Wil McCarthy - To Crush the Moon

Still, there’s something so purposeful about it all that he pauses for a moment, wondering whether finishing these bastards off might be some kind of sin. But he’s spared the trouble when the crack of a rifle sounds, and the nearest robot head explodes. Then another, then another, until there are no robots left.

And then Sidney Lyman is rising from the crest of a dune, dusting himself off, and the other two Olders are there at his side.

“Bloody glints,” one of them mutters.

Bruno squats for a moment, panting, just looking at the three men while he regains his breath. Finally he says, “Gentlemen. Welcome to Shanru Basin. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“You weren’t fooling anyone, Sire,” Sidney says to that.

“Hmm?”

“Admittedly, it took us a while to figure it out. I mean, we hadn’t seen your face in what, two thousand years? But it clicked. Right after you left, me and the boys here were just kind of looking at each other, saying, ‘Whoops, that was kind of stupid.’ I sent most of the unit back to Echo Valley, but for my own self I just… needed to be here. You and Radmer, you’re off to fight the Glimmer King. Without me! Without my boys, here! Look at you: you’re young . You’re armored. You just took on twenty-some robots all by yourself, saving our sorry asses. Fucking King of Sol.”

“Sorry to trouble you,” Bruno says to him, meaning it. “You don’t owe me a thing. Quite the reverse: I’m responsible for all the misery you see around you.”

“Oh, piffle,” Sidney says, almost spitting the words. He looks utterly exhausted, but this flare of anger is enough to keep him going for a little while longer. “You haven’t even been here. You think we can’t fuck a world up all by ourselves? Listen, you, we’re here for… for…”

“Closure,” says Brian.

“Right. Closure. And you’re going to give it to us.”

Bruno blinks. “Are you here to assassinate me?” It’s a strange concept; on some level it’s exactly what he deserves, and yet he cannot allow it to happen. Not now, not yet.

But Sidney just rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. We’re here because it puts some…”

“Meaning,” says Brian.

“Right. On all the fuffing time we’ve killed on this planette. Hiding out is not the same thing as actually turning the place over to a new…”

“Generation?” suggests Nick Valdi.

“No. A new paradigm. A new society . Free from all this debris. From all our broken dreams.” He points vaguely in the direction of Manassa.

Bruno eyes these three raggedy men carefully, seeing no deception in them, no weakness. They will fight, even if they cannot say exactly why.

“I understand,” he says, for he truly does. “Up there in the ruins is a fax machine which will get you back in fighting condition. But it’s no substitute for rest, after a journey through the Stormlands. A little farther into the dunes, you’ll find our camp. The sand is very soft there.”

But Sidney Lyman just laughs at that. “Your Majesty, do you think we just happened to run into a scouting patrol here? The enemy may not have figured out what you’re up to, but they know you’re up to something. There’s about fifteen thousand robots on the march, and they’ll be here, oh, any minute now.”

“Ah,” Bruno says, processing that. On the face of it, it’s very bad news indeed. But how much does it really change? “Well, I suppose we can all rest when we’re safely dead and buried. In the meantime, come with me. Quickly, if you please.”

By the time Bruno returns to the bronze tower, with Lyman and his men in tow, Radmer has already fed most of the Dolceti through the fax. They’re standing around now, admiring each other in their battle armor, which Radmer has done up in bright, dolcet-berry yellow with a subtle metallic finish. Their blitterstaves are a shade of dully glowing crimson that complements the uniforms nicely.

At the sight of it Bruno feels yet another pang for the Queendom, whose sense of style—and ability to follow through on it!—was unmatched by any society before or after. On those terms, King Bruno had been an embarrassment to his people, who were forever beseeching him not to wear anything in public which had not first been approved by his wife, or one of her courtiers, or his own valet, or even Slappy Luzarre, who for one thousand years sold bananas from a wagon on the street outside the palace gates. But like any mathematician, Bruno could recognize beauty when he saw it, and he’d seen it everywhere in the Queendom. Here on Lune, even the Iridium Days had been drab by comparison.

Radmer himself is wearing reflective inviz, which is like regular inviz except that it’s purely passive, illuminated only by ambient light and reflection. Consuming far less energy than a full stealthing cloak, it doesn’t attempt to match the radiant brightness of sun or sky, and it leaves a clear, sunset-elongated shadow upon the dunes. His head and hands are also visible.

“What do you mean I’m a copy of my old self?” Mission Mother Mathy is demanding of his floating, disembodied head. “Did I die? Did that thing in there kill me and take my soul?”

“Will you calm down?” Radmer replies wearily. But not all that wearily, for he too is young again, and looks exactly like the Conrad Mursk who agreed, so long ago, to crush this moon for fun and profit.

“No one knows the fate of a human soul,” Bruno says, striding up, “when the body is destroyed and recopied. But such adventures were commonplace in the Queendom, and though we were vigilant—especially in the beginning!—for signs of spiritual decay, none were ever observed. The process is, to all tests and appearances, safe. And better than safe, for you’ve been rendered immorbid.”

“Oh, my, God,” Mathy says, horrified.

Hmm. Apparently these people are deathists. And why not, with only decayed, bitter Olders around to show what immorbidity was like? Well, no help for it. He says, not just to Mathy but to all of them, “Fear not, for though your bodies cannot grow old, they most certainly can be killed. And as we speak, there’s a robot army marching through the eyewall that will gladly make it happen.”

Indeed, on the hills just this side of the eyewall, glints of light have begun to appear, reflecting the blurry red of the sunset behind the eyewall’s other face. If they’re undamaged by the storm, and move at the speed of household robots, they’ll be here in twenty minutes. Perhaps less.

To Sidney and Brian and Nick he says, “Refresh yourselves quickly, in there.”

“Hello, sir,” they say to Radmer in passing.

“Hi,” he says back. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Then, looking out unhappily at the approaching glints, Radmer asks Bruno, “What of Highrock? Is Tillspar in enemy hands already?”

“I haven’t heard. But this army apparently followed the southern route, bypassing the Divide. So there may yet be reason to hope.”

“For now. How many are coming? Are we enough to hold this site against them?”

“Perhaps,” Bruno says, though even with Queendom equipment he doubts it very much. The odds are just tilted too steeply in the enemy’s favor. “But we may find greater advantage in moving onward.”

“A fighting retreat? I’ll begin the weapons training immediately.”

“Do that, yes,” Bruno says, “But first there’s something you should know. This machine here”—he waves a hand at the bronze tower-top sticking out of the sand—“is in contact with at least three collapsiters, somewhere in the lower Kuiper Belt, just above Neptune’s orbit. A bit of Nescog survives!”

“How is that possible?” asks an incredulous Radmer. “We would have known, long ago.”