Free To Crush the Moon by Wil McCarthy Page A

up.”
    “Except for the radiation damage,” she answered. “The way I hear it, you were barely recoverable yourself. If we left right now to rescue them, those people
might
have a chance.”
    “But the Queendom of Sol has its own problems,” he finished for her, “and isn't going anywhere.”
    “Unfortunately, yes. But consider this:
you
got out, along with thousands of your countrymen. And in light of recent events, there's little doubt
they'll
be revived. If the Fatalists hate you that much, most people will find some reason to love you.”
    “What recent events?” Conrad asked, not liking the sound of that. “What Fatalists?”
    Anne Inclose Ytterba, already stepping through the doorway, turned to offer him a look of sudden sympathy.
Now
she felt sorry for him. “Didn't you hear? You're all the targets of a secret society's deathmark. It seems you're emblematic of everything they've ever struggled against, and they want you expunged.”
    “Really?” Conrad wasn't exactly a stranger to conflict; he'd shot his way out of Barnard, and before that he'd been in the Revolt. If people would just
be nice
, just look out for each other and share the wealth along with the problems, he'd've lived long and peacefully without complaint. Hell, if life were short he'd've been happy enough to take over his father's paving business in Cork, living and dying in the county of his birth. But rare indeed was a century without conflict, and this far-wandering Conrad Mursk had already slogged his way through the darkest hours of more than one. Shamefully, he held himself responsible for dozens of deaths—many of them permanent.
    But his enemies, numerous though they were, didn't usually take the trouble to swear out a formal deathmark. That was something one expected of Old Modern robber barons, or cartoon characters. The illegality of it paled in comparison to its sheer absurdity. They want to do
what
?
    “We just got here,” he said to her, a bit defensively. “What could we possibly have done?”
    And here Anne the historian cocked her head and laughed a strange little laugh. “You're
breathing the air
, Mr. Mursk. Tsk tsk.”
             
    After that charming encounter, Conrad enjoyed a few hours of darkness and sleep, and then another visit from still another civil servant: Sandra Wong the social worker.
    “Look,” he told her, before she'd had a chance to say very much, “I just want to get out of here. I want to see my wife.” He was standing at the window, peering out through the frost and into the polar darkness. Except for the faint, shining curtains of aurora australis hanging over the wellstone lights of Victoria Land, it looked just like the view from
Newhope
's observation lounge. The same damned stars, a bit less vivid. He hadn't seen a
sky
in hundreds of years, but it was winter here; dry and cloudless. The sun wouldn't be up for months.
    “I understand—” Sandra began.
    “I'm not sure you do,” he said, turning to glare at her. “We were in a terrible accident. We had to freeze ourselves, without any guarantee we'd ever be revived, and I haven't seen her since. You people have been kind, and you
offer every assurance
that she's fine, just fine. But since when is that a substitute for . . . for . . .”
    “Warm flesh and a smile?” Sandra asked, looking down at her sketchplate and nodding. “I'm your last visitor, Mr. Mursk, and my job is to process you back into Queendom society. Technically speaking, you're still a prisoner.”
    “Eh?”
    “For your role in the Children's Revolt. You
were
banished, yes?”
    “Oh, that. Yes.” It seemed such a long time ago. But these people were immorbid, and forgot nothing. Time passed for them like a kind of dream, a river without end.
    “As your caseworker, I've filed a temporary motion to reinstate your citizenship with full privileges. This means, among other things, that you're entitled to draw Basic Assistance. It's not much, but it should get