Plaisance decides to follow the tracks anyway. He’s not sure how far out of his way this will take him, because it’s difficult even for him to judge how fresh the prints are, but he enjoys the idea of pursuing something—a fugitive, as it were. He gets back on the LRV and heads northeast, noticing from the tracks that the droid has the measured, slightly springy gait of someone familiar with lunar gravity but not with surface activity. So clearly it’s not programmed to be out here on its own. Plaisance pictures himself catching up to it, containing it, deactivating it if necessary, and bundling it over the back of the LRV like a bagged deer.
He follows the tracks for thirty minutes, drifting farther and farther away from the substation, well aware that he’s entering the OWIP penal territory. Officially he’s supposed to steer clear of this region, because OWIP has its own well-trained teams. But unofficially he’s crossed it many times with no complaints, and even helped out on a few emergency repair jobs, without ever meeting one of the prisoners.
Soon he arrives at the first igloo. The droid’s footprints veer off to its entrance. But when Plaisance gets off the LRV he sees that there are no lights on in the igloo, inside or out. The solar panels seem to have been shattered by micrometeorite strikes and haven’t been replaced. And the v-screen, by which it’s possible to look inside if you know the right codes, is missing. To Plaisance this signals only one thing: This particular habitat hasn’t been occupied for years. The occupant probably passed away and hasn’t been replaced. Officially the OWIP program will perish with the last remaining prisoner.
The droid’s tracks continue northeast—as if, failing to find anyone home, he moved on. And suddenly Plaisance is struck by a sense of dread, a metallic flavor in his mouth, not unlike that which he experienced when he was zapped by the cosmic flux.
Unconsciously, he increases his speed.
A few kilometers farther on, another igloo appears. And again, the droid’s footprints swerve toward the entrance. But this time the exterior lights are blinking. It’s an alarm—someone entered or departed without punching in the right codes. In normal circumstances an alert would now be traveling, via cable, to the OWIP base. The OWIP team would be on their way to investigate. But with the comm line down, no alerts are getting through.
Plaisance is all on his own.
He gets off the LRV and surveys the entrance. The airlock doors, all of them, are open. And light is shining inside. Plaisance has no authority to investigate further, but the circumstances are unique. There might be a human being still in there. Perhaps someone who’s found refuge from the vacuum and urgently needs assistance. So Plaisance decides, with a strange sense of satisfaction, that he has no choice. He switches on his helmet light, just in case, and heads inside.
He’s not far past the airlock when he sees the victim. Plaisance has seen dead bodies before, many of them, but this is something else entirely.
He only guesses the corpse is male because of the body shape, and because of some of the decorations in the room. The head has been struck so repeatedly that it’s just a ball of blood and bone. The body itself is slumped into a chair, arms akimbo, almost as if it’s been made up postmortem to appear even more grotesque. There’s a wrench on a nearby benchtop with blood and hair still attached to it. A reddened towel is on the floor, as if the killer wiped his hands after the execution. And on the table an empty coffee cup, as if he’d enjoyed a drink before departing.
Plaisance stares at it all for so long that it’s a surprise to him when he hears his own accelerated breathing. And feels his heart crashing against his ribs. And his spacesuit clamping around him. So he backs out of the igloo. He emerges as if from a trance. He looks out across the great crater, at the line of shoeprints heading east into the shadows. He still finds it hard to believe that a robot has killed a human being—but how can it be denied?
So is the droid an assassin? A fugitive? Have its control centers been blown by the solar flare?
Whatever the case, Plaisance makes another decision immediately. He will keep tracking the android, regardless of how far it takes him out of his way, and irrespective of how dangerous it becomes to his own life. He will stop the droid, even if it kills him. And he will earn redemption.
If he were able to do so, he would kiss the Saint Christopher medal that hangs around his neck. As it is, he just heads back to the LRV, trembling with determination.
08
CHIEF LANCE “JABBA” BUCHANAN is a hippo. On Earth he’d be one of those people who have to be lifted out of bed with a crane. He might even be dead. But on the Moon he weighs not much more than the average terrestrial ten-year-old. So he can indulge his major passion—eating—without inhibition. And his particular passion now is for Moonballs®—sugar-dusted golf ball–sized spheres of white chocolate filled with coffee syrup. He has a large bowl of them at the side of his desk and he keeps popping them in his mouth like a barfly topping up on beer nuts. Pausing only to balance the dose with a clot-busting tablet or blood-thinning superpill. That’s the thing about corrective medication, Justus thinks idly—just as often as it solves the problem it encourages the excess.
“Forensics tells me they delivered a report,” Buchanan says between munches.
“That’s correct.”
“What’d it say?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“This is your case, not mine.” Buchanan, who’s wearing more braid on his uniform than a Central African despot, offers a wafer-thin smile that’s supposed to be reassuring.
Justus shrugs. “A fertilizer bomb,” he says. “Ammonium nitrate mixed with propane. A crude detonator, radio activated.”
“Radio?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That itself is against the law.”
“Apparently so. In any case, it tells us that the killer knew when the victims were in the right place. Exactly the right place—practically on top of the bomb itself. So he was within line of sight. Or he had the victims bugged.”
“So we’re talkin’ assassination here?”
“Someone knew Professor Decker’s general itinerary, that’s for sure. But it turns out that itinerary wasn’t exactly a secret—it was widely advertised that he was going to be christening that goat farm.”
“You sure it was Decker they were after?”
“Not at all. And I don’t make assumptions. But I learned in Homicide that it saves time to start with the most likely possibilities, and work backward from there.”
Buchanan grunts. “Well, you just gotta excuse me for being surprised, that’s all—about Decker, I mean.”
“Why?”
“Because he was a sweet guy. Dedicated to his job. To Purgatory. And clean as a coat of paint. Everyone loved him.”
“So I’ve been told,” says Justus. “But he must’ve done something wrong in the past, surely? To be here in the first place?”
Buchanan, whose skin is as tight as an overinflated balloon, manages a frown. “What—you don’t think this is somethin’ to do with his days on Earth, do ya?”
“Well, from what I understand assassins have been sent from Earth before to square up for things done years ago, right?”
“Yeah, but we got systems in place now—that sorta thing never happens anymore.”
“Still . . .”
“And anyway,” Buchanan goes on, “Decker’s crime wasn’t the sort that makes enemies. Wanna know what he did? Back on Earth?”
“Not really.”
“He fucked a thirteen-year-old student. Hell, half the world is doing that. And the kid wasn’t even complainin’—thought Decker was dynamite, in fact. So does that sound to you like the sort of person who’d be sendin’ assassins to the Moon? Decades later?”
The way he speaks so dismissively of statutory rape makes Justus wonder what Buchanan’s own crime was. But it’s all too easy to imagine the man in league with drug smugglers in El Paso. Or beating up hookers in Baton Rouge. Or feeding dead bodies to alligators in the Everglades
. So Justus drives the thought from his mind. “Granted,” he says, “it’s just one of many possibilities. But I’m new to Purgatory, remember. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I seem to be popular here.”
Buchanan mellows a little. “Damn straight,” he says, reaching into his jar. “And everyone says you’re doin’ a helluva job. Helluva job. Everyone.”
“Good to hear it.”
“I’m just tryin’ to help, that’s all. I don’t wanna be steerin’ you in any directions, y’understand?”
“Of course.”
“So what’s your theory?” Buchanan flips another Moonball® into his mouth.
“Well, it looks like a professional job, I can say that much. Fertilizer bombs might be crude, but the elements need to be mixed in precise quantities. Very precise quantities. And this bomb was particularly effective.”
“So we’re talkin’ an explosives expert?”
“Unfortunately. And I’m led to believe there’s no end of people in Purgatory who match that profile.”
“’Course. We got a lotta troublemakers here.”
“Former terrorists, in fact.”
“That’s right—if they had the right skills, they used to be welcomed here. In the old days.”
“And naturally they might have passed on their skills.”
“Well, this place used to be a haven for scum. You couldn’t get citizenship here unless you were escaping a serious jail term—it made sure you wouldn’t get cold feet and run home to Mommy.”
Justus thinks that Buchanan, like a lot of those in Purgatory, seems inordinately proud of this fact, sort of like those Australians proud of their convict heritage. Except that in this case the so-called “scum” is well-and-truly alive—and thriving.
“Bottom line is, I’ve got a huge cast of suspects.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Buchanan says. “Any leads from the Goat House, by the way? The dirt rakers who work there?”
“A lot of the processes are automated. Some of the tasks are performed by robots. Security is almost nonexistent. There are no surveillance cameras—I guess I’ll get used to that too. The farmhands wear masks and swear they know nothing. There’s no unaccounted-for DNA at the scene. On Earth I’m pretty sure I’d have something by now. Here, it might take more time.”
“Thought of the political angle?”
“Of course. Except that—you said it yourself—Professor Decker was popular. And into agriculture. Food supply. Recycling. He doesn’t seem the sort of target, assuming he was the target, for a political assassination.”
“He was virtually Fletcher Brass’s right-hand man.”
“Was,” Justus says. “From what I understand, he was losing prestige.”
“Who told you that?”
“It’s what I heard.”
“Well, that’s baloney. Brass had a lot of faith in Decker. Thought he was the most honest man in Purgatory. He liked fucking kids, yeah, but so what?”
“Decker was seventy-nine years old.”
“Seventy-nine years young,” Buchanan says. “Seventy-nine ain’t old around here.”
Justus is bemused by Buchanan’s insistence—he’s become so passionate that he’s briefly not even munching on a Moonball®. “Well, if it’s a political assassination then we’re in very deep waters. And it also leaves me somewhat out of my depth.”
“How so?”
“Well, I’m no more than passingly familiar with the political machinations in Purgatory. I thought, for instance, that Fletcher Brass was popular here.”
“Who said he wasn’t?”
“You just did—by suggesting that Decker was killed owing to his association with him.”
Buchanan uncaps one of his pill bottles. “Well,” he says, “I only mean that Brass is a figurehead, that’s all—it’s the system that’s rotten. And to anarchists the system is always rotten.”
“So Brass himself is popular?”
“ ‘Popular’ is a bit much. But he’s feared. Which is better than being popular.”
To Justus it sounds like one of Brass’s own laws. “So you wouldn’t rule out an assassination, then? Or a terrorist attack?”
Buchanan gulps down his pills. “Well, things are changing here in Purgatory, that’s a fact. Brass is leaving for his Mars trip soon—you must’ve heard of that. And various factions are swirlin’ around, lookin’ for a piece of the action. While the cat’s away, you might say.”
“Was Decker in line to take over in Brass’s absence?”
“ ’Course he was. Few others too.”
“QT Brass?”
Now Buchanan sniggers. “You really don’t know much about this place, do you, Lieutenant?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Well, let’s just say Fletcher Brass and his daughter don’t exactly toast marshmallows together. They cozy up for the cameras, but behind the scenes little QT is stirrin’ the pot. Brewin’ up something, that’s for sure. Something that tastes good only to her. And the schemers in her club.”
Justus is surprised by Buchanan’s open disdain. “So you think QT Brass might be behind all this?”
“Hey, I didn’t say that. Fact is, I got no fuckin’ clue. But that’s why you’re perfect for this investigation. You got no loyalties one way or another, right?”
“I guess so.”
“ ’Course you don’t. By the way, if you need any more help—personnel-wise—you just let me know.”
Justus shakes his head. “I like the size of my team as it is. And I’m still learning to trust them. Or not trust them, as the case may be.”
Buchanan raises an eyebrow. “Not sayin’ you’ve had trouble, are ya?”
Justus doesn’t want to say it, but there are some on his team who seem too enthusiastic. Too cooperative. And then there are others who aren’t cooperative at all, who give him cutting glances. There’s one guy in particular, a blubber-lipped Russian officer called Grigory Kalganov, who looks like he could easily stab Justus in the back—or anywhere else.
“No more than on Earth,” Justus says finally—which is more or less true.
Buchanan smirks. “You now, what you really wanna do is interview Fletcher Brass—the Patriarch himself. That’ll give you a better picture of the landscape.”
“I intend to.”
“Just don’t expect a magic carpet ride—he’s a busy man.”
“I keep hearing that.”
“Then again, I guess he’ll be more than happy to help you out, considering his fondness for Decker. And you probably should speak to QT Brass as well—just let us know and we’ll arrange it. She’s slippery as an eel.”
“I’m not frightened of eels.”
Buchanan makes an approving noise. “You know, this could be a big chance for you, Lieutenant. Do a good job here, you could find yourself movin’ up the ladder quicker than you ever dreamed of. I’m not gonna be at this desk forever, you know. In fact, I’ve been thinking of handin’ in my badge for some time now.”
Justus blinks. “I’m sorry, Chief—are you talking about me? As a possible successor to you?”
“Why not?” Buchanan says. “You’re a clean slate, ain’t you? Brass is gonna like that. And I happen to know he rewards people who get results. So who knows? Maybe you arrived here at exactly the right time. And maybe this murder is exactly what you need to get yourself noticed.”
“I don’t work for personal advancement.”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand.”
“And I don’t use murder cases for that purpose.”
“Yeah, yeah, ’course.” Buchanan coughs and changes the subject. “You know, I’m havin’ a barbeque at my place in a few days—genuine beef and pork too, none of that synthetic stuff. Why not come ’round? It’d be a good chance to meet the guys who might soon be answerin’ to you.”
“Is that an order?”
“Hell no, it’s an invitation.”
Justus shrugs. “Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to you o
n that. With a case of this complexity, I might be too busy for a barbeque.”
Buchanan pauses for a second, his eyes dancing over Justus, as if he can’t work out how to react. Then he launches into a laugh so hard the whole desk—the whole room—shakes. “Jesus, man, you’re one outta the box! Too busy for a barbeque! Wait till I tell the boys that!” He reaches into his bowl of treats and holds one out across the desk. “Moonball®?”
Justus shakes his head.
09
ALL THOSE ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS that worshipped the Moon, all those early science-fiction writers who romanticized it, and all those pioneering astronomers who studied it—none of them ever clapped an eye on Farside. No one, not a soul, even knew what it looked like until a Soviet satellite pulsed back a few blurred images in 1959. And what these images showed, in a nutshell, were fewer dust seas and more craters. No volcanoes, no water, no signs of habitation—just a hideous, pockmarked face; one that, in truth, looked better in the dark. And that’s why “the Dark Side,” though technically a misnomer, is such an apt name. Not because Farside gets less sunlight than Nearside—it doesn’t. Not because it has more dark spots than Nearside—in fact, its percentage of volcanic maria is considerably smaller. And certainly not because it’s been a secret location for Cold War military bases, spaceship landing zones, alien cities, or anything else dreamed up by the conspiracy-minded.
No, it’s “the Dark Side” because it looks not upon the glorious orb of the home planet but upon the icy emptiness of space. Because it’s less populated, less charted, and less studied. Because it’s appreciably more dangerous. Because no satellites or shuttles are allowed to fly over it. Because it’s luna incommunicado—in permanent radio blackout. And because it’s been home, for twenty years, to Purgatory and Fletcher Brass.
The droid knows nothing of this. The droid does not care. The droid is walking at a considerable pace, something between a lope and a skip, toward the terraced rim of Gagarin Crater. The crater was formed by an asteroid impact three billion years ago and later filled with shock-melted rock, debris, lava flows, and meteor dust. Then over countless millennia the surface was baked, frozen, irradiated, and sandblasted by micrometeorite impacts into a fine and deeply abrasive powder—the moondust upon which the droid now walks.
The Dark Side Page 5