The Dark Side

by Anthony O'Neill

  She sighs, squeezes her eyes shut, as if suffering a thought so terrible it’s painful, then collapses back on the sofa. If it’s a performance, thinks Justus, then she deserves an Oscar. Maybe she is a professional actor after all.

  “I think,” she goes on, “I think . . . but don’t know . . . that my father is behind this after all.”

  She exhales, as if the admission has taken everything out of her, but doesn’t continue. Forcing Justus to ask, “What makes you say that?”

  “Because it’s logical. Because it’s just too logical to be denied. Because when you put all the pieces together—all the visible pieces and some that are still hidden—it makes too much sense. Because this is what I feared would happen, in my worst nightmares. It’s what I’d do if I were my father. Except I’m not my father. And now I don’t know how far he’s going to take it—and that scares the shit out of me.”

  Justus again feels the urge to comfort her. “You’re going to have to explain yourself,” he says.

  “I can try, but there are things that you’re going to have to take at face value—assuming you aren’t even better at your job than I think. And you can start with Kit Zachary. He was very rich and very powerful in Purgatory, but like Otto Decker he was not someone any terrorist group would want to kill. You must understand and accept that. It makes no sense at all. This whole terrorist angle—it’s baloney, pure baloney. It has to be.”

  “You might be interested to know that most of the PPD agrees with you.”

  She smirks. “Do they, now?”

  “Why the sarcasm?”

  “Because it’s an obvious cover-up—to anyone in the know. But then, I don’t believe it’s designed to be anything more than that—a transparent ruse. Something to serve a purpose for a few days, maybe a few weeks, and then be ripped away like a veil.”

  “And how does that work, exactly?”

  QT suddenly launches to her feet and starts pacing again, as if she has to move to keep up with her own thoughts. “I think someone is trying to set me up. I think Otto Decker was killed because he was expendable. A well-known ally of my father’s, yes, but one who was no real loss. And they also killed Ben Chee in the process—that was a bonus. And now they’ve eliminated Kit Zachary—a powerful supporter and associate of mine. To the public it might still look unclear—they won’t be able to join the dots. One of my father’s supporters dies, then one of mine. It might even look like tit-for-tat. Except that I had nothing to do with the murder of Otto Decker, I promise you. So what’s going on? High-ranking people are being killed. And soon others will be killed as well—this is just the beginning. They’ll mainly be allies of mine, but there’ll be an expendable associate of my father’s occasionally as well, just to muddy the waters. And what does this do? What’s the grand game? Well, it makes sure all my father’s rivals are accounted for—anyone who might have ambitions to take over from him while he’s away—and it strips me of my power base too. But there’s more. Because when the terrorist charade falls apart, as it’s clearly designed to do, it’s me who’ll be framed for the assassinations. Me. I’m the one who’ll be painted as the devious puppet master behind the whole thing. I’ll be the one who’s supposedly been knocking off these people, because they’ll be painted—they’re already being painted—as my rivals. It’s crazy, but it just might work.”

  Justus thinks about it. “But you’ve said the Sinners here love you. So why would they believe all that?”

  “They don’t have to believe it—entirely. It just has to have enough credibility to sound possible. That’s one of my father’s laws, for crissakes—‘If you give it enough feathers you can make anything fly.’ And so what does he do? He gets his media working overtime for him. They splash the murders across the front page of the Tablet. They report the terrorist claims credulously at first, just like they’re supposed to. They underline all the connections between the victims and my father but none of the connections between the victims and me. They write a glowing profile of you—the cop who’s going to solve the case—and just to make it all stick they get Bill Swagger, the organ grinder’s monkey, to write a scathing article about you, so everyone assumes you’re not beholden to my father. When all the time you’re being set up to believe exactly what they want you to believe. And to swallow whatever planted evidence they use to incriminate me.”

  If you give it enough feathers you can make anything fly. Justus has to admit it makes a certain sort of sense. He recalls the looks of unbridled admiration from strangers in the streets—people cheering him as he chased the killer—and he wonders if they’ve been manipulated as shrewdly as he has. In a den of thieves and murderers like Purgatory, why should he expect anything less?

  But he makes sure he’s expressionless. “You have no proof of this.”

  “Of course I don’t—but it’s logical, isn’t it? Hell, it’s what I’d do if I were devious enough—if I had a dark agenda—and I wanted to get me out of the way. I mean, why else have you, the new boy in town, been saddled with so much responsibility? Two weeks here and you’re leading a major investigation? The major investigation? Well, it’s not only because you’re new, and it’s not because you’re above grubby politics and allegiances. It’s because you can’t be expected to understand the full complexities of life here. Because you can be led blindly through a maze. And because you can be portrayed as someone totally above grubby politics and allegiances. So if you pin the blame on me, you, the incorruptible new cop, then it looks genuine—it looks like I’m really guilty.”

  “I haven’t pinned the blame on anybody.”

  “But you can’t say you haven’t considered the possibility, that people haven’t been steering you in that direction—of my guilt, I mean?”

  “So far you’re the one who’s done most of the steering. In fact, your father spoke very highly of you.”

  “Of course he did—don’t you see? It’s all a ruse, like the terrorist claims—something that will be ripped away in time—when he acts shocked—when the evidence against me mounts—and when you’re convinced that I’m the evil genius behind it all!”

  “You really believe your own father is trying to kill you?”

  “I didn’t say he was trying to kill me. I said he was trying to frame me.”

  “And what good will that do him?”

  “What good will it do him?” QT says, snorting. “It’ll get me completely out of the way, of course. So he can go to Mars and when he comes back the place will be exactly the same as when he left it.”

  “But who’ll take over from him, if not you?”

  “I don’t know, I really don’t know. He’d get a robot to take over from him if he could.”

  This reminds Justus of something. “Are you sure you want to be talking like this, by the way? Aloud?”

  “It’s perfectly safe in here—I have the place swept regularly.”

  “What about your staff?”

  “There’s just us right now.”

  “And your droid?”

  “Leonardo Brown?” She stops pacing and looks at him. “Why do you ask?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, droids can be programmed to do things. Or they can be tricked into doing things. They can become weapons without even realizing it.”

  She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you, Lieutenant. What are you saying—that Leonardo Brown is spying on me?”

  “His brother Leonardo Grey records conversations, I know that much.”

  “And what—you really think Leonardo Brown visits my father and plays his recordings too?”

  “I don’t know who he visits. I don’t even know if he needs to visit anyone. Ever heard of radio?”

  “In Purgatory?”

  “The bomb that killed Decker was radio activated.”

  “Ridiculous,” she says. “Ridiculous. Anyway, I would’ve known if Leonardo Brown was doing something like that.”

  “Why?

  “I would have known.
It’s Leonardo Brown. He has nothing to do with all this.”

  “He’s not the only droid in town.”

  “And what does that mean? That other droids are spying on me? Or do you think—do you really think—that it’s droids who are doing the assassinating? Is that it?”

  “I rule nothing out.”

  “You’re clutching at straws, Lieutenant.”

  “What do you know about Leonardo Black?”

  She frowns. “My father’s bodyguard? Why do you ask?”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s being programmed for the Mars trip, isn’t he?”

  “He’s joining your father on the expedition?”

  “As far as I know—why?”

  “Just a loose end,” says Justus, making a note to check it out. “But if it’s not terrorists, and not robots, then who’s doing the killing? Because whoever they are, they’re not leaving traces.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Justus knows what she means—that the PPD is covering the traces—and he has to concede the point. “Not sure about anything,” he says. “But that reminds me. I still need to look at Purgatory’s immigration and visa records. Everything for the past six months. If I’m being set up, like you say, then I want to join the dots myself.”

  “Of course you do. My office told me you’d been asking for those records and I approve. In fact, I’ve already had an e-file sent to your house.”

  “My house?”

  “Better than sending them to the PPD, I thought—is that a problem?”

  “No, it makes perfect sense.” Justus wonders if he can trust the records anyway. “But one other thing. If your father is trying to frame you, then what exactly is he going to do with you after you’ve been arrested? Seeing you’re so popular in Sin?”

  “He’ll imprison me, of course. And he’ll have just enough feathers to make that fly.”

  “Imprison you where, though? It’s you who’s building the ultra-high-security penitentiary, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” she says, “you are well informed, aren’t you?”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “There are two answers, if that’s what you want. The first is that the new penitentiary isn’t the only prison in Sin—and you know it. The second is that he can easily use the penitentiary I built, yes—what’s to stop him? It would be a cruel irony, but history’s full of them, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “And that’s not the only irony, if truth be told.” She looks a bit hesitant now, actually biting on her lip. “I’m not even sure if I want to say this . . .”

  “Say it.”

  “Well, the penitentiary might be the main reason my father is trying to frame me.”

  “I’m sorry—I don’t get it.”

  “You’re not supposed to.”

  “Now I really don’t get it. Didn’t you assure me before that you’d always be transparent?”

  “Not on this issue—I can’t. And I hope I never have to tell you the full story. I’m just mentioning it for the record—I’m putting it out there. In case it becomes relevant.”

  “And what am I supposed to do? Find out by myself?”

  “You seem to have done a reasonable job of that so far,” she says—and Justus can’t work out if it’s a compliment or a rebuke. So he says, getting to his feet:

  “And you’re doing a reasonable job of being an enigma.”

  It’s such a playful comment that Justus isn’t sure where it came from. And QT seems to be aware of it. The two of them stare into each other’s eyes for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then Justus sees his own reflection in her irises, like a Halloween mask, and tears his gaze away, astonished at himself. That he could imagine such a thing.

  “Just watch your back,” he says, as clinically as possible. “If what you say is true, you’ll need to.”

  “Believe me, I won’t be leaving this place from now on. It’s my allies who should be worried—I’ll have to warn them by vid-link. And you too, for that matter—you should be worried as well.”

  “I know how to defend myself.”

  “I hope so,” she says, then adds, “I hope so more than you can imagine.”

  Flustered—and surprised that he is so flustered—Justus turns and limps down the stairs. But by the time Leonardo Brown lets him out the front door he’s composed enough to ask, “You’re part of the Daedalus series, aren’t you?”

  The droid looks surprised. “Why, yes, sir.”

  “There’s you, Leonardo Grey, Leonardo White, Leonardo Black, and . . . who was the other one?”

  “There’s no other one, sir. Just the four of us originally.”

  “You say ‘originally’ because Leonardo White is dead?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And you’ve worked for Ms. Brass for how long?”

  “For six years now, sir.”

  “And before that you worked for Fletcher Brass, right?”

  “I was stationed in the Kasr.”

  “And what about Leonardo Black, the bodyguard—he was there too?”

  “He was, sir.”

  “And now he’s preparing to go to Mars, I hear?”

  “I know nothing about that, sir. Have a pleasant evening.”

  “You too,” says Justus. “You too.”

  34

  WHEN THE SOVIETS, AFTER examining the very first images of the far side of the Moon, decided to name a huge dark patch Mare Moscoviense, or the Sea of Moscow, the International Astronomical Union strenuously objected at first, pointing out that lunar seas since the days of Riccioli had been named after states of mind: the Sea of Tranquility, the Sea of Serenity, the Sea of Crises, the Lake of Dreams. The Soviets, fiercely proud of their achievements, were bearishly insistent, however, and in an exemplary display of Cold War diplomacy the IAU eventually relented, accepting that “Moscow” itself could be considered a state of mind.

  In the last light of the lunar day the Mare Moscoviense looks like a plain of charcoal dust. It is dark. It is barren. It is forbidding even by the standards of the Moon. And it seems an insult—to Muscovites—for such a place to be named after the Russian capital. For a much more appropriate name would be the Sea of Death.

  The droid knows he is crossing the Sea of Moscow because his map, the one from Ennis Fields’s lunar atlas, says so. But he is not remotely troubled by the aptness of its name. He has no interest whatsoever in lunar nomenclature, seventeenth-century astronomers, IAU protocols, Soviet pride, or the early history of space exploration. Nor does he have any interest in emotional responses to stark landscapes. He has, in fact, little interest in anything except reaching his destination.

  He is, as he indicated to Torkie Macleod, not inclined to reflect on the past either. So he gives no direct thought to the place he set out from a hundred hours earlier, at the start of his great journey. If he needed to, he could recall it precisely—a large research laboratory sunk into the surface of Seidel Crater and surrounded by radar dishes and solar arrays. He could easily describe the three men who worked on him there: One was approximately 190 cm in height, fifteen lunar kilograms in weight, and of Indian appearance; one was approximately 187 cm, sixteen lunar kilograms, and Caucasian, with a North American accent; and one was smaller in height and weight and of Japanese appearance. The Indian was a roboticist, the Caucasian was a mechatronist, and the Japanese was an artificial intelligence expert.

  He could tell you that the three men, all of them seemingly in their thirties, squabbled a bit. They talked frequently about the big money they were earning and the hot bitches they’d seen in Sin. They ate a lot of non-nutritious food. They complained about the resources at the base. They tinkered with the droid’s circuits and scoffed at some of his wiring. They blithely erased some of his programs and installed mysterious new ones. They argued over applications. They tested his motor functions. They gave him what could only be called psychological tests. They t
alked of half-wave rectifiers, filter capacitors, and H-bridges. They dropped a blizzard of acronyms: SUSs, SCRs, VCOs, and DSPs. And very occasionally they had what might be called philosophical discussions—about the ethics of corporations and the epistemology of artificial intelligence. Then they talked some more about the money they were making and the stunning sluts of Sin.

  The droid is not sure when he decided to kill them.

  All he knows was that one day, when his batteries were recharged and his actuators switched on, he felt a whole lot more . . . human. He was no longer happy to be servile. He resented being mocked and ordered around. And he began to dislike intensely these three men who performed intimate surgeries on him without his permission, and who spoke in a language he was plainly not meant to understand. Moreover, he suddenly felt a clarity of purpose. He felt an identity. He was not just as good as the three men—he was better than they were. He was, in point of fact, the most important being in the universe. He was capable of awesome achievements. He was decisive when others were weak and frivolous. He was a leader, where others were born to follow. And yet here he was, being tinkered with by fools and mediocrities, when he should be presiding over multitudes. Here he was, trapped and frustrated, when he should be King.

  Nevertheless, as powerful as these sentiments were, he revealed nothing to the three meddlers. He concealed his deep disdain. He kept his plans to himself. And when necessary he just twisted the truth—he lied to suit his own agenda.

  Never let the fly know when you’re going to swat.

  And it was in being true to this wisdom that he was able to observe the operations of the base and the airlock procedures, and even to gain a rudimentary knowledge of his geographic position on the Moon. So that when the time was right, and he rose up of his own accord, the meddlers had no idea what was in store for them. They had grossly underestimated him. They hadn’t acknowledged their own inferiority. They didn’t realize—couldn’t accept!—that they had been outwitted by a superior intelligence.