The Dark Side

by Anthony O'Neill

  “I once had a choice between you and Leonardo Brown, you know. I chose you because you looked more distinguished. And because I assumed you’d acquired a better understanding of me. But now you make me wonder.”

  “I will try to do better in the future, sir.”

  “Hmm.” Brass enjoys demeaning Grey—he considers humiliation a form of motivation—but with Leonardo Brown gone he can no longer make so much of their rivalry. So he sighs. “Well, let the fucker in.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Grey starts to turn, but Brass adds, “And stay close to me while he’s inside.”

  “I intend to, sir.”

  “Make sure he keeps his distance. I doubt he’ll try anything, but you never know. So if he makes a sudden move, you know what to do.”

  “I believe I am adequately equipped, sir.”

  Brass, watching Grey leave the room, still finds something odd about the droid. Something peculiar in his bearing or attitude. He sounds almost insolent. As if something has happened to him overnight. But he doesn’t dwell on it. He shovels the rest of the bacon into his mouth and chews hurriedly, to give himself a good protein boost before the confrontation.

  He’s washing it all down with a few sips of juice when Grey returns, leading the fully uniformed Justus into the chamber. Brass watches as the droid directs the lieutenant to a high-backed chair at the far end of the table—about twenty meters distant—and then discreetly moves along the length of the table to take up a position at his master’s side. But Justus doesn’t sit, just as Brass doesn’t bother to stand. He just looks around at him, appraising the great magnitude of the room and all its trimmings, and finally says something that sounds like, “Satire doesn’t work, does it?”

  Brass gives a shake of the head and says, “I beg your pardon? You’ll need to raise your voice while you’re in here.”

  Justus says louder, “I said, satire doesn’t work, does it?”

  “That’s what I thought you said. What does it mean?”

  “It’s just an observation. When cartoonists satirize the lives of the rich and powerful, they often show some evil old trillionaire sitting in a castle eating caviar and hummingbird tongues. It’s meant to be larger-than-life—an exaggeration, an absurdity. But the rich and powerful too often don’t see it that way. All they see is a standard that needs to be emulated. So clearly satire doesn’t work.”

  Brass is even more disconcerted by the lieutenant’s attitude than he is by Leonardo Grey’s. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen Justus being disrespectful before—they parted the previous day after a veritable torrent of vitriol—but this is something altogether new. Justus is now being disrespectful with a hint of mockery. It’s almost as if he believes he has the upper hand.

  “Take a seat, Lieutenant, before the irony overcomes you. I’d offer you a coffee but I wouldn’t want you to get any more excited than you seem to be already.”

  “That’s okay—I’ve eaten half a pack of BrightIze™. I don’t normally touch the stuff, but it’s been a long night.”

  “Been a few places?”

  “You could say that.”

  “How’s your daughter?” Brass asks.

  He expects Justus to flare. Or glare. But instead the lieutenant just chuckles and draws up a seat. “I think she’s going to be okay,” he says, sitting down. “It’s what I came here about, actually.”

  “Oh?” Brass raises an eyebrow, doing his best to appear unfazed.

  “Yeah. After all, I came to Purgatory in order to protect my daughter, in a roundabout sort of way. And when you pulled that rug from under my feet I figured I had nothing to lose.”

  “Now you’re being presumptuous again, Lieutenant—I didn’t expect that. Nothing in your profile suggested that you were presumptuous. Or intemperate.”

  “I’m neither. But when you threatened her, I just—”

  “Who says I threatened her?”

  “I know a threat when I hear one.”

  “Then I suggest you rewind our conversation in your head and listen to what I said again. Because I never made a threat. Nothing of the sort. And I would have clarified that point yesterday if you’d given me a chance to respond. In fact, my only intention in mentioning your daughter was to draw a similarity between the two of us. You have a daughter, as do I.”

  “A daughter you ordered assassinated.”

  Now Brass feels free to act completely outraged. “That’s contemptible, Lieutenant. Where do you get off, making such preposterous accusations?”

  Justus just shrugs.

  “If you weren’t fired already,” Brass goes on, “then consider yourself fired forthwith. This is scandalous. Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m just an honest cop. Or at least I was.”

  “An honest cop, or just an incompetent one? What gives you the gall to say I ordered my daughter’s assassination? Do you have the faintest proof?”

  “Not me personally. All I know is that Leonardo Brown, your daughter’s valet, accepted delivery of a high-powered explosive at her front door, then carried it inside. Whether he was acting on instruction, or knew what he was doing—that I haven’t been able to determine. And I’m sure I never will. In fact, I’m sure that all the available evidence will somehow implicate the very people who were blown up. That’s what happens in corrupt states with corrupt law enforcement bureaus. My only regret is that I refused to see it from the start. Because I desperately wanted to believe that there was a way out. And because I wanted to live—anywhere—that made me no danger to my daughter’s life.”

  “How very moving. But you still haven’t explained how you came to this preposterous theory.”

  Justus smirks. And though Brass doesn’t like it—the brazen insolence—he feels compelled to hear the man out.

  “You know, Mr. Brass, I’ve had a very interesting twelve hours. Fourteen hours, whatever—I’m not even sure anymore. First, I drove all the way to Peary Base and made a call to the South Pole. Then I drove back through the night to Purgatory. Top speed. I reached the Gates at around three o’clock in the morning. But I struggled to get in at first. There was something going on in the screening section. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I forced my way through and what I saw was absolute chaos. Seemed an android had arrived and demanded access to Sin. And when he didn’t get it he went berserk. Killed all the security personnel, a secretary, a nurse, and one of the people who’d been with him in the van. The only survivor was a lady the droid was carrying to the hospital. There was blood everywhere. Severed limbs. Seven people dead, altogether.”

  Brass is genuinely shocked. “I wasn’t informed about this . . .”

  “Of course not. Who’d want to interrupt your sleep? When you had such a big day ahead?”

  “That’s another contemptible comment, Lieutenant. Of course I’d want to be informed. Who was this android? Where did it come from?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Justus smirks again. “Well, you see, Mr. Brass, it seems you knew this android already. He’s one of yours. He worked for you. You certainly didn’t know he was on the loose—one of the drawbacks, I guess, of being so busy and distracted is that you can’t keep an eye on everything—but you sure knew about him. You were the one who ordered his reprogramming, in fact. You tried to keep it secret, and it might’ve worked too, only something went wrong. The technicians made a mistake. The android got loaded up with your psychopathic corporate philosophies before the proper inhibitors could be activated. And he went insane. Out of control. Just the way you’ve been out of control for decades, Mr. Brass—except that you, most of the time, have been getting away with it. You’ve used all your power and influence to get away with it. And yet here we are.”

  Brass has never felt more discomposed. It’s rare that he’s the last to know something, and even rarer that he doesn’t know how to react. Part of him wants to explode and storm off, just as a defensive ploy
. But he senses that’s not in order. Added to that, he just doesn’t like the way Justus is communicating all this news to him—as if he doesn’t care about his own fate, or worse, has no reason to be concerned.

  “This is preposterous,” Brass manages again. But he has the knife and fork clutched in his hands like weapons. “I hope you realize how preposterous this sounds.”

  “Preposterous?” Justus says. “You keep saying that. Then again, I probably would’ve thought it was all preposterous myself until I came to Purgatory. Until last night, when I heard the story of Leonardo Black. Until a few hours ago, in fact, when I actually spoke to Black myself. I spoke to him just as you prefer people to speak to you. Because he was you, in a way—your black soul. So it wasn’t hard to fit into place the last pieces of your grand plan. I can tell you now, if you like—what was supposed to happen, anyway.”

  Brass can’t decide how to respond. So Justus just goes on:

  “You didn’t trust anyone to take your place while you were away on the Mars expedition. Not any of your associates, not any of your department heads, not that actor who stands in for you, and certainly not your daughter. So you got the bright idea to replace yourself with an android: Leonardo Black. Your bodyguard. You were going to make him a proxy Fletcher Brass—only many times more physically powerful. And he was going to rule this place like a tyrant. He was going to make all the ruthless decisions, fire people, even kill if necessary. But to pave the way for his appointment you wanted to create a bit of chaos—you wanted to make it look like such a tyrant was justified by the circumstances. And you wanted to get rid of anybody you feared might seize power anyway. You’d kill two birds—three birds, ten birds, whatever—with one stone. So you had your assassins go to work, with the full cooperation of the PPD—political murders that would never be solved because crucial evidence was erased, contaminated, or falsified. And that part might’ve worked too, only half the players in the PPD were too shiftless to play their roles. And of course there were others who knew more than you thought. People who were just as ruthless and cunning as you. People you thought you were moving around like pawns but who in fact were moving you. ‘Don’t play chess, play people’—isn’t that one of your laws? Well, sometimes the master should be wary of the apprentices.”

  Brass feels caught off guard again. And to make matters worse, Justus is just staring at him, waiting for a response. So he chuckles incredulously. “Again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m mainly talking about your daughter, Mr. Brass. You know, the one you trusted least of all? The one you were planning to imprison at first—lock her up after you’d framed her for the assassinations, of course, until—”

  Brass, seizing the moment, can’t help interjecting. “You really have no idea, do you, Lieutenant?” he says. “Are you really that naïve? Really? I had no intention of locking up my daughter while I was away—because my daughter was coming with me.”

  This silences Justus—he’s got a blank expression on his starfish face—and Brass makes the most of it.

  “That’s right—she was coming with me. To Mars. You can ask Ms. Powers if you like. My daughter was coming with me. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  Justus pauses. “And QT herself—did she know about this?”

  “No, Lieutenant—of course she didn’t know. Because I was taking her against her will. I was taking her for her own good.”

  “You were going to kidnap her?”

  “Call it what you like. Because I wasn’t going to let my daughter—my own flesh and blood—become the target of rogues and assassins. And that’s exactly what would have happened if she stayed here—because like you, she was naïve. She wouldn’t have lasted two weeks as the leader of Purgatory.”

  “I think your daughter would have a thing or two to say about that.”

  “You do, do you? Well, what does it matter now?”

  “Because you ordered her assassination?”

  “No—I ordered no such thing. You’re wrong yet again. I have no idea who killed her. Good Lord, do you think I’m happy she’s dead?”

  “Well, you sure as hell didn’t sound too happy with her yesterday, when you thought she was trying to pin the deaths of the Leafists on—”

  “But that doesn’t mean I’d kill her. Would you kill your daughter? Of course not. Just as I’d never kill my own daughter.”

  “You’d kidnap her but you’d never kill her?”

  “I’d kidnap her to save her. Can you not tell the difference?”

  Justus pauses a moment and then sighs. “No, Mr. Brass—you’re lying.”

  “What? How dare you tell me I’m lying!”

  “I’ll dare to tell you whatever I like. I don’t answer to you or anyone else. I’m no longer a police officer, remember? So I’ll tell you what I do know—as facts. You might have planned to kidnap QT at one stage, but when you found out about her plans you changed your mind. And you ordered her assassination.”

  “You have no proof of that.”

  “Do I need proof anymore? The silence is the answer, remember? Well, in your case, everything about you is the answer. Your history. The reason you’re here on the Moon. The litany of death and broken lives you’ve left behind. Your narcissism. Your egomania. The Leafists. Your plans to replace yourself with a killer android. Your goddamned laws. And the way you threatened my daughter. No, Mr. Brass, in your case I don’t need proof. Because everything you’ve done is proof enough. But there’s more.”

  Justus has gotten to his feet now and there’s the sound of an explosion outside—the swelling crowd seem to be letting off fireworks. Or dynamite. Or something.

  “You see, Mr. Brass, you’ve been so far out of the loop, out there at your rocket base, that you don’t even realize how flimsy your support network is. You’re the leader who barricades himself behind lackeys and lickspittles, little realizing that they’re always the first people to turn when the breeze changes direction. Well, I found out all about that in the last twenty hours or so. When it became clear that you’d ordered the death of QT Brass, and when Leonardo Black went on his little rampage. I met a few people and learned a few things. I was amazed, but I shouldn’t have been. Because you’ve gone too far this time, and you were never as much in control as you think. You’ve been played. You’ve been checkmated. And you’re in for a very rude surprise—much sooner than you think. As a father, you should be very proud.”

  Justus turns and starts walking toward the exit, but Brass shoots to his feet, slamming his cutlery onto the breakfast plate.

  “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Brass.”

  “I said, what the fuck does that mean?” Brass steps out from behind the table. “ANSWER ME!”

  Justus keeps walking toward the door.

  Brass is livid. “ANSWER ME, YOU STAR-FACED CUNT!”

  But it’s only at the door—about thirty meters away—that Justus finally turns. With an insufferable look on his disfigured face.

  “No, Mr. Brass—I’ve made my decision. I’ve cut a deal, in fact. It was either you or me. And I figure, for my daughter’s sake, that it’s better that it’s you.” He reaches for the door, but suddenly turns back. “Oh yes,” he says, “an afterthought. A last little message—an art I’ve learned since I came here.”

  Brass bristles. “What the fuck are you talking about now?”

  “In this instance, it’s just an observation. You’re free to agree with it or not. But it seems to me that, even after all this, even after all I’ve said to you just now, you’re still the man in charge. You’re still Number One. You’re still the Patriarch of Purgatory, am I right?”

  “Are you fucking joking?”

  “I’m just asking. This is your kingdom, isn’t it?”

  “I said, are you joking?”

  “So you’re the King.”

  “I am the fucking King.”

  “You’re the Wizard.”

&n
bsp; “I’m everything you’re not, you shit—what is this supposed to mean?”

  Justus just snorts. “Farewell, Mr. Brass.”

  And he goes out, letting the door fall shut behind him.

  Brass stands in place, fuming, wondering what to do, hearing the increasingly noisy crowd outside. Then he tries to turn, just to get out of the room. But suddenly something drags him back.

  Brass, outraged, can’t believe it. He can’t move. Something has seized him from behind—by the hair.

  He struggles, but the grip is fierce. And he’s being tilted forward—by the head.

  He squirms and swivels and looks up, furious, and sees that it’s Leonardo Grey, grinning wickedly, who’s grabbed him.

  But the droid’s eyes aren’t grey. They’re black. And he’s holding a terrifying foot-long blade in his right hand.

  “You’re not really a conquistador,” the droid hisses, “until you hold the King’s head high.”

  Brass tries to raise his hands, but the blade is already sweeping across his throat.

  46

  BLACK HAS BARELY FINISHED taking care of business when Justus reaches the third floor vestibule. He’s making his way across this great chamber—brass pillars, parquet floor, a sculpted wall of bearded faces—when he hears a voice from the shadows.

  “Welcome to the Dark Side, Lieutenant.”

  Justus, stopping in his tracks, recognizes the voice immediately. But he waits for his eyes to adjust before responding.

  “I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he says.

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  “It’s still a moment for sadness, isn’t it?”

  “The King must die so the country may live—Robespierre said that.”

  “You’re quoting Robespierre now?”

  “This is our first revolution, so why not?”

  She steps into a coppery strip of morning light. Since their meeting a few hours earlier she’s glammed herself up in clerical black and white—jacket, pleated skirt, blouse, and silken black tie—and she looks like she means business. Like a distaff version of Leonardo Black, before he costumed himself as Leonardo Grey.