corta: small spy. Boa Vista is rich in hiding places for a bored girl. Luna discovered the service tunnel following a cleaning bot one long Boa Vista morning. Like all moon kids Luna is drawn to tunnels and crawlspaces. No adult could fit it and that is good because hiding holes and dens must be secret. The shaft has grown tight since Luna first crawled in and realised she could look down into her mother’s private room and, if she held her breath, hear. Tucked up behind the eyes of Oxossi, Luna squirms, a constriction in a sinus in the head of the hunter and protector.
‘They put a knife to my throat.’
Her father says something she can’t make out. Luna twists closer to the ventilation grille. Dusty light-rays strike up around her face.
‘They put a knife to my throat, Rafa!’
Luna sees her mother brush fingers against her neck, touching the remembered edge of the knife.
‘It was just security.’
‘Would they have killed me?’
Luna moves again to fit both of her parents into her narrow slot of sight. Her father sits on the bed. He looks small, diminished, as if the air and light has gone out of him.
‘They were protecting us. Anyone who wasn’t a Corta was suspect.’
‘Amanda Sun isn’t a Corta. I didn’t see a knife at her throat.’
‘The fly. Everyone knows you people use biological weapons.’
‘You people.’
‘The Asamoahs.’
‘There were other Asamoahs at the party. Abena Maanu for one. I didn’t see a knife at her throat. My people, or just some of my people?’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because your people, Rafa, put a knife to my throat. And I don’t hear anything from you that says they wouldn’t have cut me.’
‘I would never let them do that.’
‘If your mother gave the order, would you have stopped them?’
‘I’m bu-hwaejang of Corta Hélio.’
‘Don’t insult me, Rafa.’
‘I’m angry our security put a knife to your throat. I’m angry that you were a suspect. I’m raging, but you know how we live here.’
‘Yes. Well maybe I don’t want to live here.’
Luna sees Rafa look up.
‘I know how we live in Twé. It’s a good place, Twé. It’s a safe place. With my people, Rafa. I want to take Luna there.’
Luna gasps. The shaft is so tight she can’t press hands to mouth, to try and call back the noise. They might have heard. But then she thinks, Boa Vista is full of sighs and whispers.
Rafa is on his feet. When he is angry, he gets close, breath-close. Spit-in-my face close. Lousika doesn’t flinch.
‘You’re not taking Luna.’
‘She’s not safe here.’