The Dark Side

by Anthony O'Neill

  Move. Move. While others sleep, move.

  To the droid the darkness itself is of little concern. He has inbuilt night-vision and infrared-reading accessories. He has a digital compass module that keeps him heading north. He has force-sensing and gravitational registers, gyroscopes, proximity sensors, accelerometers, and a visual sensing rate of 1,500 frames a second. He has five hundred pneumatic semi-controls and half a dozen piezoelectric microgenerators running off six glucose-and-alcohol-fueled battery cells. His intelligence center gives him advanced pattern recognition, logic functions, and enough reinforcement capabilities to learn rapidly from his mistakes. And on top of everything else, he now has an LRV.

  The droid is capable of steering the vehicle because six years earlier he was loaded with the Zenith’s basic operational requirements. He later accrued tactical experience by personally steering a Zenith 13. So he knows how to drive, how to recharge, and how to repair a basic breakdown, assuming parts and energy are available. And he knows too that the rover he is currently driving will run out of battery hours within another two hundred kilometers. But his logic circuits also tell him that there’s a very high probability that he will find a replacement vehicle—or a recharging point—by then.

  Nonetheless, the lunar surface since he left the uncooperative geologists has been remarkably barren. All he’s seen are a few flashing beacons, a couple of broken-down recon robots, some debris from expeditionary teams, and close to the equator the sweeping viaduct of the sun-synchronous harvest train. But no actual humans.

  He’s not even driving on a maintenance road anymore. That came to an end two hours ago, most mysteriously, at a T-intersection. Since then, having elected to continue bearing north anyway, he’s gone up and down hills, ploughed across dunes, skirted craters, and bounced and juddered over rock-studded plains.

  But now he arrives at a giant chain-link fence. It sweeps from horizon to horizon with no visible break. To someone on Earth this would be a familiar sight, but here on the Moon it’s virtually unique. And inexplicable. It certainly doesn’t appear on Ennis Fields’s ragged-edged map. So the droid drives west for five minutes, looking for an entrance or an explanation, and eventually comes to a cracked and blistered sign:

  DANGER

  PELIGRO GEFAHR

  NUCLEAR TEST AREA

  HIGH LEVEL OF RADIATION

  ENTER AT OWN RISK

  The droid recognizes the international radiation symbol—the trefoil is common on the Moon—but sees no compelling threat. There’s a small possibility of damage to his circuits, of course, but the condition of the sign suggests the test zone is many years old, meaning the radiation levels shouldn’t be any more hazardous than those experienced during a normal surface expedition. And such doses have had no discernible effect on him so far. So he takes some wire cutters from the toolbox, snips through the fence, rips away some more with his bare hands, gets back on the LRV, and drives through.

  Ten minutes later he comes across the first sign of the explosion itself. The surface slowly hardens beneath him and develops milky turquoise and aquamarine tints. Then the tires start crunching on tiny spherules of pyroclastic glass. Then the surface becomes a sea of blue-tinted crystal and bizarre swirls and ripples. Then curling sea waves, icebergs, and indescribable wonderland shapes.

  And everywhere there are those infernal glass beads. The LRV’s wheels struggle for traction—it’s like crossing a road covered with marbles. The droid steers left and right, trying to maintain control. The controller shudders in his grip. The wheels spit out beads like pellets. The LRV skids and swerves. Like a pinball it glances off crystal walls. It loses buffers and dust-guards from its sides. The droid swings it back on course and slows his speed—it doesn’t help. He accelerates—that doesn’t help either. The LRV careens around like a suburban car in a field of mud. It threatens to spin out of control and tip over entirely. It blurts and caroms and slaloms and fishtails and ploughs on across the sapphire sea.

  On Earth there are some people who would do this for fun. There are certainly people who, forced to cross such difficult terrain, would take pride in their skills at the controls. There are even those who would take great delight, notwithstanding the dangers, in crossing such a bizarrely beautiful terrain. But the droid feels no such pleasure. He only calculates a further disruption to his schedule.

  There’s more. Very much like a terrestrial glacier, the sea of glass hides dangerous pits and crevasses. And none of the droid’s senses, which in a human would be regarded as preternatural, equip him to see all these openings in time. So his decision to speed, though based on all available evidence, is about to bring him undone.

  The LRV is traveling at seventy kilometers per hour when he finds that the ground has been sucked away from beneath him. And with a scattering of glass beads he’s plunging into a hole. He’s disappearing into the blackness. He’s being swallowed by the Moon. If he were a human in such a situation, he might curse or whimper or scream. But the droid, on his way to a tremendous, metal-crunching impact, merely braces himself with another indomitable verse:

  If you fall into a hole, turn it into a strategy.

  19

  HARMONY SMOOTH IS A lunatic. And a killer. And a Sinner. And a prostitute. For a flat rate she will do Hand Relief, Sybian, BJ, Clam Dip, Texas Straight-Up, 69, DVDA, Half and Half, Full French, Tantric, Threesome, Whipped Cream, Hullabaloo, Dominatrix, the Marie Celeste, and some of the less extreme forms of Watersports. For a negotiated fee she will also do a night-long Girlfriend, Porn Star, Demure, Submissive, or Ball-Buster Experience. But under no circumstances will she do the Fog Bank, the Chili Dog, the Meat Puppet, the Rusty Trombone, the Sasquatch, the Cleveland Steamer, the Hellzapoppin, or the Kentucky Wheelbarrow.

  Right now she’s not doing much at all. She’s curled up on a sofa, eating caramel-and-nougat ice cream, playing with her moodpad, and surfing channels on a huge holo-screen. She’s spent the night watching The Horse Whisperer: Origins; Draculina: Early Lives, Early Loves; and After Titanic. She hasn’t slept much because she’s largely nocturnal anyway, and because she’s starting to get a little ticked off.

  She’s been in this windowless room for over a week now. And there’s still no sign of the person who’s footing the bill. Or whatever’s expected of her in the first place. Her only contact is a handsome android, and he doesn’t tell her a thing. The room itself is conspicuously well-appointed, with plush furniture, a top-of-the-range entertainment system, and heaps of gourmet food in the fridge. But that only makes Harmony wonder who can afford such luxury, and why she warrants such treatment in the first place.

  Two weeks ago, Harmony—not her real name, though she’s used so many noms de guerre since arriving in Purgatory that she can barely remember them herself—went to her favorite cosmetic surgery in Marduk for a routine makeover. There she sat in the waiting room for over half an hour before being directed not to the surgery, as she expected, but to a luxurious, wood-paneled office. Here she waited a further fifteen minutes, sensing she was under observation, before a stylish silver-haired gentleman in a white smock—the very picture of medical trustworthiness—breezed in carrying a file.

  “Ms. Smooth,” he said, flashing a brilliant smile, “do you know who I am?”

  “Doctor Janus?” Harmony asked, sitting up—she never expected to meet the famous surgeon face-to-face.

  Janus sank into a seat behind his desk. “I believe we’ve met before—on the operating table, as it were. But then you probably don’t remember.”

  “No, no.” Harmony giggled, confused.

  “You know, I used to come into surgery early, shake hands with my patients, introduce myself, give reassurances, that sort of thing. But these days I’m so damn busy—well, you know how it is.”

  “I’m not complaining,” Harmony said. “I mean, if you’ve worked on me before, well, I’m not complaining.”

  Janus chuckled. “Why, thank you, Ms. Smooth. I always try to treat each patient exac
tly the same. Exactly the same. Each as a special mission. After all, I know how important appearances are these days. To everyone. But especially in a profession such as yours. It’s a matter of survival, is it not?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You’ve already been in here”—glancing at the file—“twenty-five times, is that right?”

  Another giggle. “Twenty-five, twenty-six—who’s counting?”

  “And today you’ve come for a Full Face?”

  “Including ears.”

  “Including ears, yes. You want to look like the singer Lesley bat Leslie, is that correct?”

  “She’s super-popular right now.”

  “And you think you can increase your number of customers by looking like her?”

  “I know I can.”

  “And the cost of this procedure—it’s to be covered by your, uh, representation, is it not?”

  “We’re gonna split it—why?” Harmony was suddenly alarmed. “There’s not a problem, is there?”

  “No problem at all, Ms. Smooth—none at all. I can make you look like Lesley bat Leslie or Layla Nite or Marilyn Monroe or anyone else you want to look like. I can do all that in two hours, put you in recovery, and then send you on your way, no questions asked. And then, in a couple of months, I can make you look like someone else entirely. And it can go on and on like that indefinitely—provided you’re happy with that. Provided you don’t wish for anything more.”

  Harmony wasn’t sure if all this was meant to make her feel comforted or depressed. “But . . . ?” she asked, raising her eyebrows helplessly.

  And Dr. Janus chuckled and leaned forward, interlocking his fingers. “But what if I were to make you a different offer? An offer that means you would get a slightly different makeover? A slightly different face? Without being charged a single cent?”

  “A different face?”

  “Put it this way, Ms. Smooth: I’m sometimes contacted by—what should I call them?—‘interested parties.’ Wealthy parties. Parties in search of a particular look. And parties who are prepared to pay handsomely—very handsomely—for someone willing to provide that look.”

  “They want me to provide that look?”

  “It doesn’t have to be you, Ms. Smooth. And if you prefer I can quite easily go ahead with your original plans, with no hard feelings whatsoever. But you do fit the bill perfectly.”

  “The interested parties have seen me?”

  “They’ve seen your file.”

  “And they think I have the right . . . look?”

  “You will have the right look, with a small amount of work.”

  Harmony found herself intrigued but wary. She wanted to believe Janus—it was difficult not to, what with his twinkling eyes and softened skin and artistic wrinkles—but then again she’d heard of working girls who’d been taken in by Purgatorial mobsters, had their looks altered to order, and then just disappeared completely—never to be seen or heard from again. “Well . . . what kind of money are we talking about?”

  Again Dr. Janus flashed his snow-white smile. “So much money that you’d be set up for life. You’d never have to work again.”

  To Harmony it sounded too good to be true. “And who exactly is this ‘interested party’?”

  “I can’t disclose that.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “A very influential friend.”

  Harmony knew this was probably true: Dr. Janus circulated among the most celebrated figures in Purgatory, and performed surgery on most of them. “And this friend wants me to perform a sexual act?”

  “From what I know, my client’s needs are not sexual at all.”

  “Then what does it involve?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But you’ll be called upon when required. It may only be one job.”

  “Is it going to be dangerous?”

  “Again, I don’t know. Would it bother you if it was?”

  “Depends on how dangerous. And who the client is. And what’s at stake.”

  “Well, on that score I can assure you, Ms. Smooth, that—should you accept the offer, of course—you will be playing an important role in the future of Purgatory. A very important role. But again, it’s entirely up to you. It’s your life, after all. And my client isn’t about to force you into something against your will.”

  Harmony stared into middle space, still unable to shake off the impression that there was something sinister about the whole thing. Then again, she’d capably looked after herself before—back in Vegas she’d killed a cop who was roughing her up—and she didn’t see any reason why she couldn’t do it again. But was the risk worth some undisclosed amount of money? When she was looking forward to cashing in on her new identity anyway, as the only Lesley bat Leslie lookalike in Sin?

  Dr. Janus made a noise. “I can see you have a lot to mull over. So how about I give you some thinking music? And come back in, say, fifteen minutes? Would that be enough time?”

  In point of fact, Harmony was unable to decide within the allotted period, and discussed the whole curious business that night with another prostitute, her closest friend in Sin. The friend said she’d be crazy not to accept the offer, seeing how it was only for a brief time, and seeing how the ultra-trustworthy Dr. Janus was involved. So Harmony returned to the surgery the next day and pleaded for the job, hoping she was not too late. And Dr. Janus, though visibly unimpressed, went away to consult with someone—Harmony again got the impression she was under observation—and came back with another blinding-white smile.

  And here she is now, with a whole new face, a whole new body, and a whole new identity. After the surgery she awoke in this room with no idea where she was—if she was even in Sin anymore—and no way of finding out, since there were no windows or communication devices in the room. The bandages were removed a day later—Harmony was genuinely stunned when she saw herself in the mirror—and the bruises, thanks to healing lotions, faded a couple of days after that. And since then she’s been doing nothing but eating, watching TV, and generally killing time. Increasingly bored. Increasingly restless. Increasingly suspicious about the job.

  And now, according to the morning news reports, Fletcher Brass’s right-hand man, Otto Decker, has been assassinated. Some terrorist group has claimed responsibility. The new cop in town, Damien Justus, is leading the investigation. And by strange coincidence Harmony knows Damien Justus from Earth—she had some contact with him back in Vegas, when she was just starting out on the streets, and he was investigating the murder of a fellow prostitute.

  So now she has to wonder if the terrorist attack, with all its political dimensions, is somehow connected to her own mysterious role. And this is not a prospect she finds appealing. Because Harmony—since arriving in Sin, anyway—has been staunchly apolitical. She admires QT hugely, of course, but unlike most other Sinners she harbors no ill feeling toward Fletcher Brass. It was the Patriarch of Purgatory who personally approved her residency, after all, so in a way she figures she owes him her life. She’s not sure she’d be willing to put herself in danger for him, but neither would she be comfortable working against him. It’s just not something that interests her.

  She sighs. She puts aside her empty tub of ice cream. She surfs channels for a decent movie, but the only thing that seems to be showing is the extended version of Brass. She gets to her feet. She looks at herself in the mirror. She wipes some cream from her lip. She unbuttons her top and examines her terrific breasts, practically the only part of her body unenhanced by surgery. She begins to fondle them, simply as a way of connecting with her past—her true self.

  And then she hears a noise. From behind the mirror. She freezes, convinced it’s not her imagination. She refocuses, stares at the glass. She’s been wondering about this mirror for days, and now she leans closer, trying to look through it. To see whoever is behind it—the voyeur, the minder, whoever.

  She’s still got her hands on her boobs—wondering if the job is sexual after all—when the door s
uddenly opens. She wheels around.

  It’s the handsome android.

  He looks at her—her hands are still on her tits—and nods diplomatically. “Good morning, madam,” he says. “I hope you are well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Well enough for a visitor?”

  “Right now?”

  “It would be preferable, madam, considering the visitor’s schedule.”

  Harmony straightens, shrugs, and buttons her top. “Well, okay, then—just give me a second.”

  She quickly turns to the mirror, plumping her hair, moistening her lips. And then she turns back.

  Only to find that her visitor—the “client” or “interested party”—has already entered the room.

  And Harmony’s jaw drops.

  “Hi there,” the visitor says, with a low chuckle and an extended hand. “I guess I don’t need to introduce myself. But I’m sure there are many questions you’d like answered . . .”

  20

  JUSTUS, IN THE PPD briefing room, has a copy of the terrorists’ statement shining down from a screen:

  THE PEOPLE’S HAMMER BANGS A CROOKED NAIL

  OTTO DECKER = BRASS FAT CAT AND STOOGE

  NO MORE SWILL!

  NO MORE BRASS!

  VIVA REDEMPTION!

  “Okay,” he says. “Let’s have a look at what we’ve got here.”

  Justus has assembled his motley investigative team: Dash Chin, Cosmo Battaglia, a detective borrowed from Vice called Hugo Pfeffer, a gum-chewing Brazilian called Jacinta Carvalho, and an eight-foot Nigerian who calls himself Prince Oda Universe. All of them are doing their best to look attentive, but Justus sees them glancing at each other when they think he’s not looking. The whole atmosphere, in fact, is that of a group of schoolkids listening to a teacher who’s not fully in on the joke. The briefing room itself has windows looking onto the squad room, where other cops continue to go about their business, and to Justus it seems inadequately soundproofed—occasionally he can see the blubber-lipped Russian, Grigory Kalganov, glancing in at them with open disdain.