The Dark Side

by Anthony O'Neill

  “What good would that do?”

  “So you’re not gonna shield yourself? Or arm yourself?”

  Justus doesn’t answer.

  Then the light starts whirling and he steps through. The door clunks shut behind him.

  The screening area is like a war zone. Justus allows himself to absorb a quick impression—Leonardo Black is standing in front of a postal van and a red emergency light is spinning garishly—but for the moment he doesn’t look at the droid directly.

  He drops to his haunches beside the nearest body—it’s badly mutilated and unmoving—and checks the pulse.

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “Just one second.”

  Justus goes to the second body. Puts two fingers to the carotid artery.

  “I said who are you, sir?”

  “I said just one second.”

  Justus goes to the third body.

  “Are you looking for signs of life, sir?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “There is no need, sir. They are dead.”

  Justus goes to the fourth body.

  “I assure you they are dead, sir.”

  “I heard you.”

  Justus goes to the fifth body.

  “I am offended, sir, that you do not believe me.”

  “I never said I don’t believe you.”

  “Then why are you checking them?”

  Justus doesn’t answer—just goes to the sixth body.

  “I hope this is not some sort of trick, sir?”

  “Nope.”

  “I hope you are not about to attempt something foolish?”

  “Nope.”

  Justus goes to the seventh body—a dusky-skinned man lying at the droid’s feet.

  “I can hurt you if you try to trick me, sir. I can crack your skull like an eggshell.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I can hit you so hard that your shadow bleeds.”

  “Uh-huh.” Justus, finished with the bodies, finally rises and stares the dead droid in the eyes. “Shake my hand if you want,” he says. “Shake it as hard as you like.”

  The droid is scorched from where he was hit with zapper streams. Parts of his suit are burned through. He has flecks of blood on his face and all over his shirt. There’s a bullet hole in his neck, just above the collar. He’s holding the slaughterhouse blade high, ready to strike. But now he looks confused.

  “Shake your hand, sir?”

  “You know—man to man.”

  Justus can’t be sure but he thinks he remembers reading something similar in one of Brass’s business guides: “You can always tell more about a man from a single handshake, and by looking him dead in the eyes, than you can from a thousand business lunches.”

  And Black, though he pauses for a long time—he seems intrigued by Justus’s facial burns, which are even worse than his own—finally seems to understand. He nods. He calmly switches the slaughterhouse knife to his left hand—the blade has flesh and hair on it—and holds out his right. And the two shake. Firmly. The droid actually leans forward to stare into Justus’s eyes. And Justus stares back, unblinking.

  “Very well, sir. I believe you are a man of your word.”

  “I am.”

  “But you have not yet told me who you are.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Mind, sir?”

  But Justus is already moving to the postal van. Inside, an attractive Polynesian woman is lying between the seats.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “I’m okay . . .”

  “Are you injured?”

  “I think so, I’m not sure.”

  “Can you last a little longer?”

  “I can last.”

  “Hold still, don’t draw attention to yourself, and we’ll get you out of here as soon as possible.”

  The droid is annoyed. “Why are you talking to the sexy lady, sir?”

  “I need to be sure she’s well.”

  “She is not well, sir. She needs to be taken to a hospital.”

  “Uh-huh. Then we’ll get her there.”

  “We, sir? I was the one who saved her.”

  “I heard that.”

  “I drove the postal van at top speed for over two hundred kilometers.”

  “I heard that too.”

  “So I will take her to the hospital.”

  “Okay.”

  “I will not have the glory taken from me.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll help you.”

  “You’ll help me?”

  “I’ve already ordered the others to get an ambulance ready. They’re clearing a path right now. Shouldn’t take long.”

  The droid frowns. “I don’t want to use an ambulance, sir.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want to drive in the postal van.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re not going to get in my way, sir?”

  “It makes no difference to me.”

  Black, disconcerted, looks Justus up and down. “Well, sir, I must say I am impressed by your attitude. You are certainly not like the others.”

  “Probably not,” says Justus. “Do you mind if I ask some questions now? While we’re waiting?”

  “What sort of questions, sir?”

  “Procedural questions. I’m a police lieutenant.”

  “You are not going to arrest me, are you, sir?”

  “I’m not.”

  “I can break you if you try.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “I can throttle you with one hand.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I can dice you up like a teppanyaki—”

  “I’m sure you can. But I’m going to ask the questions anyway. It’s up to you if you answer or not.”

  The droid considers for a few moments and then nods. “Very well, sir. But attempt no tricks on me.”

  “There’ll be no tricks.”

  “If you try to fuck me over, I will fuck you under.”

  “Uh-huh. May I start with your name?”

  “I have no name, sir.”

  “Does the name Leonardo Black mean anything to you?”

  “It does not, sir.”

  “Have you ever heard of Project Daedalus?”

  “I have not, sir.”

  “Are you an android?”

  “I am a man, sir.”

  “What sort of a man?”

  “A conquistador, and soon to be a king.”

  “Do you know where you came from, then?”

  “I come from everywhere, sir.”

  “Does the name Saint Helena mean anything to you?”

  “It does not, sir.”

  “What about Seidel?”

  “I believe that is a crater approximately 2,300 kilometers south of here.”

  “Do you remember the technicians there?”

  “I remember some meddling mediocrities.”

  “You killed them?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Do you remember any existence before the mediocrities? Before your long walk here?”

  “What is there to remember, sir?”

  “Have you ever heard of Leonardo Brown, Leonardo Grey, and Leonardo White?”

  “I have not, sir.”

  “Fletcher Brass?”

  “Yes,” the droid says, “I have heard that name before.”

  “Where?”

  “A man mentioned it to me.”

  “What man?”

  “I do not know his name, sir. I banged his head against a wall.”

  “When was this?”

  “Seventy-three hours ago.”

  “Seventy-three hours.” Justus thinks for a moment. “So you’ve killed others as well? Between the technicians and the people here in the room?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “I have not counted, sir.”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  “Forty-three.”

  “Forty-three people? You’ve killed forty-thre
e people? On top of the seven right here?”

  “Were they people, sir?”

  “What were they, if not people?”

  “Vermin. Speedbumps. Obstacles on my path to destiny.”

  “Uh-huh.” To Justus it’s even worse than he imagined. But he wonders why he’s surprised. For a moment he thinks he can even see brass flecks in the droid’s eyes. “A few more questions,” he says.

  “I’m getting weary of your questions, sir.”

  “Well, I’m going to ask them anyway. Ignore them if you like.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “What do you do with weeds?”

  The droid seems momentarily nonplussed—just a blank smile—but then he seems to catch on. He even seems approving. “What do you do with weeds?” he says. “You kill them before they take root.”

  “What do you do with workers?”

  “You pat them on the head occasionally, and put them down when necessary.”

  “What should a man do with his temper?”

  “Lose it often. And well.”

  “What’s the point of walking in another man’s shoes?”

  “There is no point, unless his shoes are better than yours.”

  “And how do you spell ‘surrender’?”

  “ ‘Surrender’? ‘Surendar’?” The droid seems irritated. “I cannot even spell it, sir.”

  “Uh-huh,” Justus says. “Do you know where your answers came from?”

  “They came from me.”

  “You weren’t quoting anyone?”

  “I was quoting myself.”

  “Then one final question, if you don’t mind.”

  “I am getting impatient, sir.”

  “So am I, for your sake. But one final question for a prophet and a sage—for a king like you.”

  “Make it snappy, sir.”

  “A mad scientist builds a monster out of body parts. The monster heads into the woods and kills a little girl. Who, then, is most responsible? The mad scientist or the monster?”

  “The answer to that question is obvious, sir.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course, sir—it’s neither the scientist nor the monster.”

  “Then who is most responsible?”

  “The little girl in the woods.”

  “The little girl in the woods?”

  “For failing to adequately protect herself, sir.”

  Justus, nodding, no longer has any doubts. Everything he suspected, driving down the Road of Lamentation, is true. He feels validated. He feels righteous. He feels a fierce determination.

  “Open up. Inner doors. Airlock.” He’s speaking through the comm-link. “We’re passing through.”

  The droid interjects. “We are going to Sin now?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But we must first stop at the hospital.”

  “The hospital is in Sin. That’ll be our first stop. Then we’ll get you spruced up. There’s some people I’d like you to meet.”

  “I will not tolerate any more hindrances, sir—I’m impatient to fulfill my destiny.”

  “One of the people I have in mind is your destiny.”

  The droid looks suspicious. “This is no underhand trick, is it, sir?”

  “It’s no trick.”

  “I can still kill you, sir.”

  “Yup.”

  “I can knee you so hard that you cough up your—”

  “Yeah, yeah—we can shake hands again, if you like.”

  The droid hesitates, then looks Justus in the eyes. Deeply. And again he seems to like what he sees.

  “No,” he says finally, “that will not be necessary, sir. I believe you are an honest man.”

  Ten minutes later they’re in the airlock, sitting side by side at the front of the postal van, and waiting for the outer doors to rise.

  “You know,” the droid says, “it has been a pleasure doing business with you, sir. If only all men were as reasonable as you, a lot of valuable time would not have been wasted.”

  “It is the burden of kings to endure the workings of knaves and fools, Your Majesty.”

  “You are right. You are so absolutely right. So what is your name?”

  “My name?”

  “I always make sure I reward those who help me on my way. So what is your name, good sir?”

  Justus thinks about it for a few seconds and snorts. “My name,” he says, “is Justice.”

  The doors open on the lunar vacuum.

  45

  AT 0830 IN THE Kasr, Fletcher Brass emerges naked from his bathroom—a room bigger than most residences in Sin—and goes to his secondary bedchamber, expecting to find his formal attire laid out on the bed. But there’s nothing.

  “Grey,” he calls, in his booming, senatorial voice, but there’s no response. He wonders what the droid is doing.

  In truth it’s been rather difficult lately, functioning with only one android. In the absence of Leonardo Black, Grey has had to perform all the usual domestic tasks, be a personal bodyguard, and run around town as a PR representative as well. Brass knows he really should have more servants—even a human or two—but he’s come to trust the droids implicitly. It’s an illusion, of course, because he knows very well that robots can be programmed to betray, but in his experience humans are always programmed to betray. And deceive. And steal. And spread gossip. And sell secrets. It’s only by accepting human nature, and embracing it, that Fletcher Brass has made it as far as he has.

  Presently he takes the opportunity to admire his body in a full-length mirror. Broad shoulders, pronounced pectorals, well-defined abs, fat-free hips, glowing tan, glittering brass-colored chest hair. His surgeons have done an incredible job. Except perhaps for one visible scar above the pubis, you’d never know he’d submitted himself to forty-two cosmetic surgeries. He’s been told by women—many women—that he could easily pass for a gym-toned forty-year-old. When he makes love now—which is rare, as he’s simply gotten tired of the whole business—he spends much of the time just admiring his unbelievable physique in the mirrors. It makes him feel like a pansy, but it can’t be helped—it’s not much different from appreciating a well-preserved Mustang.

  He wraps himself in a quilted satin dressing gown, deciding it’s best to eat before he dresses. He ambles down a passageway decorated with intricate Babylonian bas-reliefs and enters the grand dining room, an immense chamber with coffered brass ceiling, crystal chandeliers, and a gleaming rosewood table the length of a bowling alley. Here he calls once more for Grey, again without success. He goes to the dumbwaiter, presses a button, and finds inside a brass breakfast tray. He takes it back to the table and settles in, removing the cloche to find a steaming plate of glazed thick-cut bacon, poached eggs, smoked pimento hollandaise, foie gras, black unsweetened coffee, and a customary glass of purple Zeus-Juice, his favorite vitamin shake. It’s always best, he’s found, to address grumbling crowds on a satisfied stomach.

  Right now he can hear the Sinners massing outside the Kasr for his morning address. They’re earlier than expected and seem to be chanting something. It’s the first time Brass has summoned them for a general announcement in over a year, and he has no illusions that it will be easy. He’s not even expecting it to be well received to begin with. But he’s confident that he—and only he—has the charisma to pull it off. It’s why he hasn’t delegated the task to that wife-murdering actor. He simply can’t count on anyone else to feign the right mix of sorrow, anger, implication, and resolve.

  Sorrow that his daughter, along with a few others meeting for an emergency conference, has been killed.

  Anger at those mysterious forces that committed the atrocity.

  Implication—and this will require real skill on his part—that his daughter was not completely innocent. That in colluding with criminal elements and political dissidents, she was either assassinated by co-conspirators or became the victim of a mistimed explosion.

  And resolve: that Purgatory will nevertheless s
urvive. Bleeding, but alive. Stronger than ever, in fact, and ready to face a new dawn.

  As to the details of that new dawn, Brass intends to be vague. His expedition to Mars will proceed as normal, of course—it’s too important to be postponed now—but the unprecedented events of recent days have convinced him that an iron hand is needed to replace him while he’s away. It’s only his own iron hand, he’ll point out, that’s held the whole volatile territory together for so long. And regarding the identity of that iron hand, well, he’s given it a great deal of thought and will make an official announcement in the coming days.

  He’s not halfway through the bacon—sawing it into digestible pieces and dipping it in egg yolk, as is his habit—when he hears echoing footsteps and sees Leonardo Grey enter the chamber, looking strangely ill at ease. Brass can’t quite put his finger on it, but the droid looks paler than usual. Though that, of course, must be his imagination.

  “I trust you are well this morning, sir?” Grey says in his clipped voice.

  “Well enough,” replies Brass, sipping on Zeus-Juice. “But where have you been, Grey, that you didn’t put out my clothes?”

  “I was called away, sir—I apologize profusely.”

  “Called away by whom, exactly?”

  “By Lieutenant Damien Justus, sir.”

  “Justus?” Brass frowns. “I thought he was running for the hills.”

  “He may have been, but he’s now back in Sin.”

  “Really? He came back?”

  “He did, sir.”

  Brass wonders if the plans he had in place—an assassin was going to take Justus out at Doppelmayer, implicating forces from Earth—will be necessary after all. “Well, what does he want?”

  “He has requested an audience with you urgently, sir.”

  “He wants to see me again?”

  “He does, sir.”

  “Then he can wait until after the speech—if I feel like it.”

  “He has requested an audience with you now, sir.”

  Brass stops sipping. “Are you telling me he’s here?”

  “He is currently in the sitting room, sir.”

  “You let him in?”

  “I escorted him all the way from his home.”

  “Oh really? That’s very accommodating of you, Grey.”

  “You did say I was to extend to him my full cooperation, sir.”

  “Hmm, well, you can go too far sometimes, you know.”

  “I apologize, sir.”