Then his house in Hu burned down while Ngô was in Phan Thit, 650 kilometers away. There was nothing suspicious about it—it was a lightning strike—but equally there was nothing he could do to prevent his little bazaar being exposed to the cops for the first time. So when he got the tip-off, from a loyal drinking buddy back in Hu, he chose not to try his luck. In fact, like a lot of those who spend their lives courting danger, Ngô had for years been looking for a dramatic change in his life. Or at least a reason to make change unavoidable. And as a thief, an embezzler, a forger, and even a killer—of at least one nosy shopkeeper and an old lady he’d ploughed over in his truck—Ngô had long ago decided that the city of Sin was where he was really meant to be.
Ngô’s passage to the Dark Side was an adventure in itself. At the time the Australian beef industry was flinging containerloads of beef to the Moon via the mass driver in Darwin Harbour. And for a punishing price, of the type that only a well-heeled thief could afford, certain shady operatives were prepared to squeeze human passengers in between the cattle carcasses. In order to survive the refrigeration and the crushing G forces, though, these stowaways first needed to be drained of blood, injected with organ preservatives and cryoprotective solutions, and vitrified in liquid nitrogen at minus 195 degrees Celsius. For all intents and purposes they would be temporarily dead. It was a huge leap of faith, to put one’s life in the hands of disreputable meat packers. But that’s what Tun Ngô did. That’s what a lot of fugitives did. For an average cost of half a million Australian dollars.
The meat packers had an arrangement with some equally shady operators in Sin. When a human body arrived in Purgatory it would be smuggled off to the medical district of Marduk, where a doctor would bring it back to life, usually using pre-packaged quantities of the client’s own blood, and keep it under surveillance for a few days. From there, once they were fit to move, the “illegal aliens” were free to dissolve into the general population, assuming they could escape the gaze of the Purgatory Immigration Department and the PPD. It was in this way that at least thirty-five cashed-up criminals—more or less; there were a number of fatalities—found their way into Purgatory without having to run the gauntlet of the usual vetting procedures.
But nothing good lasts forever. When Ngô parted with his life savings he wasn’t aware that the Purgatory end of the operation had recently been shut down. A highly paid assassin had been smuggled in like a Popsicle and, once revived, had successfully eliminated one of the territory’s most famous residents—a New York property developer who’d bribed surgeons to botch a heart operation on a major rival. The subsequent crackdown in Purgatory saw the responsible smugglers and doctors summarily executed.
But the Australian end had not given up completely—they’d merely made a similarly tenuous pact with some dockworkers at Peary Base, where the containers were first hauled in. So when Tun Ngô came back to life it was not in Sin, as he’d paid for, but in a makeshift hospital room in the seediest quarter of the lunar North Pole. He was outraged, of course—as soon, that is, as he’d recovered enough sense to work out what had happened—but it was quickly pointed out to him that he was damned lucky he’d been revived at all. The nurse who’d performed the procedure, acting upon medical instructions smuggled out of Purgatory, was risking long-term imprisonment for doing so. And in point of fact Ngô’s indignation proved no match for his excitement—at the very thought that he was alive again, and so far from Earth.
He made a few attempts to gain residency in Purgatory but was always knocked back: None of his crimes had been officially recorded in the Vietnamese crime registries. And in truth he was finding life at Peary Base to be an adequate substitute—a cut-rate version of Brass’s fiefdom, as it were, full of money-grasping short-timers, do-anything whores, and a roll call of rogues and swindlers not quite notorious enough to live in Sin. He secured a fake passport, but no one was asking for his extradition anyway. So he decided to stay on the Moon under the new name of Johnny D-Tox. He got work as a long-range cargo driver, not dissimilar to that which he’d had on Earth, and eventually he became a postman.
And that’s what he’s doing now. He’s at the wheel of the same postal van—a red-painted VLTV with a trailer on back—in which he’s roamed Farside’s northern hemisphere for nearly six years. Like Jean-Pierre Plaisance, he’s come to love his vehicle like a pet dog. Like Plaisance, he’s come to view himself as an adventurer, a pioneer, a man who knows his territory better than anyone. But unlike Plaisance, he has not yet succumbed to cancer. He undergoes regular tests and takes all the right preventative medications. His van is well shielded and furnished with all the most advanced gauges. Plus he knows the location of all the radiation shelters and doesn’t take any risks. He plans to live for many decades yet.
Ngô has spent the last twenty-four hours making deliveries in what’s known as 45B Quadrant: an area between the 30th and 45th parallels roughly the size of Iraq. He’s delivered precision instruments to astronomers in Tesla Crater, perishable supplies to Norwegian cartographers at Nušl Base, and oxygen tanks to Bavarian surveyors at Kurchatov Crater. It was at this last habitat that Ngô lingered well beyond schedule, enjoying the Alpine hospitality, quaffing some Weissbier, and making the surveyors laugh uproariously when he attempted to dance the Schuhplattler. He even—when his hosts weren’t looking—pilfered some stationery just for the hell of it.
As a postman, even more than as a confectionary driver, Ngô enjoys numerous opportunities to satisfy his kleptomania. Sometimes he slits open posted packages and removes things that will never be missed. Sometimes he replaces valuable objects with cheaper versions or crude copies from a 3-D printer. And when visiting habitats he sometimes, as at the Bavarian base, just tucks a few loose items into a hidden compartment of his uniform.
Presently Ngô, driving into Nocturnity, activates the van’s headlamps. He’s delivered in full dark many times but he prefers to avoid it whenever possible—the overlong stay at Kurchatov has just put him behind schedule. But once he drops off the timber supplies at the Rapturian base, and takes aboard their hand-carved icons—the only way the cult makes enough money to afford essential power supplies—he’ll head back into sunlight as quickly as possible. And from there to Peary Base, where he’ll wait for the next postal container to be hauled in.
Ngô has a strange affinity for the Rapturians. Perhaps because they’re so reliant on him, or perhaps because they’re so naïve. After he plunders their outgoing packages—some of their woodwork fetches a hefty price on the black market—they always seem to accept his convoluted excuses. They’re weirdly apologetic, in fact, and usually insist on giving him some of their delicious fried scrapple or shoofly pie. Then again, they also try to lecture him on Scripture—Ngô is nominally a Buddhist, though there’s Christianity in his family going back to French colonial days—and he usually plays along just to be polite. Last time they spoke of Jesus and the miracle of resurrection. Ngô refrained from pointing out that he too had risen from the dead—at the age of thirty-three, no less—because at the time he didn’t want to freak them out.
But now he’s decided he might tell them anyway. Just to see what happens. They might offer him some more pie. Or they might decide to worship him. Of course, they could go crazy too. They might banish him for sacrilege, or even try to kill him—who knows? But he figures it’s worth a shot. If nothing else, it will make a good story to amuse the guys back at Peary.
The giant cross is now in darkness, but as the van’s headlamps sweep across the base, Ngô, to his great surprise, notices another VLTV parked to the side. In all his years of making deliveries he’s never known the Rapturians to have any other visitor. So he steers off track and makes a pass by the parked vehicle, adjusting the headlamps for a closer look. It’s in poor shape, and there’s no identification. He wonders if it belongs to some sort of survey team looking for emergency assistance—a prospect both exciting and unappealing. As a postal employee, he’d be duty-bound to ferry the
m all the way back to Peary Base if required.
He continues to the compound door. To save him alighting from the van, there’s an extendable arm that reaches out to the bellpull. But when he tugs on it now there’s no response. The airlock door doesn’t rise. This is most unusual—the Rapturians are always laughably quick to respond, as if they’ve been waiting in breathless anticipation for his arrival. Ngô wonders if they’ve just been distracted by their mysterious guests. He tugs again. Still nothing.
So he moves the van around until it’s facing the door. With the headlamps blazing, there’s just enough light to see through the airlock windows. And what Ngô makes out now is someone inside looking back at him. Ngô can’t make him out clearly—the lunar glare has ruined his already feeble eyes—but he flashes the lights a few times. The head at the inner window disappears. And the outer door starts to rise—more rapidly than Ngô ever remembers.
With the airlock fully open he reverses the van, backs the trailer inside, and disengages it. Then he turns the van and flashes the lights again. It takes a long time, but finally the man inside seems to understand: There’s not enough room for the trailer and the van to enter at once. The trailer, with its precious lumber supplies, will have to go first.
As he waits for his own turn, Ngô gets increasingly suspicious. This really is out of the ordinary. He wonders fleetingly if the Rapturians have been taken hostage or something. Or what if they’ve fallen ill? What if the other van is on a rescue mission? Then again, why would he be allowed inside, if that’s the case? Why not wave him away or communicate the danger in some other way? Why not—?
But now the outer door is rising—again, very swiftly. Ngô drives into the airlock, extra-curious now and strangely excited. Because the unusual circumstances at least offer the possibility of indulging his favorite hobby—disruption and distraction being after all the best friends of a thief.
The face appears at the inner window again. It’s a strikingly handsome black-haired man. He’s clean-shaven but he’s wearing the standard Rapturian outfit: broadcloth waistcoat and violet-colored shirt. And he’s smiling—broadly. Maybe he’s a new arrival. Maybe he’s in charge of gate duties while the rest of them celebrate a feast day.
Ngô flashes the lights again and the man disappears to raise the door. Finally Ngô drives into the loading area where the parcels are stacked for pickup. But it’s darker than normal, and the handsome stranger is nowhere to be seen. In fact, Ngô can barely make anything out at all. He checks the instrument gauges for pressurization readings and then pops open the van doors.
He’s in the compound now, breathing the musty air. But there’s still no one there to greet him. He looks around.
“Hello?” he calls.
No answer.
“Hello?”
Nothing but echo. He considers just packing the parcels into his van, reconnecting the trailer, and departing. But of course he can’t open both doors manually by himself. And it’s just too tempting to investigate further.
So he moves deeper into the compound. Only a few of the electric candles are flickering—the Rapturians don’t use real flames so as not to waste oxygen. On the wall, carved into wood and barely visible in the sepulchral light, is a verse from Scripture.
For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. Romans 8:18
And still there’s total silence. Ngô can hear his own footfall. He arrives at the chapel, the sacred center around which the whole Rapturian day revolves. Ngô himself once enjoyed the honor of being allowed inside. It was Ascension Day, and he’d been forced to endure a fire-and-brimstone homily about human greed. But now the chamber, which is decorated with some of the Rapturians’ finest sculptures, is completely dark.
“Hello?”
Still no reply. Ngô senses, however, that someone is inside waiting for him. His heart is beating faster. He reaches for the wall, finds a light switch. Hits it. And the candles flicker on.
Tun Ngô takes it all in. His eyes widen. And he gasps.
The whole chapel is littered with bodies. Broken bodies. Twisted, smashed, brutalized, ripped apart. They’re draped across the pews. They’re scattered across the floor. They’re lying in pieces on the altar. It’s like a tornado, or some sort of evil force, has ripped through the place. Ngô has never seen anything like it—not in his wildest nightmares.
He steps back and his heel lands on something soft. He looks down and sees he’s standing on a young man’s hand. And the man is naked—stripped bare.
Then Ngô hears a noise. He turns, his heart crashing around his chest, and sees the man who let him in—the black-haired man in the Rapturian costume.
The man is now wielding what looks like a slaughterhouse knife. It’s got a hickory handle and a blade that looks to be a foot long. And the man is smiling. Smiling like a madman.
“What’s the point of walking in another man’s shoes?” he asks madly. “Unless his shoes are better than yours?”
He swings the machete like a scythe and the last thing Ngô sees is his own headless body collapsing in a heap on the other side of the room.
39
JUSTUS REMEMBERS SOMETHING GRIGORY Kalganov said just hours earlier: You cannot see your shadow in a world of darkness. And it occurs to him that he’s ventured into a similar world, completely of his own volition. By focusing obsessively on the job in front of him he’s able to ignore, or at least marginalize, the immediate dangers.
He calls Fletcher Brass’s flight coordinator, Amity Powers.
“What’s this about?” she asks coolly.
“I just want to check on Mr. Brass’s whereabouts,” he lies, assuming Brass will be at the rocket base.
“Mr. Brass is currently in Sin.”
“In Sin, did you say?”
“That’s correct.”
Justus hesitates. “But I thought he was preoccupied with preparations for his Mars trip?”
“Something urgent drew him to the city.”
“And what exactly is that?”
“Mr. Brass did not inform me,” Powers says. “Is that all you wish to know, Lieutenant?”
“Not quite.” Justus rapidly runs through some further enquiries—about the projected date of the launch and the general state of security at the site—before reaching his major point.
“By the way, how many are going on the trip?”
“The Prospector has space for eight.”
“Who, exactly?”
“May I ask why you need to know?”
“Security. They could be targeted, if they haven’t been targeted already.”
Powers makes a noise. “There’s Mr. Brass, of course. There’s the mission commander, Carter Tuchman. The geologist, Stephanie Chabadres. The astrophysicist, Renny Olafsen. The medical supervisor, Doctor Oscar Shields. His assistant, Nurse Flash Bazoom. And the engineer, Bryce Schubert.”
“That’s seven.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said there were eight.”
“Well, there’s the Leonardo unit as well.”
“The android?”
“That’s right.”
“Who’s been specifically programmed for the voyage?”
“Well, I don’t know about that, Lieutenant—you’d need to ask the roboticists.”
“Maybe I will. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Justus hangs up, wondering if he’s been wasting valuable time after all. Chief Buchanan’s scorn for the possibility of robot involvement had only made him more suspicious initially, but now it seems the missing android did indeed have a scientific purpose. So Justus decides to shelve the issue while he deals with other pressing matters. But he’s only just finished arranging an autopsy on Grigory Kalganov when Leonardo Grey again shows up at the station.
“Mr. Brass,” the droid announces, “would like to see you, sir.”
Justus wonders if it’s got something to do with his pho
ne call. “And you’ve come here to escort me?”
“That is correct.”
“And Brass is currently in Sin?”
“That is correct.”
“In his palace? The Kasr?”
“Not quite, sir.”
“Then where?”
“You will find out shortly, sir.”
Justus doesn’t argue. He joins Grey in the superbly fitted escort vehicle and they glide through the streets of Sin. Eventually the facade of the Kasr looms up and they weave between the fountains and greenery of Processional Park. But they don’t head for the front entrance. At the door of a vehicle bay about two hundred meters east of the main entrance, their vehicle is scanned by a multitude of security devices.
“Your gun,” says an expressionless guard when Justus gets out.
“It’s only an immobilization device.”
“Your gun,” the man says again, and Justus gets the message—he hands it over.
Grey leads him through a garage filled with antique motor vehicles: a Ferrari, an Aston Martin, two Jaguars, and a Mercedes-Benz. And Justus remembers reading something about Brass’s determination to bring his vintage automobiles all the way to the Moon.
“Not so rust-free in here,” he says.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“With all the oxygen, I mean. Shouldn’t they be in storage—in a vacuum?”
“These vehicles are being tested by Mr. Brass, sir.”
“He’s not taking one to Mars, is he?”
The Dark Side Page 26