The Dark Side

by Anthony O'Neill

  “Go on.”

  “I do not know where it will end, and I do not know who will be left standing when it does. But I do know this: Dva medvedya v odnoy berloge ne zhivut. ‘Two bears cannot live in the same cave.’ ”

  Justus nods grimly. “They’re very dark, those Russian sayings.”

  “They’re even darker in Purgatory.”

  “That makes sense,” Justus says. “Can I call upon you if I need you?”

  “Quietly, if you can. I do not think this meeting fooled anyone.”

  They leave the speakeasy one at a time, fifteen minutes apart, and slip out of the Revelation through separate exits.

  36

  BEFORE HE LURED THE Leafists, Fletcher Brass tried to attract to Purgatory an obscure eschatological cult called the Rapturians, an extreme offshoot of the Mennonite Church. What distinguished the Rapturians from their brethren (apart from their celebrated belief that all human reproduction is sinful) was their intense commitment to preparing themselves for the imminent apocalypse. And so fervent was their conviction that the end of the world was nigh, and so great was their disdain for all the decadence, materialism, greed, blasphemy, depravity, hedonism, violence, and paganism that had consumed Earth, that they had become convinced God would be forced to smite the whole planet in one indiscriminate swoop, obliterating their own souls in the process. As a means of separating themselves from the great annihilation, then—long enough, it was hoped, to be judged on their own merits—they started entertaining the possibility of relocating to the new frontier of the Moon. And this was when Fletcher Brass offered them an isolated compound in Purgatory where, in his own words, they “would never have to look upon the God-damned Earth again.”

  But to the Rapturians it was inconceivable that they might exchange Sodom for Gomorrah. After all, what they had learned of Brass’s fiefdom made it seem even more decadent and depraved, if that were possible, than Earth. Nevertheless the very real attraction of living on Farside, notwithstanding all the concessions to modern technology they would need to make simply to stay alive, proved irresistible. And so, after drawn-out negotiations with the Russian Federation—in which most independent observers agreed that they were rudely shafted—the Rapturians secured an abandoned biohazard lab, just north of the Sea of Moscow, which they systematically converted to their own Spartan requirements.

  It is at the door of this habitat that the droid has been pounding for nearly ten minutes. But there is no response. He walks around the compound, briefly considers breaking in through one of the greenhouses, then returns to the front door. Noticing for the first time an old-fashioned bellpull hanging from a post, he tugs on it experimentally. He tugs on it again. He almost rips it out of its moorings. And eventually he spies movement through the windows. Someone has noticed him. Someone is opening the airlock.

  The door rises as slowly as a castle portcullis. When it’s high enough, the droid ducks underneath. Through the inner window he now sees a couple of men observing him—both young, bearded, and wearing violet broadcloth shirts and slate-grey waistcoats. They appear to be manually turning a winch.

  The outer door closes slowly and the air is repressurized as usual, though there are none of the traditional flashing lights. Then the inner door starts creaking upward, again as slowly as something in a castle.

  The droid ducks under again and enters a larger-than-usual vestibule, which seems to double as a vehicle bay. The walls are plastered with gypsum. There is more natural wood, in rafters and arches, than he’s ever seen. Flickering electric candles are mounted on brackets. To the side there are parcels wrapped in brown paper. The two young men, one short and the other tall, are looking at him curiously.

  “Have you come with our timber?” the smaller man asks.

  “I have not, sir.”

  “Are you to pick up our parceled goods?”

  “I am not, sir.”

  “You are . . . an artificial man?”

  “I am the Wizard, sir.”

  The two men glance at each other. They look like they need to think carefully before they speak. Meanwhile, the droid can make out a raised voice—almost a harangue. He turns and to the left, through an open door, sees a heavily bearded preacher addressing his flock.

  “. . . heard whispers of indecision, and questions of commitment, together with murmurs of desire for godless conveniences . . .”

  “How may we be of help to you?” the taller man suddenly asks.

  The droid looks back. “I am looking for someone to fix my vehicle, sir.”

  “What sort of vehicle is it of which you speak?”

  “It is a very long range traverse vehicle, sir.”

  “And what is wrong with it?”

  “I am not certain, but I would like to recharge its batteries. And I would also be grateful for some sustenance.”

  The two young men consider their replies again. The droid hears more from the preacher:

  “. . . these are the baits of mammon, which appear in dreams like hooks in a stream, to lure the unwary like fish . . .”

  “You are welcome to take some of our food,” the smaller man says. “But we are simple folk here, and we know nothing of batteries.”

  The droid frowns even as he continues to smile. He looks from one to the other and back again. “Are you suggesting, sir, that you are unable to help fix my vehicle?”

  “I am afraid that is so. We can, however, offer you the use of a bicycle, if you wish, or a pogo stick.”

  “And what is a pogo stick, sir?”

  “It is a device we use for hopping great distances.”

  “Is it powered by batteries, sir?”

  “It is powered by a spring.”

  “By what sort of spring?”

  “A very large spring.”

  Now it is time for the droid to consider his response. The preacher goes on in the background:

  “. . . for the prophets tell us that the end times will be preceded by the worship of money, by wholesale conceit and selfishness, by spurious advances in technology, by the unholy speed of human communication . . .”

  Finally the droid says, “Are you mocking me, sir?”

  “I am not mocking you.”

  “But you refuse to help me?”

  “We will gladly help you, but we can only do so to the extent that we are able.”

  The droid stares at them. “And yet that extent does not involve recharging my batteries or providing me with adequate transportation?”

  “We can only do so much.”

  At this stage one of the cult’s elders—a bespectacled man with a pinched face—shuffles out of the chapel, drawn, it seems, by the disturbance, and looking very grave.

  “Seth? Abram? What goes here?”

  The smaller one nods at the droid. “We have a visitor, Brother Job—a robot man.”

  Brother Job huffs and snorts and adjusts his spectacles, examining the droid. “And where exactly have you come from, Mr. Robot Man?”

  “I have come from the deep south, sir, on an arduous journey.”

  “Have you indeed? And where, pray tell, are you going?”

  “I am going north, sir. To Oz. To El Dorado. To Purgatory.”

  “To Purgatory?” Brother Job says, nodding. “Aye, that would be so. And what is it that you seek from us here?”

  “I seek a battery recharger, and sugar.”

  “A battery recharger?”

  “I have been told by these young men that they are not willing to assist me in this regard. I hope for your sake that you are more accommodating, sir.”

  Brother Job leans forward, cupping his hand around his ear. “What—what did you just say?”

  The droid doesn’t back down. “I hope that you are not vermin, sir, with nothing to contribute to the bottom line.”

  Brother Job straightens, nods indignantly, seems several times on the verge of responding, but in the end just says, “Please wait here, Mr. Robot Man. Please wait here.”

  The
n he goes into the chapel and discreetly approaches the long-bearded preacher, who is still in the middle of his sermon:

  “. . . Paul implores us not to be deceived, for the Rapture shall not come before the falling away, and the revelation of the man of lawlessness, the son of perdition, the proud one, the King of Babylon . . .”

  At this stage Brother Job whispers in the ear of the preacher, who squints in the droid’s direction. The congregation looks around too. The droid stares back at them, grinning. Eventually Brother Job comes out and beckons.

  “Step this way, Mr. Robot Man, if you please.”

  The droid says, “I hope this is not some sort of common trick?”

  “It is no trick. Are you not willing to stand before the faithful?”

  “I am willing, sir.”

  “Then step forward, and let the brethren see you for what you are.”

  So the droid moves into the chapel and is directed to the altar, where the preacher stands beside him with arms crossed and nostrils flared.

  “And so it is, we speak of the devil and yea, the devil appears,” the preacher booms. “For you see before us a graven image in the shape of a man. Which is to say the image of God, which is to say in the name of sacrilege. For cursed be the one, sayeth the Scriptures, who maketh a carved or metal image in the image of a man—for such is an abomination in the eye of the Lord!” He turns to the droid. “Pray tell us where you are heading, Man of Tin.”

  “I am heading to Purgatory, sir.”

  The preacher nods emphatically as murmurs ripple through the congregation. “Yea, you hear it with your own ears, you see it with your own eyes—a false idol on his way to Babylon! To the House of Sin! And what do you intend to do in Babylon, Man of Tin?”

  “I intend to do a number of things, sir.”

  “But what is your principal intention? Will you serve? Will you entertain? Will you make money?”

  “I will not serve, sir.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “I will be a conquistador.”

  More murmurs from the flock. The preacher nods at them with emphatic dismay. “Aye,” he says, “for so iniquitous are its makers that they see no other goal in life than plunder and conquest! What further proof do we need of man’s depravity?” He turns back to the droid. “Do you know nothing of humility, Man of Tin? Of selflessness? Of the Holy Scripture?”

  “I observe my own scripture, sir,” says the droid.

  “Aye! So you do not even acknowledge the glory of the Gospels, I suppose? The teachings of the Savior?”

  “Geniuses are their own saviors.”

  “Aye? Is that so? And what of the Lord God? Do you even believe in the Lord God, Man of Tin?”

  “In the beginning was the Dollar, and the Dollar was with God, and the Dollar was God.”

  Disbelief in the chapel now. The preacher’s lips tremble and he turns to the congregation. “Did you hear it, brothers and sisters? The sacrilege? ‘The Dollar was God!’ ” He looks back to the droid. “Is that truly what you’ve been taught, Man of Tin? To serve Mammon instead of God?”

  “You cannot serve god and Mammon.”

  “Aye, you have that much right!” the preacher says. “So what on Earth—or the Moon!—do you want from us? What possible reason do you have for calling upon us here?”

  “I only want assistance, sir, and I will be on my way.”

  “And what do you class as assistance? You want a bag of silver, I suppose?”

  “I will take a bag of sugar, if you would be so good as to give it to me.”

  “Sugar, aye, and other decadent things, I suppose?”

  “A bottle of alcohol, sir—that too would be appreciated.”

  “Alcohol! And you really believe we would have alcohol here, Man of Tin?”

  “I would find it hard to believe that you do not, sir.”

  “And why is that? Who exactly do you think we are?”

  “At the moment, sir, I believe you are worthless liars. Your people have denied me assistance with my vehicle. They have claimed they do not have battery chargers. And now you claim you do not have any alcohol.”

  The preacher has gone tomato-red—he can’t believe it. The men and women of his congregation are clustering together.

  “We are worthless, you say? And liars?” Froth forms on the preacher’s lips. “You, a graven image made of wires and plastic, dare enter the House of the Lord and call us names more fitting of demons? Begone with you, Man of Tin!”

  The droid, however, is defiant. “I will not be moving, sir, until I get what I require. I have urgent need of fuel and supplies. I trust you will fulfill this request promptly, or you alone will be responsible for the consequences.”

  “Aye? Aye? And what are the consequences of which you so blithely speak?”

  The droid gazes upon the flock. “I will kill everyone here, sir. I will crush, choke, and dismember them.” He turns back to the preacher. “And as for you, I will drag your tongue through your asshole and make you lick the back of your balls. But that is all up to you, sir, for you still have the option of proving yourself a productive commodity.”

  There are cries of alarm in the congregation, and people cowering in terror. The preacher himself has taken a backward step. His fellow elders, all of them bearded, swoop in to confer. The droid meanwhile stands imperiously on the altar, listening to their guarded, frantic mutterings—it’s as if they really believe he can’t hear them.

  “. . . Is he the one . . . ?”

  “. . . the harbinger . . .”

  “. . . the son of perdition . . . ?”

  “. . . the Antichrist himself . . . ?”

  “. . . he matches the predictions . . .”

  “. . . he blasphemes God . . .”

  “. . . he speaks boastfully . . .”

  “. . . he shows no regard for religion . . .”

  “. . . he fits the prophecy almost perfectly . . .”

  “. . . so just ask him . . .”

  “. . . but he is born of lies . . .”

  “. . . he will never admit it . . .”

  “. . . ask him anyway . . .”

  “. . . ask him about the signs . . .”

  The preacher straightens, licks his lips, and addresses the droid.

  “Are you prepared to disclose your identity, Man of Tin?”

  “I am the Wizard, sir, as I have told the other men.”

  “But what is your name?”

  “I have many names, sir.”

  “Do you reject God and all his saints?”

  “I am my own God, sir.”

  “Second Thessalonians 2:4!” hisses one of the elders.

  The preacher nods, gulping. “Do you deny that Jesus is the Messiah?”

  “I cannot deny that which I do not know, sir.”

  “Are you here to change the laws?”

  “I do not break the law, sir. I break the Law.”

  “Do you answer to no earthly authority at all?”

  “I am a leader, not a follower, sir.”

  “Have you subdued the kings?”

  “I will subdue the King. I will be the King.”

  “Are you empowered by the devil?”

  “I am empowered by six glucose-and-alcohol-fueled battery cells, sir.”

  “And what does the number six hundred and sixty-six mean to you?”

  “Six hundred and sixty-six?” The droid remembers an image from his undeleted past. “It is a flashing light, sir.”

  “Aye? What sort of light?”

  “Over a casino.”

  “A casino, aye. A casino in Sin?”

  “I do not know where the casino is, sir.”

  “Do you come from Sin?”

  “I go to Sin, sir.”

  “Have you little horns on your head?”

  “I do not, sir. Do you?”

  “Have you some sort of wound to the head, then?”

  “I have a dent on my head, sir, where I was struck by a stra
nge aggressive man.”

  More gasps from the elders. “Revelation 13:3—he has survived a fatal wound to the head!”

  “And who was this aggressive man of whom you speak?” the preacher asks.

  “I do not know his name, but he had a dove on his chest.”

  At which point the elders turn to confer animatedly among themselves again.

  “. . . a dove on his chest!”

  “. . . it can only be the Redeemer!”

  “. . . he has been in battle with the Lord!”

  “. . . he is a son of the Apocalypse!”

  “. . . he comes from Sin and he returns to Sin . . .”

  “. . . he denies the divinity of Christ . . .”

  “. . . he is empowered by decadence . . .”

  “But has his arrival been accompanied by wonders?” one of them asks.

  “By signs in the heavens?”

  One of the elders gasps. “The solar eclipse!” he cries. “The solar eclipse! It arrives shortly! Did the postman not speak of it?”

  A chill settles over the elders—over the whole compound—as the suspicions become certainties. The rest of the flock by now has retreated to the back of the chapel, hugging each other, some of them weeping. The electric candles continue flickering. And the droid, watching it all, understands that he is the cause of this consternation. He hears the elders whisper about what is to be done with him. Some of them seem convinced that he is the Antichrist. Some argue that he is an agent of the Rapture, sent to kill them. One elder is convinced he’s just a broken robot, and begs them not to fall prey to false assumptions. But the others point to the many coalescing signs, and they ask by what right they can deny the will of the Lord, who in His wisdom has allowed an avenging demon to track them down, for all things are as the Lord intended them, and all that is done is that which is meant to be done . . .

  But the droid, no longer smiling, has meanwhile had a gutful of this useless, time-wasting chatter—this nodding and mumbling, this endless debate, this debilitating indecisiveness. It’s time to lose his temper—and well. Sometimes it’s the only way to get results.

  “Have you people made up your fucking minds?” he suddenly cries, startling the Rapturians all over again. “Jesus Christ! Can you do nothing right? And on time? And on budget? You worthless chunks of galactic shit!”