Dark Side

by Jonathan Green

  He was sure now that Barty had had something on both Shurin and Rossum, and so, by extension, it made sense that he had also had something on Wilberforce Bainbridge. But what was it?

  “Very well, Mr Rossum, perhaps we are done here.”

  He reached inside a jacket pocket. Rossum flinched. When he took his hand out again, there was a small piece of card held between two fingers. He flicked it towards Rossum.

  “If anything you think I might be interested in hearing more about comes to mind – anything at all – give me a call. You can find me at the Nebuchadnezzar.”

  Rossum snatched the card out of the air with startling speed, keeping his eyes on the dandy the whole time.

  The lift shaft in the middle of the office floor suddenly irised open again and, with a chiming ping, the elevator returned. The doors slid open with oiled ease and the dandy and his manservant stepped inside, to be greeted by the ever cheerful robotic bellhop.

  “Remember, Rossum, anything at all.”

  The lift doors slid shut again and the elevator departed. Dominic Rossum was left alone once more.

  He pressed a button on his earpiece.

  “Yes,” he said gruffly, as the switchboard acknowledged him, “get me Bainbridge.”

  The line buzzed. It was a moment before his call was answered and the line connected.“Bainbridge? It’s Rossum. We need to talk.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Breathless

  T MINUS 1 DAY, 18 HOURS, 15 MINUTES, 20 SECONDS

  “SO, WHERE NOW, sir?” Nimrod asked as he and his master made themselves comfortable aboard a robotic sedan chair outside Rossum’s Universal Robots.

  “Last on Barty’s hit list is Wilberforce Bainbridge,” Ulysses said, the third file open on his lap in front of him. The sternly patrician image of the oxygen mill owner looked up at him from out of the attached photograph.

  Ulysses leant forward and tapped the small window between them and the driver’s position with the tip of his sheathed sword-stick.

  “Driver?”

  “Yes, sir?” came a muffled voice from the other side of the glass.

  “Have you heard of Wilberforce Bainbridge the air mill magnate?”

  “Course, sir. Everyone’s heard of ’im. We’d all be a little short of breath round ’ere if it wasn’t for Bainbridge, if you catch my drift, sir.”

  “Good. So where would I find him?”

  “Bainbridge Tower, of course.”

  “Then take us to Bainbridge Tower forthwith, my good man.”

  The dandy eased himself back into the leather-upholstered seat and returned to perusing the file on his lap. Even after closer, and repeated, inspection, the information Barty had managed to put together in the dossier was nothing out of the ordinary. In fact it was what anybody could have found out about the industrialist with some judicious scouring of the ether-ways.

  His manservant fidgeted on the seat beside as the sedan chair trotted away from the kerb, out onto the main thoroughfare outside the robot manufactory.

  “What is it, Nimrod? You’re making me feel uncomfortable.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, what do you intend to do upon reaching our destination?”

  “I intend to get to the bottom of whatever it is that connects Bainbridge, Rossum and Shurin with my late brother. Then, in the fullness of time, I intend to make them pay for what happened!”

  “Only we still don’t know that any of them had anything to do with his de–” Nimrod checked himself just in time. “With the unfortunate incident at Milton Mansions. It hasn’t even yet been proved that Master Bartholomew didn’t die by his own hand.”

  “You don’t mean to tell me that you agree with that incompetent Inspector Artemis now, do you, old chap?”

  “I’m not saying that at all, sir.” Nimrod sounded pained, hurt by his master’s accusation. “I am only advising caution in this matter.” He hesitated before going on. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  “So far your somewhat bull-headed approach hasn’t got us very far. In fact it could be argued that it has done nothing but make us more enemies.”

  Ulysses looked at Nimrod, cold fury blazing in the black pits of his eyes.

  “If you were any other man...” he growled. “Doesn’t Barty’s de... what happened to Barty bother you?” he railed.

  “Of course it does, sir. He was your brother, and I know how you felt about him, despite all he did to try and have you disinherited, and his wastrel ways. And I can see how much his death grieves you.”

  Ulysses turned away and stared out of the window of the sedan at the passing mooncrete edifices. The atmosphere inside the transport was suddenly as frosty as the Himalayan peaks.

  Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the journey.

  BAINBRIDGE TOWER WAS as impressive as any of the domains of the other industrialists Ulysses and Nimrod had already visited. It rose above the acres of the Moon’s surface covered by the great mills that worked constantly to recycle the air contained within Luna Prime’s habitation domes – removing waste gases and pollutants, which were then ejected into the airless void surrounding the Moon – as well as producing more oxygen as required as well. The mills were unable to recycle all of the air, thanks to the steam-powered nature of most things on the Moon and so a steady supply of breathable atmosphere had to be continually generated to allow life on the Moon to continue.

  The tower itself formed the hub of all operations. From underneath it a network of wide pipelines spread out beneath the metropolis, constantly pumping freshly processed air into the hermetically-sealed domes, huge fans drawing the air into the domes as suction vents extracted the waste in a ceaseless cycle. The tower extended high above Luna Prime, its peak even rising above protective geodesic dome of the city itself, allowing Bainbridge to travel by personal shuttle from his own landing pad to the other lunar cities that utilised his company’s life-giving product.

  Even as Ulysses and Nimrod entered the cathedral-like vault of the tower’s reception area they were hurried through security to a gleaming brass and glass ascending carriage that traversed almost the entire height of the tower.

  The dandy was getting used to his visits being anticipated. He had half expected Rossum – or perhaps it had been Shurin – to have tipped Bainbridge off about their imminent arrival. But it unnerved him nonetheless. It made him feel as if he wasn’t entirely in control. And it was only the feeling of being in control that was enabling him to hold himself together.

  Ulysses stared past the glass wall of the elevator but failed to appreciate the amazing vista it offered him, lost as he was in his own thoughts. The carriage continued to grind its way ever upwards, the skin of the city dome drawing nearer all the time. Before the elevator reached the apex of the multi-layered dome the lift shaft was absorbed into the upper levels of the almighty edifice. But the carriage maintained its steady pace, proceeding through the dome itself as it entered the uppermost floors of Bainbridge Tower.

  With a ping the lift doors opened and Ulysses and Nimrod stepped out into a large foyer, the adjacent wall of which was made entirely from glass. Beyond it lay the featureless grey desert of the Moon’s surface. Stars twinkled in the inky blackness of the void, some of them the landing lights of space tugs and orbiting satellites.

  A young man and a young woman ducked past them, heads down, catching the lift before the doors closed and it made the return journey to ground level.

  “We’re here to see Mr Bainbridge,” Ulysses said, approaching the desk beside a pair of mahogany-panelled double doors bearing the company logo and the customary secretary sat behind it. The girl was typing something into her desktop Babbage unit, an aloof expression on her face.

  “If you’d like to go right on in, Mr Quicksilver,” the secretary replied without looking up. “Mr Bainbridge is expecting you.”

  “Yes, I rather thought he would be.”

  Ulysses gave her a look that told he
r exactly how he felt about her poor manners, but his look of sour disdain was wasted on her as she stubbornly continued to refuse to make eye contact.

  Nimrod hastened to open the double doors for his master, then stood aside to allow Ulysses to enter the office first.

  Beyond lay a room that looked not unlike a gentlemen’s club, decked out as it was in more mahogany panelling, green baize and carpets bearing the Bainbridge crest. It was empty.

  “Hello?” Ulysses called, Nimrod pulling the doors closed again after them. “Mr Bainbridge?” He took a few more steps into the room. “Anybody?”

  There was no reply.

  Picking up the pace, Nimrod joining him at his side, Ulysses crossed the expanse of the office to the huge desk, which seemed small compared to the vastness of the office itself. The luxurious high-backed chair was rotated so that its back was to the two men.

  “Mr Bainbridge?” Ulysses said, a note of uncertainty in his voice. Warily he reached across the desk and turned the chair to face them.

  It squeaked round on its bearings.

  It too was empty.

  Ulysses turned to Nimrod, his features knotted in confusion. “If Bainbridge is expecting us, then where is he?”

  “Sir,” Nimrod said, pointing at a door on the other side of the elegant office. The door was slightly ajar, as if someone had failed to close it properly behind them.

  Ulysses was first through, Nimrod close on his heels.

  “Bainbridge! Bainbridge!” he shouted as he ran down the lushly-carpeted corridor beyond.

  It was clear to Ulysses that the man was trying to escape, but he wasn’t going to let him get away that easily. To Ulysses’ mind, the mere action of trying to run expressed his guilt as effectively as if Bainbridge had signed a written confession before his very eyes.

  At the far end of the print-lined passageway Ulysses threw open another door and burst through it, finding himself in a hemi-spherical dome as thick as those that supported life in Luna Prime itself.

  Through part of the dome Ulysses could see the industrialist’s private shuttle pad. Berthed on the pad was a Lunar Cutter.

  The private boarding lounge was decorated with moonscapes by the renowned landscape painter Phoebe Hunter, along with settees, casually, yet no doubt very carefully, arranged armchairs and large potted aspidistras.

  On the far side of the dome, set within a solid steel frame two feet thick, was the first in a series of airlock chambers that should have joined the shuttle craft to the top of the tower, if the umbilical used to connect the vessel to the boarding lounge hadn’t been disconnected.

  A nauseous knot of uncomfortable realisation formed within the pit of Ulysses’ stomach as he caught sight of the red smear on the other side of the circular pane of glass set into the centre of the airlock door. Beside the airlock a fatal warning light blinked red.

  In desperation, knowing in his heart of hearts that he was already too late, Ulysses punched the door release mechanism. There was a hiss of changing air pressures and the light beside the door cycled from red to orange. With what felt like painful slowness, the atmospheres inside the airlock and the boarding lounge equalised.

  The light turned green. There was an accompanying metallic click and the airlock door swung open on heavy steel hinges.

  Blood dripped from the door onto the plush carpeted floor of the lounge, the viscous fluid slowly sinking in the shag pile.

  “Oh my lord,” Nimrod gasped.

  “I think you’ll find,” Ulysses said, staring at the crimson mess covering the interior of the airlock, “that’s what’s left of Wilberforce Bainbridge.”

  The door to the private boarding lounge banged open behind them.

  Ulysses turned to see Inspector Artemis lead a squad of armed police into the chamber.

  “Mr Quicksilver. We meet again.”

  Ulysses took a step away from the airlock towards the jack-booted officer. “Inspector Artemis, what a pleasure.”

  “Don’t move a muscle!” she snapped, training her gun on the dandy as her squad fanned out into the room behind her. Between them, the police had Ulysses and Nimrod well and truly covered.

  Ulysses briefly considered the pistol in the shoulder holster and the rapier blade sheathed in the bloodstone-tipped cane. Then he thought better of both. That way led to a premature demise.

  He could see how the situation he now found himself in might look to the agitated inspector, observing the growing look of horror on her face as she took in the details of the scene.

  There was nothing else for it. It was time to pull out the really big guns; it was time to talk his way out.

  “Ulysses Quicksilver, you’re under arrest,” Artemis declared.

  “Might I ask what the charge is?”

  “Murder. Cuff him,” she ordered the men under her command. “In fact, cuff both of them.”

  Realising that here and now was neither the time nor the place to attempt to resist arrest, Ulysses helpfully held out his hands in front of him, wrists together.

  As a pair of cautious constables moved to act on the inspector’s orders, Artemis read the dandy and his manservant their rights.

  “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you then later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence...”

  “Look there’s really no need for this,” Ulysses said.

  “Why? Been arrested before, have you?” the constable securing the bracelets around Ulysses’ wrists asked.

  “What I mean,” Ulysses said, pointedly addressing the organ grinder rather than her monkey, “is that we’re innocent. We only just got here ourselves.”

  A shrill scream rang out from behind the police officers.

  Suddenly everyone’s attention was on the short-skirted secretary standing at the entrance to the departure lounge, hands to her face in horror, as she too stared at what remained of her employer dripping from the sill of the airlock.

  “Get her out of here!” the inspector snapped, giving the shocked young woman only the most cursory of glances.

  She turned her attention back to Ulysses, lowering her gun.

  “You had all the time you needed to do the deed. That poor cow told us that much when we arrived.”

  “And how, pray tell, did you know to turn up here only a matter of minutes after us, when we hadn’t even made an appointment to gain an audience with Mr Bainbridge?”

  “Whose investigation is this?”

  “Humour me.”

  Inspector Artemis thought for a moment.

  “Well, I don’t see how it’ll hurt. You’re bound to find out sooner or later. We were acting on an anonymous tip-off.”

  “From the real murderer,” Ulysses said, nodding to himself.

  “And how do you explain your presence here, Mr Quicksilver?” Artemis fixed him with that no-nonsense, flinty-eyed stare of hers.

  “I was carrying out my own investigation into the events surrounding my brother’s death.”

  “Investigation or revenge killings?”

  “What?”

  “You have to admit, from where I’m standing that’s a very realistic possibility. Of course, if that’s the case, it’s a most unfortunately misguided revenge, considering that there isn’t actually any evidence to suggest your brother was murdered at all, or that the three men you have been harassing had anything to do with his death in any way whatsoever.”

  Ulysses bristled. “And where’s the evidence that Wilberforce Bainbridge was murdered then? Where’s the murder weapon? Where the motive?”

  “Murder weapon – airlock,” Artemis said, jerking her head towards the open steel hatch. “Motive – like I said – a deluded desire for revenge.”

  “You don’t even know that’s his body – or rather, what’s left of it – in there,” Ulysses persisted.

  “True, but such things can be ascertained.”

  “Have you considered the poss
ibility that the death we see the aftermath of here was an accident?”

  “Mr Quicksilver,” Inspector Artemis said, “you don’t die from fatal decompression in an airlock by accident. This was a premeditated act. Mr Bainbridge was murdered.”

  “Either that or he committed suicide.”

  “Like your late brother, you mean?”

  “No! Not like my brother! Barty was murdered, I’m sure of it.”

  “As you keep saying. And as was Bainbridge. Question is, by whom?”

  “Well it wasn’t me... Don’t you see? This proves that Barty’s death couldn’t have been suicide!”

  “Does it?”

  “Of course! Whoever’s responsible knows I’m onto them and is trying to cover their tracks.”

  “So what you’re trying to tell me is that this wasn’t a revenge killing perpetrated by an emotionally overwrought grieving brother?”

  “That’s precisely what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Save it for the judge.” Artemis turned to her constables who now had both Ulysses and Nimrod in their custody. “Take them away.”

  The constables began to pull the dandy and his valet towards the door.

  “Who said we’d been harassing them?” Ulysses suddenly asked, intrigued.

  “One Jared Shurin, CEO and owner of Syzygy Industries.”

  “And this information wasn’t relayed at the same time as the ‘anonymous’ tip-off you received?”

  “No. By the time we received the tip-off that the two of you were here, we’d already been to see Mr Shurin.”

  “Well I’d like to have another word with Mr Shurin myself.”

  “So would we but I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because,” Artemis said, turning her cold grey eyes on Ulysses, meeting his intense look with the cold fire of her own furious gaze, “when we stopped by at the headquarters of Syzygy Industries, he was already dead.”