Wil McCarthy - To Crush the Moon

“All functions nominal, sir,” the fax said, sounding ever-so-slightly offended.

“Seconded,” said the ceiling. “No sign of anomalies.”

“Not here,” offered the floor. “But look at sir and madam. They’re quite disturbed. Perhaps they encountered a transit glitch.”

“Impossible,” the fax replied.

“Improbable,” the floor countered, “and yet—”

“Everyone shut up!” Xmary commanded firmly. “Conrad, do you feel…”

“Funny? Full of holes? Dusty? Yes. Something’s happening.”

Xmary looked up at the ceiling. “News.”

“Today’s top story: Travelers report fax anomalies. No details available. Please propagate this message on supraluminal channels where possible.”

Well, that was helpful.

“That could mean anything,” Xmary grumbled. “What travelers? Where? Us? Update the top story every time it changes, please.”

“Yes, madam. Today’s top story: This is a travel advisory. Travelers in the vicinity of Earth and Mars report minor cellular injury after Nescog transport. Citizens are advised to avoid Nescog travel wherever possible. No further details available. Please assign this story top priority on all civilian supraluminal channels.”

And then, on the heels of that: “Today’s top story: Her Majesty has declared a state of emergency. Please remain where you are, or limit necessary travel to licensed air, ground, and space vehicles. The Nescog is hereby reserved for authorized emergency personnel.”

“Damn,” Xmary said. “I’d better get back to the office.”

“How?” Conrad wanted to know. The Central Pacifica governor’s office was on Cooper Ridge Construct, eight hundred kilometers away.

“I’m emergency personnel,” she pointed out. “I must be.”

“But do you want to risk the damage? It could be permanent. For all we know it could be fatal .”

“Hmm. I could take a glider, I suppose. Or maybe a boat. There are boats here, right? It’s an island.”

She was spared any further thought on the matter by a crackling from the fax machine behind her. It coughed out a cloud of dust, then a sizzle of blue sparks, and finally the staggering body of a heavy, bearded man.

Bruno de Towaji, the King of Sol. Presently, he put an arm out and fell flat on his face.

“Blast,” he said woozily, “that is a nasty smack, isn’t it? Am I still me?”

“Your Highness!” Conrad and Xmary said together. “What are you doing here?” Conrad added, while Xmary asked, “Are you all right?”

“Scrambled,” the king said, picking himself up, brushing the dust from his eyebrows and beard. “If that’s the worst they can do I’ll be happy, but still. How dare they do their worst!”

“What’s happening?” Xmary asked him. “Why are you here?”

“I set up a point-to-point filter between this apartment and the Beach Palace, but someone had to go through it first. As a calibration article.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer, but turned groggily back toward the fax again. “I’m close to a breakthrough on the wormhole front. I can feel it! But Maplesphere and Earth are suddenly very far apart. It’ll take us months to filter this irritant from all possible routes. Indeed, it may be quicker to purge the virus entirely than to design emergency workarounds.”

“What virus?”

“Eh?” Bruno looked over his shoulder. “The one they’ve attacked us with.”

“Who?”

“The Fatalists. The Eridanians. The dark angel of unintended consequences. My errors return to me, young lady, a thousand times magnified.” To the fax he said, “Royal Override. Apply calibration results and clear your buffer. Begin point-to-point transfer.”

The Queen of Sol stepped out of the plate, with no more fuss than if she’d stepped through an ordinary doorway.

“Thank you, darling,” she said to her husband. “I appear to be intact. And you?”

“I will be,” he said, “when I can get my hands on a previrus backup. They’ve taken down the first-tier error correction. The damage is minor but… disconcerting.”

“All right,” she said brusquely. “Give me safe passage to Malu’i . For two.”

Malu’i . Protector. The navy’s flagship.

“Are we under attack?” Conrad asked stupidly. He’d fought a dozen battles in his life, and they were all different, all surprising. But they shared this characteristic: he never really believed they were happening until he was in the thick of it, fighting for his life or his freedom or for some empty principle he’d barely remember afterwards.

“Play message Doxar twenty-one,” the queen said to the apartment walls, instead of answering Conrad directly. “Full exchange, half duplex.”

A hollie window appeared near the fax, and in it the face of an Eridanian man. There was no mistaking the Eridanians, for their heads were overlarge and overround, their dark eyes glaring out from beneath bushy white eyebrows and thick manes of curly silver hair. Their skins were as pale as chalk, except in the shadows and creases, where they were as black as coal. This was a trick that helped them radiate excess body heat, but it made them look… exaggerated. False. Like comic drawings designed to highlight particular emotions: here is HAPPY! Here is ANGRY! Here is FILLED WITH THE ENNUI OF TOO MANY CENTURIES IN A CAVE! Their small size—about two-thirds the height of a natural human—only exaggerated the effect.

This particular Eridanian was ANGRY.

“I am Doxar Bagelwipe,” he said self-importantly, “of Humanitarium Perdition . Y’all poseth unacceptably, y’hear? We will not end our travail in forgettable parking orbits, for yet more centuries of unlife. To prove the sincerity of our conviction, we assail your teleport network. Consider it declared: no less than full sanctuary is acceptable, for all persons stored cold or warm aboard this vessel.”

Next, Queen Tamra’s own image replaced Doxar’s. “Captain,” she said calmly, “the people of Eridani will be resettled in the Queendom of Sol as space and resources permit . Your impatience is understandable, and in sympathy with your plight we’re doing all we can to prepare new worlds for habitation. But this sabotage is counterproductive, and can only hurt your standing with the people of Sol. Please reverse it immediately, and proceed to your designated orbit.”

Doxar reappeared then, for his message was interactive, and carried with it the full force of his personality. Why wait for the speed of light, when you can send your image to negotiate in your stead? Particularly when your position is inflexible, and no persuasion can hope to alter it. “Unacceptable. We declare the right to escalate,” Doxar’s image said, and then winked out.

Damn.

The king said to Conrad, “If they actually enter the Queendom, right now and all at once, they’ll destabilize the economy. We must delay them. Meanwhile, my boy, you and I are traveling to Lune, and thence to Callisto and Europa. Just in case things go astray, we’ve got to get as much water onto that dustball of yours as we can in the next seven weeks.”

When Perdition was due to arrive. With guns blazing?

Said Queen Tamra to Governor Xmary, “You captained a starship for hundreds of years. You know how starship crews think, how they react. And you have actual combat experience, correct? You fought a space battle.”

“Once,” Xmary protested.

“Not a police impoundment,” the queen pressed. “Not a simulation or staged maneuver, but a to-the-death battle against a determined and capable opponent. From the forces of my son, King Bascal.”

“Once!”