Luna: New Moon

If I move this way; there, can you see that? That’s the view from my apartment. West 53rd, Aquarius Hub. This is Aquarius Quadra’s Hunt’s Point. Come with me. Look. Separate dining area. See this? I don’t have to pull the bed down. The shower isn’t on a timer. Okay, it’s like a rabbit hutch compared to your place but by moon standards, it’s a palace. So, why should I hate it?

It’s not really Meridian. It’s Ariel Corta. She is a conceited, vain, clothes horse, has too many opinions and she’s nowhere near as good as she thinks she is. And she has this, like, entourage of people around her whose only job is to tell her how clever she is, how fabulous she is, how fantastic that dress looks on her, how talented and clever and witty she is. Well, I see through you, all of you, and I’m telling you; you’re none of that, Ariel Corta. You’re Mama Corta’s one and only little girl, you’re spoiled rotten. You’re the original Moon Princess; ooh, nothing nasty can ever happen to Princess Ariel! And that vaper? I want to take that thing and shove it up your ass.

Yes, it pays a fortune. It pays a lot more than I ever got up on the surface with Carlinhos. I wish I was back there. I wish I was back in Boa Vista. I knew where I was there. And yes, Carlinhos … But Boss Mama had a special job for me and you don’t turn Adriana Corta down. But Ariel fucking Corta.

At least it’s mutual. She hates me. Not so much hates me as disdains me. Is that a word? Well she does. It’s like I’m not even alive. Even a bot is more useful. I’m a cheap and dirty João de Deus duster with no class and less taste, who’s been forced on her against her will and who she can’t get rid of. I’m like a genital wart.

The money’ll be through in the next couple of days, I promise. It’s some wrangle between our banks and yours. They’ve done something that makes them freer from Earth’s economy and the Earth banks don’t like it. But, money is money. It’ll work through.

So, what do you think of the apartment?

‘This simply will not do,’ Ariel says, and taps Marina’s shoulder, waist, thighs with the tip of her vaper. Tap tippy tap.

Marina thinks she might punch her charge’s face through the back of her head. The seethe of blood in the forebrain. And release.

‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’

‘You dress like an evangelical,’ Ariel says. ‘This is the Court of Clavius. My clients are the best of society – well, the richest. They have expectations. I have expectations. My zashitnik dresses better. So no no no.’ Ariel forgoes the tap tippy tap. She sees the lava in Marina’s eyes.

Za what? Marina wants to ask but the printer is already humming.

‘I’m in court at eleven, an assets hearing at twelve, lunch with my old colloquium at thirteen,’ Ariel says. ‘Client meetings fifteen through to eighteen, the Akindele pre-legal at twenty. I’ll be making an appearance at the Chawla wedding party about twenty-one, then on to the Law Society Debutante Ball at twenty-two. It’s ten now so just put this on and try not to fall off the heels.’ Ariel frowns.

‘What now?’

‘Your familiar.’

‘You leave Hetty alone.’

‘Hetty. And that is?’

‘An orca.’

‘That’s an animal – a fish?’

‘My totemic animus.’ This is a lie but Ariel won’t know. Hetty is a sneer too far. Hetty is inviolable; the relationship between a woman and her familiar is not subject to whim or fashion.

‘I see. Religion. No religious objection to this, I presume?’ Ariel hands Marina a bouquet of fabric, soft and fresh-laundry aromatic from the printer.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Somewhere to change.’

Ariel’s apartment is smaller and barer than Marina had imagined. White. Surfaces. Is it a minimalist refuge from the endless voices and colours and noise and rush of people, people, people? The only decoration is a wall-sized, bleached-out print of a face that must be iconic in a hagiography unknown to Marina Calzaghe. The closed eyes, the drooping mouth disturb Marina. Narcotic and orgasmic.

She puts a hand on a door.

‘Not that one,’ Ariel says with a speed that makes Marina determined to investigate later. ‘Here.’

Marina wriggles into the dress. The mass of frill and lace is suffocating. The bodice is ridiculous. How do people move, breathe? Where can she hide the weapons? Taser down cleavage, knife in inner thigh holster. Don’t spoil the line of the couture.

‘Legs.’

‘What?’

‘Shave them. At some point we’ll get you permanently depilated.’

‘Fuck you will.’

Ariel holds up a pair of sheer stockings.

‘Okay.’

As Marina opens the bathroom door she notices Ariel tipping her old clothing into the deprinter.

‘Hey!’

‘Daily print out. At least. My brother is a savage. He’d wear the same suit-liner for half a lune.’

Marina draws the stockings up her new smooth legs. She pulls on the shoes. Even in moon gravity she’ll never stand more than an hour in them. They’re weapons, not footwear.

Ariel looks Marina up and down.

‘Turn.’

Marina manages a pirouette. The arches of both feet are already aching.