Justus wonders if Brass is trying to outdo his daughter in the art of preemptive candor. “I’m not going to deny it,” he says.
“Of course not. But let me tell you something, Lieutenant. Let me be more honest than I have any need to be. All those suspicions are wrong. Totally without foundation. First, I love and respect my daughter. We disagree about a lot of things, and often passionately. But that doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. She’s my flesh and blood, after all. And I know for a fact—with every fiber of my being—that QT couldn’t be behind this. I know it. Nor am I troubled by her agenda, whatever her agenda is. Because I already have systems and protocols in place. I’ll be absent for a long time—years—but that doesn’t mean I won’t still be in charge of Purgatory. Effectively, anyway.”
“Does that mean that your daughter won’t be taking over from you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Does it mean you have someone in mind?”
“I’ve yet to decide, if truth be told. But that brings me to my second point. About Otto Decker. He was a very good friend of mine and may even have seen himself as a natural successor, or at least an acting leader. But let me be brutally frank with you: Otto was an old man. An old, old man. Yes, in actual years he wasn’t much older than I am—but that’s not what I mean. I mean he was losing his mind. He took brain boosters, of course—he overdosed on them—but they weren’t working. In short, Otto was slowly going senile.”
“I know,” says Justus.
“You know, do you?”
“I checked with Mr. Decker’s doctors.”
“You did, did you?” Brass looks genuinely surprised.
“Apparently he’d been diagnosed with vascular dementia. It’s common on the Moon, owing to the congested blood flow. He was having treatment with one of your neurologists here—very advanced treatment—and he was taking plenty of corrective drugs. But he was still afflicted.”
“Well,” says Brass, his eyes shifting for the first time, “there you go. Then you’ll know that Otto was the last man I’d have in mind for a position of any authority. In fact, I’ve spent the last couple of years slowly prying his major responsibilities from him.”
“I saw that too,” says Justus.
“You saw it, did you?”
“I checked his career history. He used to be secretary of trade, secretary of transportation, and secretary of energy. He was secretary of the interior when you decided your daughter should have the job. And he was secretary of law enforcement before you awarded that job to QT as well. But I don’t have to tell you that.”
“No,” says Brass. “And neither should I have to point out that this backs up everything I’ve just said. Otto was no threat to me—none at all—so I had no reason to want him out of the way. Nor was he capable of doing much but planting trees and opening goat farms anyway. He wasn’t the sort of man who could be a threat even if he wanted to be. And as for my daughter, QT, well, if the tensions between us are so profound, why would I entrust her with so many departments? All those portfolios you just mentioned? It makes no sense at all.”
“I take it, then, that you believe that a terrorist group is really responsible?”
“Did I say that?”
“Well, if there’s no practical motive for Decker’s assassination, then the reason must boil down to his symbolic political value, correct?”
“Perhaps,” Brass says, with an ambiguous smile.
“What does that mean?”
“Look, Lieutenant”—Brass is starting to look annoyed—“that’s not for me to say. I’ve presented you with all I know and I’ve given you plenty of possibilities to contemplate. But I can’t do all your work for you. That’s up to you—and the PPD.”
“Then may I ask if you exert any power over them, Mr. Brass?”
“Over who?”
“Over the PPD?”
“What kind of a question is that? Of course I exert power over them—I’m the Patriarch of Purgatory. They’re loyal to me by oath.”
“But you’re not the secretary of law enforcement, are you? Your daughter is. And you’ve been extremely busy, as you’ve said yourself. So I just wonder if you issue the PPD with orders. If you have meetings, every now and then, with Chief Buchanan.”
“No, I don’t issue the PPD with orders—where is all this leading?”
“Questions are my job, Mr. Brass. Did you tell them, perhaps, not to pursue the terrorist angle?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I’ve just come from a conference at PPD headquarters. The prevailing attitude there seemed to be that the terrorist declaration was an obvious hoax. That it didn’t even merit a serious investigation.”
“Well, that’s because the police here are indolent—always have been.”
“Would you be prepared to tell them that personally?”
“Of course. I’ll tell Chief Buchanan to kick some heads.”
“Chief Buchanan was the most adamant of all.”
“Then I’ll tell him to kick his own head.”
“So you do have meetings with him regularly? You didn’t answer that question before.”
“I speak to him when I need to, Lieutenant.”
“He claimed he only speaks to your double.”
“Well, that’s both correct and incorrect. I speak to Buchanan through my double.”
“The double is like a ventriloquist’s dummy, is he?”
“Aren’t all actors?”
“It’s a curious arrangement.”
“Well, look, Lieutenant, if I need to speak directly to Chief Buchanan—because you’re asking me to—then I’ll do so. Satisfied?”
“Would you agree with your daughter that the PPD needs reforming?”
“Everything needs reforming.”
“Does it bother you that she might do some reforming while you’re away?”
“Of course not. I told you I’m not troubled by her agenda.”
“Is it true she’s not popular at the PPD?”
“I don’t work for the PPD, Lieutenant—I’m sure you can answer that better than I can.”
“I’ve only been here for two weeks.”
“Then I’m sure you can find out.”
“Did you hire me?”
“Did I—? What are you talking about now?”
“There seems to be some confusion. The Tablet claims that I was recruited by QT Brass. You yourself have suggested much the same. But Ms. Brass seems to think that she merely signed off on my appointment.”
Brass makes a sound of exasperation. “Is this important, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t ask questions without a cause.”
“Well, I don’t really know—that’s your answer. I probably read about your appointment in the Tablet myself. So ask them why they said that.”
“I have. They said they’d get back to me. Do you think I might be able to view the immigration records for the past six months?”
“Why?”
“Apparently every person seeking citizenship gets approved by someone high up in Purgatory.”
“And you think you can find out that way if you were appointed by my daughter or me?”
“That’s partly the reason.”
“Go to the Department of Immigration.”
“I did. Last night.”
“Well”—Brass can’t seem to decide if he’s angry or impressed—“you have been busy, haven’t you?”
“After your valet visited I decided I couldn’t sleep. There was too much I needed to find out about. My own records, for a start. And the names of everyone else who’s migrated or visited recently. Because there could be unknown terrorists among them. People with experience in anarchy, perhaps. Ms. Brass said she had a weakness for political fugitives.”
“Then ask my daughter.”
“The Department of Immigration said I’d need permission from you.”
“Then I give it to you.”
“Can I have that in writing?”
/>
“You can have it on stone tablets if you want. Is that all?”
“I’m afraid not. Your valet appears to have unlimited access to all residences and—I assume—workplaces in Sin. Is this normal?”
“Someone always has a master key, Lieutenant.” Brass is getting more and more annoyed.
“And that someone is you, is it?”
“Can you think of someone more appropriate?”
“No—it makes perfect sense.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“I don’t approve. But it makes sense.”
Brass is now exuding his surgically implanted musk of sweet sandalwood and raw myrrh—according to Unpolished Brass, it oozes out of his pores when he’s angry. “Well, is that all, then, Lieutenant?”
“No, Mr. Brass. For a start, I must ask if you really consider yourself above the law.”
“What? Where did you get that idea?”
“Your valet told me you were. But I checked the Purgatory constitution—admittedly not yet ratified—and saw no evidence either way. So are you or are you not above the law?”
“If I were above the law, would I really be speaking to you right now?”
“I take it that’s a no.”
“It’s certainly not a yes.”
“Then I must insist on unlimited access to you at all times.”
“We’ll see what can be done.”
“No, Mr. Brass, I must insist.”
“You know how to reach me.”
“Is that an answer?”
“It’s my last answer.”
“Well, unfortunately I have one last question.”
“That’s nice.” Brass is already gesturing to someone out of sight.
“Where is Leonardo Black?” Justus asks.
That stops Brass in mid-movement. His arm wavers. He glances back at Justus.
“Where is Leonardo Black?” Justus asks again.
“Where is—?” Brass repeats, as if he’s trying to work out what the question means. “Where is—?” he says again, like he’s momentarily lost for words. But then his face colors, his eyes become enflamed—the brass flecks actually seem to ignite—and for the first time Justus experiences the full force of the fury he’s heard so much about.
25
JUSTUS, HOWEVER, ISN’T FAZED at all. Of all the people he’s ever interviewed, he’s found it’s the billionaires and blue-chip CEOs who are always the most belligerent. The high flyers who think their time is far too precious to be wasted on insignificant questions from detectives and law enforcement hacks. Who think that bumbling policemen, tight-assed bureaucrats, petty politicians, bloodthirsty journalists, and sniveling tax inspectors are always out to get them, just because of who they are. And the eruptions of these lords of creation, when they come, can be truly volcanic, because their great wealth and security allow them to vent thoughts and emotions that the more dispensable must constrain.
“Do you see this fucking thing, Lieutenant?” Brass’s teeth are clenched and his lips are firing the words out like shotgun pellets. “Do you see this fucking thing I’m in?” He’s holding out the arms of his brass-colored spacesuit, which is studded with inbuilt controls and radiation gauges. “Do you think I’m wearing this fucking thing for fun? Is that it?”
Justus doesn’t blink, doesn’t move an inch.
“Do you know how long it takes to get into one of these things? Do you know all the dangers and complexities of traveling in space? Do you appreciate all the training and safety checks that an astronaut has to endure? And can you guess what I’ve been doing in here today, just by the look of me?”
Justus says nothing.
“No? Well, let me tell you.” Brass thrusts a finger at the Prospector. “I was downstairs—down there—inside a Mars landing vehicle. In the tiny cabin of a landing vehicle. With my mission commander. And my medical supervisor and engineer. And all our equipment. Practicing the descent procedures.” He sucks in a lungful of air and his chest inflates. “Now do you know—can you even guess?—how difficult it is to squeeze four people into that thing? And get everyone fully suited up? And harnessed? And helmeted? For that matter, do you know what we’re actually attempting here? Can you imagine how dangerous it all is? Do you have any idea what it means to go all the way to Mars—and live there—for up to five hundred days? And do you have any understanding why all this is so imperative in the first place? Can you possibly appreciate all the other dangers? The dangers to Earth? If I don’t succeed?”
Justus thinks it really is true—the guy sees himself as the savior of the universe.
“Well, surely I don’t need to tell you, do I? You’ve just come from Earth, haven’t you? So you must’ve seen it all for yourself—all the chaos down there? All those pandemics and civil wars, all those natural catastrophes? All those vanishing resources, shrinking spaces, exploding populations? You can’t possibly say you haven’t seen it with your own eyes! So how can you deny it? The human race needs to migrate to the frontiers of space or it risks total annihilation. But that sort of thing takes vision and determination. And most of all it takes balls. And who’s got balls on Earth anymore? Who’s got anything on Earth anymore? Except cowardice? And laziness? And soul-sapping envy? Who can get anything done on Earth without some half-assed committee and a plague of bloodsucking leeches? Well, that’s exactly why I’ve had to come here, to the far side of Moon, for fuck’s sake, just to get away from all those losers! All those chicken-livered little Chihuahuas! Just to get the job done in peace! Because no one else has the vision! No one else has the balls! Because Fletcher Brass is the last fucking hope of human history!” Brass exhales bitterly. “So please, Lieutenant, put everything else in proper perspective when you speak to me. When you have the temerity to speak to me about . . . whatever the fuck it is you’ve come to speak to me about.”
“I was asking,” Justus says, “about Leonardo Black.”
“Goodbye, Lieutenant.” Brass, with his musk positively flooding out of him, is heading across the catwalk. “I dearly hope we don’t have to meet again.”
But Justus continues standing in place, thinking that there’s one thing—apart from answers—that he didn’t get. Something that QT Brass assured him he would.
But as it turns out Brass hasn’t quite finished yet. Midway across the catwalk he’s turned. He’s looking back, with cruel, lancing eyes.
“Oh, may I say something else? Something personal?”
Justus makes an encouraging gesture.
“You should get that face fixed. Really. Because no one will take you seriously until you do.”
Then Brass turns, smiling venomously, and disappears into the Prospector.
To Justus it seems almost as if Brass had read his mind. As if he’d heard a recording of Justus’s meeting with QT and felt compelled to offer that last morsel as definitive proof of his identity. As if everything else—the immense hubris, grandiosity, larger-than-life charm, confidence, evasiveness, obfuscation, implied threats, and colorful language—wasn’t quite enough.
“How did it go?” The flight coordinator, Amity Powers, has materialized at Justus’s side. She must have heard the last vestiges of the exchange, if not the whole thing, so to Justus the question seems superfluous. But he doesn’t avoid it.
“Very well.”
And he’s not lying. Because in the way Brass responded, or refused to respond, Justus believes he’s unearthed a treasure trove.
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” Powers goes on. “Mr. Brass has a lot on his shoulders right now.”
“The whole universe, by the sounds of it.”
Powers chuckles. “Well, his shoulders are broad enough, as you’ve no doubt seen. And a man like that should be permitted to let his tongue go anywhere it pleases.”
“Uh-huh.” Justus is suddenly sure she’s more than just a project manager.
“Oh, by the way,” she adds, leading him out, “this message arrived while you were talking.”
She hands over a sheet of paper, which Justus reads as he walks. It’s from the PPD.
“Is it bad news?” she asks—as if she hasn’t already read it.
“There’s been some trouble in Sin,” Justus says, folding the page. “I need to get back there immediately.”
26
IF YOU’VE EVER BEEN to Nearside you’ll certainly know of the Overview Effect—there are whole towers, observation decks and hotels named after it. The Overview Effect is what happens when a human being surveys Earth from a sizable distance out in space. The Apollo astronauts were the first to feel the full force of it: that mind-blowing moment when in one glance they took in the home planet, the cradle of life and civilization, looking supremely small and fragile in the awesome vastness of the universe. Since then a sojourn to the Moon, in order to feel this life-changing sense of humility and fraternity, has become an essential pilgrimage for humanists, thrill seekers, and image-conscious politicians.
Torquil “Torkie” Macleod is not at all interested in the Overview Effect. To him it’s been so comprehensively exploited by now that it’s positively crass. And he wouldn’t be able to muscle in commercially even if he wanted to—all sorts of overpriced permits are required in the official tourist districts. So in consequence he actually resents the Overview Effect. He doesn’t even look at Earth, not even over his shoulder, when he’s on Nearside.
Macleod used to be an upmarket bus driver, ferrying film stars, rock bands, and other celebrities around most of the UK. A glamorous job in its way, but not particularly lucrative, at least until he began supplying his passengers with top-end hallucinogens—everything from mescaline to DMT, all manufactured by some pharmacy-school dropouts in a back-door lab in Hackney. And for a while he was making so much money from this side business that he was living out of a basement apartment in Knightsbridge. But keeping ahead of the law proved a perpetual struggle, and when the Hackney lab was raided—Macleod heard about it on the Channel 4 news—he escaped just in time to Spain. And from there he went to India. And from there, via the Malabar Coast launch site, he ended up on the Moon. He considered hiding in Purgatory, of course—it had the advantage of being beyond the power of extradition treaties—but he’d heard that Fletcher Brass’s kingdom was getting stricter about whom it admitted. And he didn’t like the idea of being in a constricted territory anyway. Years of plying Britain’s motorways had left him with an insatiable appetite for roaming across large distances. So he decided to take his chances and find something else—something not unlike the job he had enjoyed so much on Earth.
The Dark Side Page 16