Dark Side

by Jonathan Green

  But the air mills of the Moon were a different case altogether. They created all of the oxygen required by the populaces of the lunar colonies and then maintained that air supply, continually recycling it, processing the carbon dioxide and other waste gases produced by respiration and manufacturing.

  The air mills needed constant, twenty-four hour supervision and without them there could be no Luna Prime. No moon-bases of any kind. No extra-terrestrial society at all.

  From his fleeting inspection of the contents of the files there was nothing that leapt out at Ulysses as being strikingly unusual. So why were there whole files concerning these three men in the apartment of an inveterate gambler?

  How had Barty been connected to these three? Had he been blackmailing them to pay off his outstanding gambling debts? Was this the mess he had got himself into that he had referred to in his letter to Ulysses? And if that was the case, what had he had on the men?

  Was it one of those three who had been responsible for hurling Barty from the balcony of his thirteenth floor apartment?

  Ulysses doubted very much that it would have been Shurin, or Rossum, or Bainbridge themselves. Such powerful men didn’t stoop to dirty their hands with such minor details as getting rid of blackmailing gambling addicts. Besides, he also doubted that a man like Rossum or Bainbridge would have the physical wherewithal to get the better of Barty, even if his younger brother was no master of the martial arts or an ex-soldier, like his elder brother.

  But then who was to say that Barty’s killer hadn’t brought the hired help with him to do the dirty deed? It might not have been one of the industrialists who had launched his brother over the railing, but getting one of his heavies to do it for him was no different from having pulled a gun and shot Barty. Both were tools with which a man could commit murder.

  And who was to say that whoever the second drink had been for hadn’t taken something with him when he left – such as a particular incriminating document?

  But no matter what might or might not have been taken, suddenly one more potential lead presented itself.

  There, lying on the coffee table, having been previously hidden under the pile of files, was a luridly red flyer, the colour of a tart’s lipstick.

  Like any other city the world over, Luna Prime had its own notorious red-light district, Venusville. And of all Venusville’s disgracefully seedy establishments, the most celebrated was the Moon’s mimicry of Paris’s infamous Red Windmill – the Moulin Rouge.

  Written across the flyer in gold ink, in a highly feminine hand, was what Ulysses took to be a name – ‘Selene’ – with a girlish love heart drawn fluidly beneath.

  This only provoked more questions in Ulysses’ mind. Who was Selene? And what had she been to Barty?

  Ulysses felt ashamed at the thought, but the Moulin Rouge and a missive from one of the ladies who might ‘entertain’ there sounded much more like the sort of thing that Barty would get mixed up in, rather than business involving three powerful men like Shurin, Rossum and Bainbridge.

  The whole time Ulysses had been perusing Barty’s files Inspector Artemis had been watching him like a hawk.

  The files in one hand, the flyer clenched tightly in the other, Ulysses now met her unremitting stare.

  “Are you going to kick up a stink if I take these with me?” he challenged her.

  “Whatever you think you’ve found, none of this proves anything.”

  “Not yet, maybe,” Ulysses replied. “But I believe the evidence – when it has been properly assessed – will prove that there was someone else here before my brother was murdered.”

  “Before your brother died, Mr Quicksilver. Let’s not go jumping to conclusions just yet.”

  “Like you, you mean?”

  Inspector Artemis railed at that. “You cannot be sure that – even if someone else did call here before your brother died – that that person also killed him. Everything you’ve shown me so far is purely circumstantial.

  “Mr Quicksilver, you’ve made your point. If you want to pursue your own investigation into your brother’s death, using whatever means it is you have at your disposal, I don’t suppose I can stop you. But I have a job to do, and, if you don’t mind, I would very much like to get on with doing it.”

  The documents still in his hands, Ulysses reluctantly made his way towards the door.

  “And if I receive reports that you have been harassing any of our most celebrated industrialists – who have helped make Luna Prime what it is today, I don’t mind telling you – then I will see you removed from the Moon, royal commission or no royal commission. Do we understand one another?”

  “Perfectly,” Ulysses growled, his words as sharp as a knife.

  And with that he stormed out of his dead brother’s apartment.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sunshine

  T MINUS 1 DAY, 23 HOURS, 57 MINUTES, 11 SECONDS

  THE EDIFICE OF white stone and mooncrete rose up before them like some monolithic monument to the far-reaching achievements of Syzygy Industries, the company’s name emblazoned across the front of the building in letters of arabesqued painted steel twelve feet high.

  Ulysses Quicksilver, accompanied now by his manservant, and de facto bodyguard, Nimrod, strode across the white stone plaza in front of the building and the mosaic depicting the Sun, Earth and Moon in alignment that was the company’s corporate logo. He looked resplendent in a suit of chequered Harris Tweed, his bloodstone-tipped sword-stick swinging from his right hand in time with his tapping footsteps. He didn’t even break his stride as an attendant automaton opened the great glass doors to admit the two men to the entrance lobby of the building.

  On discovering his brother’s death the evening before, he had fully intended to begin his investigation into the events leading up to the murder there and then. Dinner with Emilia forgotten, he rejoined Nimrod back at his suite at the Nebuchadnezzar. But it was his ever loyal manservant who, having been filled in on all that had happened since Ulysses stopped by Milton Mansions, suggested they wait until morning the next day to pursue their enquiries. And Ulysses, having come round to the logic of Nimrod’s suggestion, lost himself in a bottle of brandy instead and didn’t surface until well after breakfast the following morning. And so it was that a little after eleven, the two of them arrived at Syzygy Industries.

  The atrium opened out above them, rising the full height of the building. Before them stood a broad reception desk. Seated behind it was a smiling girl with a pretty face, too much lipstick and carefully coiffuered blonde hair.

  Beyond the desk and its manned security screens, staircases, elevators and escalators carried those working inside the huge structure to the laboratories, offices and engineering levels above. And this was only the front of one building in a great complex of labs, testing areas and research and development zones. Here at Syzygy Industries headquarters, and making the most of the sterile environment of the moon as well as it weaker gravity, advances were being made in satellite production and interplanetary vessel design, not to mention the work undertaken with cavorite application and research into alternative energy sources.

  Watched by a uniformed security guard, broad across the shoulders and with a barrel chest, Ulysses approached the reception desk, closely followed by Nimrod, a respectful pace behind.

  “Good morning, sir,” the girl behind the desk welcomed him brightly. “Can I help you?”

  Ulysses placed his cane carefully, and purposefully, on the counter. “We’re here to see Mr Shurin.”

  “And is Mr Shurin expecting you?” she asked, tapping a key on the typewriter keyboard in front of her.

  “No.”

  “Oh, well I’m very sorry,” the receptionist said, still beaming at Ulysses, “but Mr Shurin is a very busy man. If you’d like to make an appointment for another day –”

  “So he’s in then?”

  “As I said, Mr Shurin is very busy but I’m sure I can arrange an appointment for next week some time –”r />
  “Buzz him, or call him, or do whatever it is you do, and I’m sure you’ll find he’ll make time to see me.”

  Behind the woman’s ingratiating smile, her expression said quite clearly, “You’ll be lucky!” but she nonetheless politely went through the motions of seeing if the CEO of one of the largest corporations on the Moon was receiving guests. Judging by the grim resolve etched into Ulysses’ face she wisely decided that it would take more than the “He’s very busy” line to get rid of this one and so picked up the telephone handset beside her.

  “Hello? Yes, reception here. I have a Mr...”

  The woman looked at Ulysses, querying eyebrows raised.

  “Quicksilver.”

  “A Mr Quicksilver here who is very keen to speak with Mr Shurin.”

  The receptionist was quiet for a moment as she listened to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, lowering the receiver from in front of her mouth, “but would that be a Mr Bartholomew Quicksilver?”

  Ulysses’ jaw clenched. “No, Ulysses Quicksilver.”

  The receptionist put the telephone handset to her ear again.

  “A Mr Ulysses Quicksilver... Yes, I did explain, but he’s very keen to talk to Mr Shurin today.” And then she lowered the receiver again. “Who are you with, Mr Quicksilver?”

  Ulysses flashed her the contents of his leather card-holder.

  “Oh, I see,” she said taken aback. “Mr Quicksilver’s with the British government,” she said. “Yes. Yes, of course. Right away. Thank you.”

  The woman put down the phone.

  “If you’d like to take the elevator to the top floor,” she said, still the same false smile locked on her face, “Mr Shurin will see you now.”

  “Yes,” Ulysses said with grim satisfaction, “I rather thought he might.”

  “MR QUICKSILVER, WHAT a pleasure it is to meet you,” Jared Shurin said effusively, getting up from behind his huge marble desk.

  “Is it?” Ulysses asked, matching the industrialist’s firm grip as they shook hands.

  “But of course,” Shurin said, breaking contact, whilst continuing to smile with all the sincerity of a diplomat.

  “You were on the Apollo XIII flight, weren’t you?

  “Yes, I was.”

  “I heard there was a minor collision.”

  “Yes, there was.”

  “Well thank goodness you’re all right,” Shurin gushed.

  “Not everyone was so lucky.”

  “I know. A terrible affair. Simply terrible.” Shurin paused for a respectful moment before changing the subject. “So what brings you to the Moon? It is not often we are fortunate enough to receive a visit from someone of your standing and, if I might say so, celebrity status.”

  Ulysses looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “I thought the Moon was inundated with celebrities, minor royals, and their ilk, trying to get away from it all – especially in the aftermath of the Wormwood Catastrophe.”

  “Ah, you have me there. So, like I said, what brings you to the Moon, Mr Quicksilver? Is it business or pleasure?”

  “It was pleasure. Now it’s purely business.”

  “Really? How interesting.”

  “As if you didn’t know,” Ulysses added under his breath.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “So what is it you do here, Mr Shurin?” Ulysses asked, moving swiftly on.

  “Well, I am sure you are already aware of our work in the field of aeronautics and space travel.”

  “Cavorite. Spaceships. That sort of thing?”

  “Yes. That sort of thing. Satellite production too. If it wasn’t for Syzygy satellites the Empire would not so easily receive regular updates on what’s going on around the world from the news reels from the Magna Britannia Broadcasting Corporation, and the personal communicator revolution could never have taken place.” The man sounded like he was making a presentation to the board as he paced before his desk. “But those areas of our business are dealt with elsewhere. The Barnes Wallace Space Station, for example – in geostationary orbit over Birmingham – and our Greenwich works.”

  “So what is it you are focused on here?”

  Shurin took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. “Here we are concerned with no less than harnessing the power of the sun,” he said, a look of smug triumph on his face.

  “What?”

  “Solar power, Mr Quicksilver. A potentially limitless supply of energy, if only it could be successfully tamed. Do you know what that means, Mr Quicksilver?”

  “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “Better than that,” Shurin said, still smiling. “Why don’t I show you?”

  THE TESTING AREA was in another part of the complex entirely, but it was only a short journey from Shurin’s office via cable car and then another hundred yards by travelator.

  It was housed in its own separate dome, the upper half of which was made entirely of reinforced glass. Through the criss-cross bars of the roof’s construction the stars of the Milky Way glittered like ice crystals seen by moonlight. But the view was nothing compared to the machine barely contained within the dome.

  At first impressions it looked like a huge telescope, but then Ulysses realised that rather than an eyepiece, it ended at what appeared to be a beam emitter of some kind. All around the chamber, carefully-angled mirrors bounced light to a polished concave surface which focused the light it collected into the aperture of the telescope rig.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” Shurin said, proudly showing off his latest toy.

  “If you like modern art, I suppose,” Ulysses said grudgingly.

  “Oh no, Mr Quicksilver,” Shurin laughed humourlessly, “not modern art but a miracle of modern science.”

  “Oh, I see.” Ulysses gazed up at the light-collecting mirror and the tubular body of the device. “So what’s it for?”

  “Ah, I knew you were intrigued. I could tell. But you’ll be even more amazed when you hear that it’s a drill.”

  “A drill?” Nimrod spluttered.

  “Yes – a drill!”

  “But I’ve never seen a drilling machine like this one before,” Ulysses said, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “No, you haven’t, Mr Quicksilver, because there’s never been one like this before. Icarus is the first of its kind.”

  “Icarus.”

  “Yes. I came up with the name myself.”

  “And we all know what happened to him,” Ulysses muttered under his breath before adding, louder so all might hear: “Did you really? So I take it it has something to do with the sun?”

  “You are quite correct,” Shurin said, delight brightening his face like a new dawn.

  “Would you care to enlighten us further?”

  At that Shurin turned to the technicians manning the chamber and clapped his hands. As his employees set about their work, Shurin ushered Ulysses and Nimrod to the side of the chamber where he offered them a pair of polarised goggles each.

  “What are these for?” Nimrod asked, looking at the goggles in his hand with disdain. “Because I think you should know that I am not enamoured of the frivolities of fashion.”

  At that Ulysses raised an eyebrow. “Just put them on, old chap.”

  “I would advise it,” Shurin said, donning a pair of the tinted goggles himself. “They are a safety precaution.”

  With protective eye-wear in place, the three men stood back as the solar engineers worked their magic.

  With a grinding of gears, the device before them was rotated so that the beam emitter was directed at a block of solid reinforced mooncrete, six feet thick. At the same time, with a succession of clattering clicks the mirrors surrounding the chamber subtly changed position to compensate as a bank of whirring Babbage engines re-calibrated the machine and made the necessary adjustments.

  Ulysses watched and waited. Nothing happened.

  “Very impressive,” he muttered. “What does it do for an encore?�
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  Shurin was gazing up at the star-field beyond the glass of the dome. “We just need to wait for the satellite to come into position.

  There was a sudden flare in the black sky above them and a split second later that chamber was bathed in brilliant sunlight.

  “Good lord!” Nimrod gasped.

  “Wait for it,” Shurin giggled. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  The sudden flare of sunlight faded as the mirrors around the room collected the light, bouncing it to the focusing dish at the broader end of the telescoping body of the device, which in turn focused it into a beam of rippling light and heat no more than six inches across. But the machine wasn’t finished yet.

  As Ulysses watched, the light was funnelled through the cylindrical body of the machine until it emerged from the emitter at its tip as an intense beam of brilliant white light that made Ulysses wince and instinctively take a step backwards.

  Even through the heavily tinted lenses of the goggles and half-closed eyes he was still able to see what happened next with perfect clarity.

  The concentrated sunlight struck the block of mooncrete, cutting through it like a hot knife through butter. An acrid burning smell assailed his nostrils as flames danced around the hole where the beam had entered the rock.

  Mere moments later the beam burst through the back of the block and then died in an instant as the machine was powered down.

  “Impressive,” Ulysses said, taking off his goggles but unable to take his eyes from the machine and the damage it had done to a block of reinforced mooncrete with nothing more than the very careful application of pure sunlight. “Very impressive.”

  “SO, MR QUICKSILVER,” Jared Shurin said when they were back in his office at the top of the Syzygy Industries headquarters, “what do you think?”

  “Impressive,” Ulysses allowed again. As a secretary passed him a cup of coffee, he took in the woman. She might as well have been a clone of the girl at reception, so alike were they. Blondes, he decided, were obviously Shurin’s thing.