The Dark Side

by Anthony O'Neill

  And when Justus doesn’t immediately respond, Brass goes in for the kill:

  “Is that what you’re telling me? The silence is the answer! Is that really what you’re telling me? The silence is the answer!”

  He reaches for the ignition, ready to switch off the engine and any last chance of disagreeing with him—of saying anything at all. And when Justus still doesn’t reply, he twists the key and the engine shudders to a stop and Brass stares at him with savage acceptance.

  “The silence is the answer!” he exclaims.

  There’s no need to say anything more.

  But Justus says it anyway.

  40

  NO, MR. BRASS.”

  Justus doesn’t lose his temper often, and on the face of it he doesn’t lose it now. He’s controlled at first, he’s well spoken, he doesn’t raise his voice. But from the moment he got into the Mustang, cautious and curious, everything has changed.

  “No,” he goes on, “I’m a police lieutenant. And as you’ve pointed out, I’ve been something of a stickler for the rules. Maybe too much so—you might even say I’m beginning to regret it. But there’s one rule to which I still hold fast: that a policeman doesn’t answer to anyone except to higher authorities in the law. To chiefs and commissioners. To district attorneys. To judges. But no one else. Not even to the potentate or the patriarch or the grand pooh-bah or whoever else is supposedly in charge. Not even to you, Mr. Brass. Especially when you’re a suspect in my investigation. So no, I don’t have to answer your questions, and no, I’m not going to answer your questions. But that doesn’t mean the silence is the answer. It doesn’t mean anything at all. It just means I don’t divulge aspects of my investigation to anyone.”

  He’s staring fiercely into Brass’s glinting eyes, while Brass himself stares back, unblinking, and with a half-curl to his mouth, as if he can’t believe Justus’s moxie.

  “But as a cop, I do have the right to ask questions. And as a citizen and a suspect, Mr. Brass, you do have an obligation to answer them. No, you don’t have to answer them. And yes, you have the right to remain silent, you have the right to consult an attorney, and you should know that whatever you say can and will be used against you. Because even here, against all the evidence, there’s a court of law, based on a judicial system that both you and I were born under, and there are unratified treaties with the UN, and for that matter there’s the court of common opinion, and the court of cosmic justice. So let me ask you a question, Mr. Brass. And please consider your answer carefully, because it could be the most important thing you ever say. Are you ready?”

  But Brass just stares, and Justus doesn’t give him thinking music.

  “Did you lure the Leafists to Purgatory under false pretenses? Did you order their mass murder? And do you now have their organs frozen in your spaceship? Answer me that, Mr. Brass.”

  Brass continues staring back, his eyebrows raised and his nose curled, trying to appear unfazed, trying to look amused—he’s clearly done it many times before and he’s good at it. And finally he blinks—not even he can keep his eyes open forever—and he snorts and says:

  “That sounds to me like three questions, Lieutenant. But if you’d really like to know—”

  But Justus cuts him off. “No, Mr. Brass, you know what? You don’t have to answer. You don’t have to answer, because I know whatever you say will be a lie. A distortion, an evasion, obfuscation, whatever. I’ve read enough about you to know that, and I’ve seen enough of you firsthand to know that. What do you say in your own laws? In the Brass Code? ‘Lie, lie, lie.’ And: ‘Always carry a denial.’ And so on and so forth. The whole sick litany of them. So I already know the answer. In fact, I knew it minutes ago, when you asked those questions about your daughter. Because you weren’t worried about the veracity of whatever it is that’s supposed to have been said to me. You were only interested in the identity of the person who told me. And that’s everything I need to know. You did it. You did everything. You sacrificed your old friend Otto Decker. You ordered the killing of Kit Zachary. There was collateral damage too—innocent victims, and people who just needed to be silenced for whatever reason. And you did all this because you wanted to eliminate your rivals before you left for Mars. Because you wanted to destabilize QT, keep your crime against humanity under the carpet, and make sure Purgatory is just the way you like it when you get back. And I’m sure you’re not finished yet. There are others you’re planning to assassinate. Your own daughter, probably. And me too—I’m sure I was always expendable. In fact, you probably think I’m incredibly foolish, saying all this to you now. Maybe I’ve just brought forward my assassination. In fact, you might have wanted me to lose my cool. And if that’s right, then congratulations—because you found the only sure way to do it. And do I really have to tell you what that was?”

  Brass lets his eyebrows flicker in mock interest.

  “It was when you threatened my daughter, Mr. Brass. Oh, I know what you’ll say. You wouldn’t dream of any such thing. But let me tell you, I’ve been threatened before by men just as mad as you are. Maybe not as rich and powerful, but just as mad and self-serving and cruel. And I know how they issue threats. I know the way they do it. They toss it in the air, they let it float, and then they deny they had anything to do with it. Well, I’ve seen what becomes of a man who tries to ignore it. Who tells himself that everything will be all right, who assures himself that people, even the rich and powerful and cruel, have certain standards. I’ve seen it and I promised myself it would never happen again. And yet here I am, and not minutes ago you mentioned my daughter. You said your tentacles reach to Earth and in virtually the same breath you mentioned my daughter. You did it. I heard it. Well, as it happens my daughter is more important to me than procedure, the PPD, your mission to Mars, and the whole universe. To me, she is the universe. She’s the very reason I’m here. Because I wanted to protect her, because I wanted to give her a chance to live without fear. And because I couldn’t bear to live in a world where my mere presence was a threat to her life. So I came here to Farside, where I didn’t think it could get any worse. Only to find myself here right now, with you, in your car of truth or whatever you call it.”

  Justus is surprised by the passion that’s crept into his voice. He’s practically firing the words out.

  “But don’t think for a minute that I’m scared, and don’t think I’m not prepared to die. And at the same time don’t think for a second that I’m going to let you be the one who takes my life. I haven’t been reading your script so far and I’m sure not gonna read it now. And don’t think you’ll ever get away with this either—any of it. And don’t think I’m bluffing. Because as a wise man once said to me: ‘You can’t outrun your shadow.’ That wise man couldn’t, and neither can you. No matter how high and mighty you think you are, Mr. Fletcher Fucking Balls of Brass.”

  And with that Justus unsnaps his seatbelt and gets out of the vehicle, hearing Brass snort and say:

  “You’re a very foolish—”

  But Justus slams the door.

  He moves determinedly, in a sort of daze. He has to get out of this place. He has to reach QT Brass and apologize for ever doubting and suspecting her. For ever holding her at arm’s length. More than that, he has to protect her, before it’s too late. Because it’s surely just a matter of time before her father moves on her—if he doesn’t move on Justus first.

  He reaches the elevator and is punching buttons and shouting into consoles when Leonardo Grey appears from nowhere. The droid stares at Justus for so long that Justus wonders if he’s going to attack. But finally, as if responding to some internal correspondence, Grey nods and says, “Do you need to get out, sir?”

  “I’m demanding to get out.”

  Another pause, then: “Very well, sir.”

  Grey taps a special code into the elevator console. The doors slide open and Justus steps in. Grey follows.

  “I can find my own way out now, thanks,” Justus says.


  “You will need my authority, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “At the exit, sir. Otherwise you will only be detained.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  They stand in silence for a while but the elevator doesn’t move. It seems endless.

  Grey says to him, “I hope you are not ill, sir.”

  Justus is startled. “What does that mean?”

  “I detect a flushing of your features, and perspiration on your brow.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I can give you a massage if you wish, sir—I am an excellent masseur.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “I can escort you back to your address, and perform the massage in the comfort of your own home.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I know where you live, sir.”

  Justus wonders if it’s another threat. He says, “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Finally the elevator starts to ascend. Justus stares at the droid’s reflection in the brass door—at his pale grey eyes, his neat silver hair—and something occurs to him.

  “May I ask a question?” he says.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “What are you going to do when your master goes?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When Brass is on his Mars trip—what’s your role then?”

  “Why, I’ll be with Mr. Brass, sir.”

  “With Brass?”

  “Why, yes, I’m joining him on the expedition. I’ll be traveling in the Prospector also.”

  For Justus, it suddenly makes sense. The Leonardo unit. It’s Grey, not Black, who’s going to Mars. Meaning Leonardo Black is still unaccounted for. And there’s still no good explanation for the purpose of the robotics experts in Seidel Crater.

  “I see,” he says. “I see.”

  Ping. The elevator doors slide open. The two of them step out into a cavernous vestibule full of shimmering brass plates and bronze pillars. It’s not the way they came in, and Justus wonders if it’s some sort of trap. But Grey just escorts Justus to the front doors, where some gorilla-sized security guards are posted, and says, “I can vouch for this gentleman. He is a senior officer of the PPD.”

  The gorillas allow them to pass through. Then they’re outside. The droid extends a hand.

  “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, sir.”

  “And with you, Mr. Grey. Bon voyage.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.”

  Justus turns and heads out of Processional Park at a measured pace. He makes it past the duck ponds, the topiary, and the meticulously trimmed lawns, through the final checkpoint, and past the final security barrier, all without being halted. And he’s safe. Or seems to be.

  Then he hears the explosion.

  Two explosions, in fact, in quick succession. They shake the ground. They rattle glass. They send birds squawking through the air. They reverberate through the Pressure Cooker, bouncing off the crater rim, rippling, colliding, echoing, the waves lapping together, merging with other sounds, so at first the source is impossible to pinpoint. And when it’s over there’s an eerie hush, as if the whole population of Sin is responding with breathless surprise. Justus looks around frantically—at the elaborate facade of the Kasr and the surrounding buildings, across the Temple of the Seven Spheres and the whole visible layout of the city—and finally notices smoke rising from the Sin Rim. From halfway up, in an administrative block next to the major hotels. It’s where QT’s office is—the room where he first met her.

  With a clenching stomach Justus remembers her saying something about calling a conference of her associates—to warn them about the dangers.

  So he starts running. He bounds through the streets, even faster than when he was chasing the pimp killer Jet Kline. But even as he does he recalls QT vowing that she wouldn’t be leaving home—that the conference would be by vid-link—so it can’t be her, right? She must be safe, right?

  But then, from the corner of his eye, he notices another pall of smoke, this one rising from Ishtar—from the vicinity of QT’s churchlike home.

  His hopes plunging, Justus changes direction immediately. He crashes off walls, he bounces off pedestrians. And now he’s grappling with the certainty that he’s too late. That Fletcher Brass has moved so swiftly that there’s no coming back.

  In Ishtar he pushes his way through a crowd of curious and angry locals to the crime scene. It’s QT’s house, all right. One of the spires has been obliterated. There’s a smoking hole in the roof. Officers of the PPD have already arrived at the scene, along with the Fire Department—a response too quick not to be suspect. There’s a cordon around the entrance and hoses snaking across the street. Justus bursts through anyway. And sees a severed arm on the ground. In a brown sleeve. With wiring protruding from the socket.

  It’s the arm of Leonardo Brown.

  Dash Chin and Prince Oda Universe meanwhile are standing to the side, looking strangely satisfied.

  “What happened?” Justus shouts at them.

  “Too late, sir.” Dash looks solemn all of a sudden. “A bomb blast. Took out the whole top floor.”

  Justus steels himself. “And QT Brass?”

  Chin just nods at the front door. And Justus turns.

  Coming out of the place are two paramedics carrying a smoldering body on a stretcher. Some of the limbs have been completely blown off. The torso is ripped open. But the lolling head, and the blond hair, are identification enough.

  Justus turns way, squeezing his eyes shut. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again. He looks up at the gaping hole in the room where he so recently met with her. He wonders why he feels so personally aggrieved. And what he can possibly do now to avenge her. Then he hears a voice.

  “Pew-eee—smell that stink! Might have to postpone that barbeque after all.”

  He turns and sees Chief Buchanan watching the body being loaded into an ambulance, shaking his head in feigned disgust, and wiping fluorescent orange crumbs from his smile.

  “Fuckin’ terrorists,” the Chief says.

  41

  THE DROID HAS BEEN driving for six hours straight. The postal van is easily the best vehicle he’s been in so far—so good that he calculates he can reach his destination even earlier than expected. The batteries are well charged. The steering and suspension are excellent. The top speed on hard track is over 140 kilometers per hour. And fitted into the console are illuminated maps showing all the postal routes, research stations, radar arrays, and construction sites. With the aid of these displays the droid has been able to thread his way between the outposts without seeing a single soul, even with the floodlights on full power.

  Back in his suit and tie now, and with the slaughterhouse knife fitted snuggly into his inner jacket, the droid is feeling rather satisfied with himself. He’s fully mastered the art of lunar driving. He’s mercifully free of mediocrities. He’s even managed to recharge, using all the booze and energy bars he found in the van’s mini-fridge. And he knows, above all else, that he’s closing in on his destination. He knows that he will soon be King.

  But suddenly he notices a flashing amber light on the path ahead. Recognizing it as some sort of emergency beacon, he is about to hurtle on through when it occurs to him that he might by law be required to stop—that failure to do so might only draw attention to him. So, very reluctantly, he brakes. He brings the van to a halt.

  A figure in a spacesuit comes up to the front window and peers through, making hand gestures. The droid understands that he is being asked to wait. Then the figure disappears for a few minutes and comes back with another spacesuited figure on a cart—it looks like a victim of some sort.

  The droid opens the airlock door and, following the usual procedures, assists the two figures inside. He clears a space for the patient as the second figure removes his helmet.

  “Didn’t think you were going to stop,” he says. “You were moving so fast.”
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  “I am on an urgent mission, sir.”

  “Well, so am I. This lady needs to get to a hospital immediately—or someplace with good medical facilities, anyway.”

  “I am going to Purgatory, sir.”

  “Well, that’s perfect—they’ve got all the right equipment there. They’ll charge a goddamned fortune, of course, and God knows what else they’ll do, but what the hell—this is an emergency.”

  “Do you know Purgatory well, sir?”

  “I’ve been there once, sure.”

  “So you know how to get inside, sir?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “I would much appreciate your advice and assistance, sir.”

  “Yeah?” The man, who’s dusky-skinned with bristling salt-and-pepper hair, looks like he’s about to say something before changing his mind. “Well . . . just help me get this helmet off her, will you?”

  The two of them work the helmet off the patient, who turns out to be a highly attractive woman with Polynesian features.

  “We’re seismologists,” the man explains. “From Maui College in Hawaii. We’ve been monitoring seismic activity.”

  “Was it a moonquake that caused this lady’s injuries, sir?”

  “No. No. Some bars fell on her—hanger bars. She was kneeling on the floor and they fell over, hit the back of her head. I was looking the other way. I revived her immediately, but she only collapsed again. I just hope to God it’s not serious.”

  “You are friendly with this woman, sir?”

  “She’s a colleague—a very good colleague.”

  “Do you want to fuck her?”

  “Do I—?” The man frowns incredulously. “What? Why do you ask that?”

  “I would fuck her in a New York minute, sir.”