You’ll probably be taken aback too by the quantity of animal and insect life. You’ll see rats, of course, but also dogs and cats and squirrels and even a fox or two. There will be birds singing and squawking in the palm trees—parrots especially, which were smuggled into the city on Brass’s orders and have multiplied exponentially. You’ll occasionally stand on cockroaches and beetles and get bitten by mosquitoes and fleas, and in the less salubrious districts you’ll certainly have to wave away flies. All these creatures, even the vermin, are tolerated and even encouraged in Sin, in order to make people feel more at home—and to avoid the trenchant sterility of places like Doppelmayer Base.
The shopping district of Shamash, the medical district of Marduk, the red-light district of Sordello, and the gambling and entertainment district of Kasbah are all in the northern half of Sin. In the middle of the city there are manicured gardens around the Temple of the Seven Spheres, giving way to a buffer zone of overgrown parkland through which flows a filthy watercourse, the Lethe. Then, on the southern side, you’ll find the palace district of Kasr, the residential quarter of Ishtar, and the industrial zone of Nimrod. The last is so nondescript that it’s not even marked on most maps and tourist guides. Ishtar, officially off-limits to tourists, is best overviewed in the early morning from the artificial hill that divides it from Kasbah. You’ll see five blocks of crumbling moonbrick houses, a good deal of refuse and smoke, much washing hanging out to dry, and, if you happen to be looking at the wrong time, probably a resident making obscene gestures or mooning you (mooning is suitably popular on the Moon). Kasr, on the western side of Nimrod, is named after the huge palace, built into the southern rim, that’s the Sin residence of Fletcher Brass—though all you’ll be able to see from a distance is an ornately decorated Babylonian facade. The Patriarch of Purgatory himself still makes an occasional appearance on its largest balcony, his amplified voice booming across the hedges, fountains, mazes, and statuary of Processional Park, the regal gardens that further separate the palace from the multitudes.
For some years Brass’s daughter, QT, lived in a wing of this palace as well. QT—short for “Cutie”—is the daughter of a Chicago reporter who thirty-one years ago had a brief fling with Fletcher Brass. Raised by a maternal uncle after her mother committed suicide, QT was reportedly sexually molested at sixteen by her uncle’s financial adviser—a man who was later found trussed up in an abandoned warehouse with his major bones smashed. Was QT responsible? Not officially—the whole thing was pinned on one of the man’s former business associates—but QT didn’t stick around till the music stopped. Before she could be interviewed by the police, she packed a suitcase and hightailed it to Purgatory, where she was welcomed by her father with open arms—the only one of his four existing children to have made a permanent move to his lunar fiefdom.
But now it seems there’s a schism—if your sources are good, you might have heard of that too. And in surveying Brass’s palace you might wonder where QT currently lives. You’d probably assume she’s been relegated to a smaller palace of her own. Or perhaps to a mansion in high-security Zabada, the exclusive enclave that’s connected to Sin by an underground tunnel. So you might be surprised—even shocked—to hear that QT lives in a two-story place in Ishtar—a house you might even have seen when you overlooked the district from the hill. Security there is minimal, but such is the respect that she generates among Sinners that she trusts that all eyes are “looking out for her.” And in truth, she doesn’t spend much time at home anyway. She very often sleeps in her office, which is located in the Sin Rim next to the luxury hotels.
QT is said to be ambitious. Obstinate. Focused. Ruthless. The peach, as they say, doesn’t fall far from the tree. But somehow she’s got something that her father, for all his magnetism, always lacked: She always finds time for a visitor, no matter how lowly, provided his purpose is not entirely frivolous. And that’s why, right now, she’s dropped everything—rescheduled her whole afternoon’s itinerary—to welcome the new police recruit, Lieutenant Damien Justus.
Who’s come, apparently, on a matter of the greatest importance.
14
YOU’VE COME ABOUT THE murder of Otto Decker.”
She’s sitting in a chair of burgundy leather. She’s taller than she would have been had she remained on Earth but still no more than average height. She’s buxom, like all female lunatics, but she’s not flaunting any cleavage. She’s blond—natural, as far as Justus can tell—and winsome, in a way that more than justifies her given name. She’s wearing a stiff blue jacket and skirt with a white blouse, like something you’d expect on a modern-day nun. Her office itself, from its somber decorations to the mullioned stained-glass windows that overlook Sin, has the air of a mother superior’s office in a convent.
“You don’t waste any time,” Justus observes.
“Have you read the Brass Code, Lieutenant?”
“You mean the—”
“My father’s laws—his little morsels of wisdom. That’s right. You’re probably familiar with the published ones. Some of them, let’s face it, are quite insane. But they’ve been influential on many people. Many, many people. And one of his better laws is this: ‘Time is the most undervalued stock in the world.’ And he’s right, of course he’s right. He’s so right you’d think it doesn’t even need to be said, yeah? And yet there are still people who kid themselves. People who still believe, for instance, that you can’t buy time. That everyone from the pharaohs to their peasants is given the same number of hours in a day. Well, that’s not true and it’s never been true. The rich live longer. They get surgery when they need it. They don’t wait in queues. They don’t have to sleep near noisy neighbors. They don’t cook, they don’t clean, they don’t iron their clothes. They don’t even have to raise their own kids or walk their dogs. They have space for three times as much experience as most people. And yet they still waste it. They can’t help it. They become obsessed with irrelevancies. They marry wrong. They pursue quixotic schemes. My father is a prime example of that. But me, I’m a little different. I always make sure I’ve got a reservoir of time at my disposal and I treat it as untouchable equity. I don’t waste it. I don’t trade it. I keep it in a no-risk account with compounding interest. And one of the ways I do that is by getting to the point immediately. Even if that puts a nose or two out of joint. I don’t mind. I’m just determined not to waste time. In fact, I’m wasting time right now by explaining all this to you.”
She’s talking so fast Justus can barely keep up with her. But he doesn’t think it’s nervousness. And he’s doesn’t think it’s because she’s over-caffeinated, or because she’s had some sort of brain-stimulation surgery. He suspects it’s just because she’s just got a highly active mind—the sort that gets so much exercise it actually burns calories, like a workout at the gym. Justus feels like he’s been doing a workout just listening to her.
“Then perhaps,” he suggests, not without irony, “you can tell me why I’m here.”
“Of course I can tell you why you’re here. I can do that. Because I know you’ve just come from the PPD. And you’ve no doubt been exposed to whatever passes for gossip there. And what you’ve learned, or think you’ve learned, is that my father and I have an increasingly fractious relationship. And you’ve heard that Otto Decker was a trusted adviser to my father. So you’re wondering if I might have a reason to assassinate him—Decker, that is—or at least a reason to want him out of the way. Is that it in a nutshell?”
Justus shrugs. “I need to cover all bases.”
“Of course you do. I respect that. And you’re a new broom here, and I respect that too. But here’s something you probably haven’t been told. One of the two people killed alongside Otto Decker was a man called Ben Chee. Not a lot of people know this, but Ben was an associate of mine. A spy, you might call him. And it’s Ben Chee, not Otto Decker, whom that bomb might have been meant to kill. I’m telling you this confidentially, of course, and because in normal circums
tances you’d probably find out sooner or later anyway. In normal circumstances, I say, as if anything in Purgatory could ever be considered normal. So there’s no point being less than transparent—I don’t want to waste your time any more than mine.”
“I’m grateful,” says Justus. “But you’ll need to forgive me. A moment ago you appeared to dismiss claims that there was tension between you and your father.”
“What about it?”
“Well, you just admitted you were spying on one of his closest associates.”
“Uh-huh. It’s complex. It’s so complex that I actually pity you. You’re going to feel out of your depth for at least a year here, trying to work your way through the maze. But let me try to make it simple for you. I love my father and truly want what’s best for him. At the same time, I think he’s lost his way. He’s dangerously close to the edge. You could argue that he’s always been close to the edge, to some degree, and I wouldn’t disagree with that. He mightn’t disagree with it himself. He’s proud of it, in fact. But now I think his choices have become truly irrational. And unhealthy. I think, for instance, he’s making a big mistake heading off to Mars. Not because I’ve got anything against the principle of space exploration—I think it’s every bit as important as he says it is. And not because of all the dangers—radiation poisoning for one, and we all know what happened to those Chinese taikonauts a few years ago. But because my father’s motives aren’t as noble as he makes out. I think Mars is just another El Dorado for him—just another kingdom he can conquer, some new territory he can fly his flag over. And I think he’s terrified someone else might steal the glory from him. Or marginalize him, as happened here on the Moon. So it’s just another mad vanity project—a desperate mission to deny his age, another foolish, quixotic venture with no real point at all. And anyway, it’s a bad time to leave Purgatory right now.”
“Why’s that?”
She gives a mirthless smile. “Things aren’t as rosy as they look here, Lieutenant. We’re a tourist town, essentially, but numbers are well down. Bookings are inflated this year because of the solar eclipse that’s due shortly—there’ll be a lot of people heading to Nearside to watch the Moon’s shadow cross Earth, and we’ll get the usual spillover. But the long-term trend is downward. I’m trying to change things as fast as I can, of course—I’ve been trying to do so for years—but there are people here who refuse to see the light. Because it’s all about branding—everything’s about branding. Did you ever read my father’s Caravaggio story?”
“Remind me.”
She steeples her hands. “Some years ago there was an auction of an old painting called Joseph of Arimathea at the Tomb of the Christ. And for a long time it was thought to be a lost Caravaggio. Then art experts were able to establish that it wasn’t a Caravaggio at all. It was the work of an unknown contemporary of his, possibly an apprentice. And this of course was significant, because if it really had been a Caravaggio, it would have fetched a small fortune at auction—probably five hundred million dollars. But since it wasn’t, since it had no recognizable brand name, it was practically worthless—a mere three or four million. But here’s the thing. My father bought the painting anyway. He claimed it was even more important after its official value had been diminished. And he made a show of exhibiting it to his business partners, to his entire inner circle, at any opportunity. Because like nothing else, he said, it demonstrated the unique power of a brand. Caravaggio? Five hundred million dollars. Some unknown schmuck? A flea-market throwaway. Yet the painting is exactly the same.”
To Justus it sounds like half of what’s wrong with the world. “And why is this story significant, exactly?”
“Because my father has forgotten his own lessons. About the power of a brand. Because he doesn’t want to face it—Sin has lost its luster. A ‘sin city’ has a certain allure, no question, but sordid attractions have a short life span. They burn brightly but fizzle quickly. Interest moves elsewhere and what’s left behind is something that looks old and seedy. The name ‘Redemption,’ on the other hand, is psychologically attractive without being intimidating—and it can also suggest release, in a counterprogramming sort of way.”
“You want to rename this city ‘Redemption’?”
“I even have a slogan. ‘Redemption: You’ve been searching for it all your life.’ ”
Justus thinks that it’s at least better than the current slogan: ‘There’s nothing better than living in Sin.’ But suddenly he remembers Nat U. Reilly looking strangely uncomfortable at the mention of redemption. “And your father is opposing the idea, I suppose?”
“Steadfastly. But that’s not all. I want to rename Purgatory too. To ‘Sanctuary.’ Still religious, but much more appropriate and inviting. After all, this territory was named when my father felt he was trapped here, awaiting justice; when he was trying to portray it as a place of punishment—a small step up from hell. It’s worked, up to a point, but largely as a result of people’s ignorance. By which I mean that Purgatory is traditionally a place to purge sins, not compound them—hence the name. So Sanctuary is much more appropriate.”
“And this is the major cause of the tension between you and your father—just some name changes?”
“Oh no, there’s a lot more than that. Things of a more practical nature. This sweltering heat, for a start. My father thinks it’s attractive because that’s what you get in tropical resorts. But it’s an established fact that crime levels increase in hot weather. So in a place like this it’s just stirring up the hornet’s nest—it’s completely irrational. And then there’s the architecture too, the whole look of the place. All the sun-dried bricks, all the vines, the Mesopotamian statuary? It’s ostentatiously Babylonian and it works negatively on the race memory. So I’m doing my best to change that too, right under my father’s nose. Those Gothic and Romanesque elements—stained glass, vaulting, coffering, inlaid marble, and the like—you’ve seen all that? Well, that’s my influence. My way of balancing out the pagan iconography. Social engineering through architecture—a great interest of mine. My father handed me the Department of Public Works when I was barely out of my teens. He knew I had an interest in design and he thought it would keep me occupied. But I guess he didn’t realize how quickly I’d put my stamp on his city.”
“You’re still in charge of Public Works?”
“And other departments as well.”
“Such as?”
“I’m secretary of the interior now. And secretary of law enforcement—I was handed that department just months ago. And I’ve got plans for a lot of things. The PPD, for a start—that old boys’ club desperately needs a cleanup. The justice system here is a joke. The homicide rate is unacceptable. For every tourist lured here by the danger there are three others scared away. Plus there are too many criminals here already. Did I mention I was secretary of immigration as well? Well, we’ve already cut down on the miscreants, but what I want to see is more people who’ve just had their fill of Earth—the corruption, the decay, the hypocrisy, you name it. They too want to live on the Moon, not because they’re criminals but because they’re fugitives. Moral fugitives. They’re capable of wonderful things. In a generation, we can make this place truly great.”
Justus wonders if she, like Buchanan, is effectively offering him a promotion. “Sounds ambitious.”
“Of course it is. You could say I’m trying to redeem the whole of Purgatory—bring it closer to heaven. But that’s why there’s such tension between my father and me—a disparity of visions, that’s all.”
“I’m still not sure I understand,” Justus says. “You say your father doesn’t approve of what you’re doing, yet he seems to have rewarded you with command of half a dozen departments.”
“Because he knows I’m popular. Sinners love me—most of them, anyway. And I’m not saying that with any hubris. It’s just the truth. People in Sin are hungering for change. They want the place cleaned up. Even miscreants want it cleaned up. The miscreants especially
want it cleaned up. And I’m the only one who’s willing to do it.”
“So your father, he gives you these token appointments—”
“I wouldn’t call them token.”
“Nevertheless, he grants you enough power to make you important, but ultimately he thwarts your grander ambitions?”
“That’s it in a nutshell. It’s a little game he plays. He plays games all the time and he’s usually good at it. He thinks he has my measure because he’s my father, but he’s completely underestimating me. And now he’s going to Mars, and all sorts of people are scrambling to fill his shoes. I’ve got my own plans, of course, and I intend to take advantage of everything, including my popularity, to achieve them. So you can easily see why I might want certain figures—people with power, people connected to my father, people who might get in my way—out of the picture. Completely out of the picture, I mean. Totally. Definitively. It’s sinister but it’s undeniable. And that’s the reason you should suspect me of assassinating Otto Decker.”
Justus shakes his head. “Well,” he says, “I can’t remember anyone offering themselves up as a prime suspect before.”
“I told you, Lieutenant, I’m just taking you to a place you’d inevitably get to anyway. Assuming, of course, you weren’t already there. In that way, I figure, you can put your misconceptions behind you more rapidly, and get on with finding the real killer. Or killers.”
“And who do you think that might be?”
“I’ve no idea. Honestly no idea.”
“You think it could be one of those other people hoping to fill the power vacuum?”
“Of course it could. But not me.”
“Why not, exactly?”
The Dark Side Page 9