To Crush the Moon (2 page)

But on the wellcloth cloaks of Sydney Lyman's band, stealth inviz is just another instrument of murder. The Olders lift their hoods and vanish, or nearly vanish, leaving only smudges in the air and dancing shadows on the ground. They must be wearing speed boots and wall-hugging gecko gloves as well, for in what seems no time at all, the air is shimmering on top of the wall itself, and the guards there are dropping their weapons, dropping their helmets, staggering and falling in disarray. Struggling vainly with unseen assailants.

“Harm no one!” Radmer commands, and it occurs to Bruno to wonder whether he's speaking to his own men, or to the city guards, or to the world of Lune itself, with a frustration that borders on despair.
Here is a man,
thinks Bruno,
who knows combat all too well, and loves it not at all.
He feels a moment of pity, for the earnest young man who had long ago dreamed himself a builder, just as Bruno had dreamed himself a physicist. But the moment passes, for this whole world is like a nightmare, and there's a great deal Bruno doesn't know. He'll take nothing for granted, and he feels—perhaps foolishly—that nothing can truly surprise him, or move him. He's beyond all that.

Old-fashioned cast iron bells are ringing up on the wall now—alarms from the guards close enough to observe the fray but not close enough to be caught in it. Still, the gate—a simple affair of welded steel bars and plates—swings slowly open on squealing hinges, and Radmer strides casually into the city. Not waiting to be summoned like a dog, Bruno trails close behind.

The city within could have been clipped straight from Bruno's Old Girona childhood: an environment of stone and brick and heat-trapping colored glass. A cluster of hundred-story towers stands anomalously at the center, ringed by artful moats and bridges, but few of the other buildings are more than six floors high, and (per Radmer's warning) none seem enlivened. Between them, streets of diamond and cobblestone and muddy gravel slope gradually down toward the seashore.

And on the streets are crowds of dwarfish, big-headed men and women dressed in drab spectral colors. Fluttering gray shadows cling beneath their chins and eyelids, the undersides of their arms. Reactive skin pigment—an adaptation generally used for shedding heat. These people are Eridanians, he thinks at first, but on the heels of that he notices other engineered features as well: the six-fingered, dual-thumbed hands of Sirius, a hint of the thick, trollish skins of Barnardean extremists. Also the occasional head of translucent blue-green hair—a photosynthetic adaptation that had started right here in Sol System, under the very nose of a disapproving Queen Tamra.

At the moment, these strange, patchwork people are scurrying back or fleeing outright, their eyes wide on the opened gate. “Olders!” some of them cry.

“What are they?” Bruno asks quietly.

“They call themselves ‘human beings,'” Radmer answers without irony. “They're the people of Lune.”

“Ah. Well. What do they call
us
, then? Olders?”

“Or bandits,” Radmer agrees, “or
indeceased
, which is an unkind word indeed. But our numbers have faded over the centuries—especially here in Imbria, which is a hard nation to inhabit in secret. They sometimes hunt us, so we try to keep out of sight.”

“Some of us do,” says Sidney Lyman, materializing suddenly at Bruno's side. He glares pointedly at Radmer. “Others don't ever learn, no matter how much misfortune they bring down upon the rest of us. These ‘humans' go through spurts of curiosity and outreach, seeking us out as historical reference works, which is fine except that it lays the groundwork for the next round of bloodletting. Know thy enemy, eh?

“And of course it's worst for our own children. Immorbidity doesn't breed through; if they stay with us, we watch them grow old and die. We're like statues to them, unbending, wearing down on a timescale they can scarce perceive. But if they join the mainstream of human society, they do so as tall, five-fingered freaks. There aren't even ghettos for them, not anymore, so the freak show never ends. Many of them
do
become bandits, in the times when relations are poor. And our dear Radmer here is always stirring things up.”

“
Was
always,” Radmer says. “It's a habit I'd long abandoned.”

“Until these lucky days,” Lyman answers, with more than a hint of bitterness. “Now you've gone all the way to Varna, braving radiation and vacuum to bring this . . . gift to the Imbrians. How very noble of you.”

“I like to think so, Sid. Really. If
this
civilization falls, what do you think will succeed it? Another Queendom? Another dark age? Do you really want to find out? Most of the time, the people of this city give little thought to our existence, except as characters in ancient songs.”

“But now they need us, in your opinion,” Lyman mutters. “Even if their own opinions disagree.”

“Yes,” Radmer says simply. Then, “I asked you to bring me this far, Sid, and you've done it. I won't ask any more. In fact, I'll invite you to leave before things get any worse.”

“And abandon you here for lynching?”

Radmer laughs humorlessly. “I've been here a hundred times, Sid, and they haven't managed it yet. I'll be fine.”

“Meaning no offense, sir, but I think we'll wait here a minute and see what happens.”

“Hmm. Well. Suit yourself.”

And presently, as if called forth by this exchange, a new set of guards appear—first a dozen, then two dozen, then a hundred strong. They're dressed all in yellow, and in addition to rifles and swords they carry, here and there, the elongated wormhole pole-arms which Lyman has called “air pikes.” A few of them, Bruno notes with surprise, are quite obviously female.

“Ah, the Dolceti,” Lyman says, in almost welcoming tones.

“This is more serious,” Conrad murmurs to Bruno. “The nation's elite guard, trained in blindsight through the channels of fear. Don't underestimate them.”

“I hadn't,” Bruno says, meaning it. He has no idea what any of these terms mean, or what anyone here might be capable of. Blindsight? Channels of fear? The name “Dolceti” itself is suggestive; it's about as unTongan a word as human mouths can utter, and assuming it descends from some species of Latin or Greek, it might mean “sweet” or “pleasing.” It might also mean “pain” or “chop” or “deceit,” or even “whale.”

“You lot are under arrest,” says one of the Dolceti—not obviously marked as a leader but certainly carrying himself that way. His dialect is not quite as impenetrable as the wall guards' had been, though it does sound forced, as though he's dredging up some ancient tongue he'd learned and half forgotten.

“Y'all near c'rect,” Conrad Mursk says back to him, in what sounds to Bruno, again, like flawless Lunish. “We're t'be escorted to the Furies.”

“On whose authority?” the Dolceti wants to know.

“Mine,” Radmer answers calmly. “As Third Protector of Imbria.”

That sends a ripple of surprise through the guards. “You're Radmer?”

“I am. Are you the captain here? Is Petro dead already?”

“Petro retired twenty years ago, when the haunted towers came down. I'm the captain, yes.”

“Well, Captain,” says Radmer, “I'm afraid we don't have much time, for the enemy's scouts are in yonder hills already, and will soon pin you against the sea. Come now: close the gate and do as I ask.”

At that, the Dolceti captain moves with amazing swiftness, drawing a short sword—an ordinary one, though an air foil hangs at his side as well. In an eyeblink, he leaps forward to lay the iron blade across Radmer's neck. “I take no orders from—”

But Radmer has stepped aside, not quickly but at just the right moment, with the ease of long practice. Centuries of practice—millennia. He's out of reach, untouchable. Then, with no greater urgency, he tosses a nearly full canteen at another Dolceti, whose rifle is aimed exactly between Radmer's eyes. The guard doesn't flinch, but he does swat the projectile aside with a viper-quick motion, letting his rifle waver for a second. Which gives Radmer enough time to draw his blitterstick without seeming to hurry.

Intended mainly for use against robots, a blitterstick—or blitterstaff, or blitter-anything—is an ungainly and rather cruel weapon to turn against human flesh. Rarely lethal, its shifting wellstone patterns—caustic and thermally abusive, alive with pseudoatom disassembly brigades—leave puckers and burns and worse disfigurements which, in a medically impoverished environment like this one, must surely be permanent. But Radmer's only other weapon is a pistol, far more lethal.

What happens next strikes Bruno as something like a chess opening: no one attacks, but everyone glares and sidesteps, aims and tenses, lining up for a kill. The drop of a feather will set them off, but neither side is crass or undisciplined enough to
engage
. Not first, not in cold blood. The Dolceti outnumber the Olders ten to one, though, and from the looks on their faces they seem to think it will be enough. To penetrate the diamond weave beneath a soft Queendom skin? To shatter the brickmail and impervium of faxborn Queendom-era bones? Probably not, but they can still drag a man down and pinch his nose shut until he smothers. And they seemed prepared to.

“Always a pleasure, coming here,” Radmer says. “The Imbrians of Timoch are such a fine, appreciative people.”

For a moment, Bruno toys with the idea of unveiling his true identity. Perhaps the shock value will defuse this situation, and get the Olders inside without bloodshed. Then again, he would be a figure as remote in the Imbrians' past as Aristotle and Alexander were in his own. Would they believe him? Would they recognize his name, or understand its burden of significance? Would they even care?

He is spared any further thought on the matter when a voice from atop the wall calls out
“Glints!”
in a tone that registers panic across all possible dialects. Bruno turns, looking back across the sloping plains he and Radmer have just crossed at considerable peril. And indeed, yes, the enemy is still at work out there: he sees the unmistakable glints and flashes of sunlight on superreflective impervium. Less than five kilometers away. Less than
two
.

Behind him, a ripple of concern passes through the Dolceti.

“You must attack,” Radmer says, simply and without fear. “They're only scouts, but they're
right here
, barely a rifle's reach from your capital gates. And if they report back, the Glimmer King will know I've been to Varna and back in a sphere of brass. He'll know I came
here
afterward. Assuming he doesn't know it already.”

“Varna is in outer space,” the Dolceti captain replies, as if to a child's bad joke.

“Aye,” says Radmer. “I had to launch from Tillspar, over Highrock Divide. All I can say is, thank God for pulleys. You might be interested in my catapult, by the way; properly cocked it can bombard any point on this planette's surface.”

“You lie,” says a voice in the crowd somewhere.

“Do I? For what purpose?” Radmer's tone is patient. “The enemy is
that
way, friend, and if you swear this man's safety”—he points at Bruno—“upon all that is holy and dear, then I will fight at your side to defend these ill-forged walls.”

The captain is angry but not stupid; he considers the offer, considers the evidence before him. “What's special about this man?”

“Wisdom,” Radmer answers. “And if you will not pledge his safe conduct to the Furies, then you'll have
two
enemies, and no friends, and soon no country to defend.”

“Very diplomatic,” the captain grumbles, then steps forward to offer his hand. “I'm Bordi, grandson of Petro.”

The two men shake on it, prompting Sidney Lyman to mutter, “You'll be the death of me, General. But I'll not let you enter this fight by yourself.”

“Nor I,” says the Older named Brian, and the others grunt in assent.

“Natan,” says Bordi, gesturing sharply to one of the taller Dolceti. “Stay here, you and Zuq. Guard this Older, this font of wisdom, until I return.”

And with that, the Dolceti are off and running in a hooting, jabbering mob that quickly settles into three perfect V formations, like flights of geese. Not to be outdone, Lyman's Olders follow on their springy well-leather boots, quickly overtaking the Dolceti, leaping right over the “human beings'” oversized heads and dashing out in front, to form a smaller, faster V of their own.

“Be safe,” Radmer says to Bruno, not in a kindly way but as a command. Then he, too, is sprinting toward the enemy.

Bruno still carries Radmer's binoculars, and they're of ancient design, wellstone lenses and all. He lifts them to his eyes now, and can clearly resolve the enemy squad: another group of twenty, moving rapidly toward the city on feet so dainty and small that a baby girl's ballet slippers could easily fit them. They carry no energy weapons or projectile throwers, and except for the swords, and the black iron boxes affixed to the left sides of their gleaming faceless heads, they could easily pass for Queendom-era household robots. Valets, yes. Scullery maids. But already Bruno knows, from bitter experience, how fast and strong and remorseless these impervium soldiers really are. Delicate killers, bent on some demented form of world domination for this unseen Glimmer King.

“If 'ts metal they want,” says the Dolceti named Natan, “I say let 'em have it. Right through the ocular sensors and out through the box.
Bap!
I want to be
out there
, old man, not wiping your withered old nose.”

“Your captain must have great faith in you,” Bruno says, trying for some reason to be kind to this man, who seems little more than a figment of his senile imagination. Thus far he's been driven forward by curiosity alone—a desire to see this thing through to the end, like a play. None of it feels real.

“Fester these
robots
,” Natan spits. He might use the word “devils” or “child molesters” in milder tones.

“They were once our servants,” Bruno says to him, because he's not sure Natan even knows this.

“Really?” says the younger Dolceti guard, Zuq. He's shorter, with light green hair underneath his yellow cap. “Well thank you very much. We've nothing but your Older mess to live in, and this really contributes. Thanks for the Shattering, too, and the Stormlands. And for Murdered Earth while we're at it.”