The Dark Side (2 page)

This is not unusual. Occasionally, when maintenance tasks need to be performed, OWIP will send around a droid. It saves them the trouble of rounding up the armed guards. And even if a prisoner were to overpower the droid somehow, or disable it, it would do him little good—there would be no pressurized vehicle
to escape on, since the droids customarily travel on “moon-buggy” LRVs. And there wouldn't be much advantage in taking a droid hostage—OWIP would just write off the unit and deny the prisoner privileges for a while.

Dijkstra punches a button to open the airlock door.

The droid steps inside, still grinning. Strictly speaking, full pressurization procedures aren't necessary with robots, but the lunar dust still needs to be removed. So the droid raises his arms as the electrostatic and ultrasonic scrubbers whirl around him like the brushes in a car wash. Then the red lights stop flashing and the amber lights come on. Then the all-clear buzzes. Dijkstra opens the airlock's inner door, and the droid steps inside.

“Good day to you, sir,” he says, extending a hand. “And many thanks for admitting me.”

“No problem,” says Dijkstra, flustered despite himself. He's always liked androids—as symbols of ruthless economics—but this one is disconcertingly real, even intimidating. And his hand feels sensual—almost
sexual
. “Have you been sent by OWIP?” he asks hurriedly.

“Can you say that again, sir?”

“I asked if you'd been sent by OWIP.”

“I'm sorry, sir, I do not recognize that name. Is it a company, a corporation, a consortium, an office of law enforcement, or a government department?”

“It's an international program, but never mind. You're with a survey team, then?”

“What do you mean by ‘survey team,' sir?”

“Geological . . . seismological . . . astronomical.”

“I am not with a survey team, sir. I am looking for El Dorado.”

“El Dorado?”

“That is what I said, sir.”

For a second Dijkstra wonders if this is some sort of joke. But then a possibility occurs to him. “You're with one of the mining teams?”

“I am not with one of the mining teams, sir.”

“But you want to go to El Dorado?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Well, it could be some new place I don't know about . . .”

“So you cannot help me, sir?”

“Not if you want to go to El Dorado.”

The droid is silent. It's impossible to say why—his goofy expression never changes—but there seems something sinister about him now. Nevertheless Dijkstra, always hungering for a chance to talk—to anything—is reluctant to let him go.

“Can I help you in some other way?” he asks. “Perhaps you'd like to—” He is about to say “refuel” but stops himself. It's absurd, of course, but the more human the robot, the less one is likely to acknowledge its artificiality. “Perhaps you'd like to sit down for a while?”

“Do you have any high-proof alcohol, sir?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Any sort of alcohol at all?”

“I don't drink.”

“Then do you have some other sort of beverage?”

“What about coffee—instant coffee?”

“That would be excellent, sir—I would welcome a drink of instant coffee. With fifteen teaspoons of sugar.”

“I can do that,” says Dijkstra. Clearly the droid is one of those models fueled by alcohol and glucose. In the old days they were often made that way, so they could blend in with humans. So they would have identifiable appetites—even the need to eliminate waste.

Dijkstra prepares the coffee. Water boils at a lower temperature on the Moon, but most people have gotten used to tepid brews. “May I ask who you're with?” he inquires over the bubbling pot.

“I am all by myself, sir.”

“But you must be—” Dijkstra starts to say, then holds his tongue. Maybe the droid is some sort of monitoring unit, tasked with watching him at close range. Even now, sitting primly at the table, he seems to be conducting a slow survey of the room.

“You have a very beautiful place here, sir,” the droid says, smiling.

“Thank you,” says Dijkstra. “It's spartan, but many of history's greatest men were spartan.”

“Are you a Spartan?”

“Well, I wouldn't be here if I wasn't.”

“Are you a great man?”

“That's for history to decide.”

“Are you a conquistador?”

Dijkstra shrugs. “Not yet.”

“I am going to be a conquistador,” says the droid.

“I suppose that's why you want to reach El Dorado.”

“That is precisely the reason, sir. Are we rivals?”

“Rivals?”

“If you also aim to be a conquistador, then we are rivals, are we not, sir?”

“Only if you want to be.”

Filling the coffee mug, Dijkstra considers the possibility that there's something wrong with the droid. The Farside comm line—his only connection with the outside world—has been down for about twenty hours. It happens sometimes—solar fluxes and cosmic radiation can short-circuit the substations and junction boxes—so maybe this droid has a few fried circuits as well.

He comes over to the table and maneuvers into a seat, holding out the coffee. “I've already stirred it.”

“I am grateful, sir.”

The droid—he really is astonishingly handsome, Dijkstra thinks—picks up the mug and takes dainty sips, like a vicar at afternoon tea.

“This is good coffee,” he says.

“Thank you,” says Dijkstra. “Do you come from . . . some base?”

“I do not recall where I come from, sir. I only look forward, to the future.”

“Well, that makes sense.”

“It does make sense, sir. Do you live here permanently?”

“I do.”

“All alone?”

“That's right.”

“Then how do you contribute to the bottom line?”

“I'm not sure what you mean by ‘bottom line.' ”

“Are you an asset or a liability?”

“I would certainly classify myself as an asset.”

“To the economy?”

“To the world.”

The droid takes a while to process this answer. Eventually he says, “Then do you have anything else to offer me, sir, other than this fine coffee?”

“Anything like what?”

“Anything at all.” Still staring.

For a moment Dijkstra entertains the thrilling possibility that the droid has been sent by admirers; that he has been assigned the task of retrieving his manifesto and smuggling it back to Earth.

“Well, that depends. Do you know who I am?”

“I do not, sir.”

“The people who sent you, do they know who I am?”

“I have been sent by no people, sir.”

“You have no task to perform here?”

“I only want directions, sir.”

“Then you're not here to take my writings?”

“Only if your writings can help me find El Dorado, sir.”

There's no easy answer to that, Dijkstra thinks. But he has to accept that his dream, brief as it was, has no substance. And suddenly he feels mildly deflated. He wanted the droid to offer him something—some form of hope.

“Can I get you another cup?” Dijkstra asks—the droid is finishing his coffee.

“That is very generous of you, sir. But I must be on my way.
Move. Move. While others sleep, move
.” He gets to his feet.

“Perhaps I can offer you some sugar cubes, then? For your journey?”

“You are again very generous, sir. I will gratefully accept that offer.”

Dijkstra goes to his pantry, wondering why he is being so solicitous. His stores of sugar are rather low and fresh supplies sometimes take weeks to reach him. And yet here he is offering no-cost welfare, against all his principles. It's almost as if he's been manipulated. Or weakened, somehow.

When he comes back he finds the droid holding out his hand, still smiling. And when he hands over the sugar cubes he notices for the first time a dark red stain on the droid's shirt cuff.

“Oh,” he says impulsively, “is that—What's that? Is it blood?”

“It is not blood, sir.”

“It looks like blood.”

“It is not blood, sir.” The droid lowers his arm, so the cuff is
no longer visible. “But that is of no concern to you, sir. You have been helpful to me. You have supplied me with coffee and sugar. You have not even charged for this supply. So you do not qualify as vermin.”

“Well,” says Dijkstra, chuckling evasively, “we all breathe the same air.”

The droid leans in close—so close that Dijkstra can smell the coffee on his breath. “Can you say that again, sir?”

“I said, we all breathe the same air.”

Dijkstra has not spoken sarcastically or mockingly. The expression has simply become a common saying on the Moon—both a half-ironic gesture of fraternity and an acknowledgment of the Moon's most valuable commodity.

But the droid seems to read into it something much more meaningful.

“You say we breathe the same air, sir?”

“That's right.”

“So we are rivals after all, are we, sir?”

“Rivals?”

“For air?”

Dijkstra almost laughs: The droid sounds offended—or
eager
to be offended. So he just says, “Well, I guess we're all rivals in the end, aren't we? Competition makes the world go 'round.”

And the droid, who's about the same height as Dijkstra, continues to stare at him with his intensely black eyes—Dijkstra has never seen more soulless eyes. And Dijkstra, murderer of sixty-two people, is chilled. Because he conceives of a whole new scenario: that the droid has been sent by his enemies, all those miserable soft cocks and fashion victims on Earth, to
prevent
his message from getting out. To
censor
him somehow.

Then the droid blinks.

“Thank you, sir.” He thrusts out his hand again. “You are a worthy gentleman.” And they shake on it.

Dijkstra feels unusually relieved. “Well,” he says, “good luck on your journey.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I certainly hope you find El Dorado.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I hope you become a conquistador.”

“I intend to, sir.”

“Then I'll open the airlock and let you out.”

“And I will be standing here, sir.”

Dijkstra goes toward his control panel, experiencing a sudden flush of anticipation. Minutes ago he wanted to prolong his guest's visit; now he's just looking forward to being alone. But first he has to open the airlock. Which means he has to turn his back.

Which means that it's only out of the corner of his eye that he registers movement—the droid picking something up. A wrench that's been left on the workbench.

Dijkstra wheels around defensively, but it's already too late. The droid, no longer smiling, is swooping down on him.

Dijkstra tries to raise his hands, but the wrench comes crashing down on his head.
Crack
.
Crack
. The droid is relentless.
Crack
. Dijkstra sees his own blood in his eyes.
Crack
. He falls to the floor.
Crack
.
Crack
. The droid is smashing his head in.

Crack. Crack
.

“
It's good to have a rival
,” the droid hisses, splattered with Kleef Dijkstra's blood. “
It's even better to crack his skull
.”

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

I
F YOU'RE AN AVERAGE
tourist, then the Moon is very likely a once-in-a-lifetime destination. You'll take a shuttle from Florida, Costa Rica, Kazakhstan, French Guiana, Tanegashima in Japan, or the converted oil rig on the Malabar Coast. You'll probably be tempted to spend a few days at the StarLight Casino in low-Earth orbit: The Carousel Room, you'll be happy to hear, is every bit as spectacular as its reputation. From there you'll take the ferry to one of the Moon's major ports, most likely Doppelmayer Base in the Sea of Moisture or Lyall Base in the Sea of Tranquility. You'll check into one of the hotels: the Copernicus, the Hilton, the HoneyMoon, the Interstellar, or the Overview. You'll spend a few days adjusting and/or recovering. Then you'll probably go on a little tour of the local attractions: the amusement parks, the observation towers, the sporting stadia, the famous ballet theater. You'll certainly make a tour of the Apollo landing
sites, the domed-over Apollo 11 site in particular. If you're really ambitious, you might even make a jaunt to the South Pole to admire the jawdropping Shackleton Crater, four times as deep as the Grand Canyon.

If, on the other hand, you've come to the Moon for cut-rate or illegal surgery, for contraband drugs, for illicit sex, for death sports, for high-stakes gambling, or simply to conduct an unmonitored conversation, your destination will certainly be Purgatory and its capital city of Sin, on Farside.

To get there, you'll board the magnetically levitated m-train, or monorail, which in theory can reach its destination in just five hours, approaching speeds of a thousand kilometers per hour. In reality the train will spend half an hour just being tested and pressurized and shunted through a series of airlocks, and then a further two hours curling around the various factories, museums, communication centers, and radio towers that pepper the region between Doppelmayer Base and the lunar Carpathians. But once the track is straight and the land is clear, the train will start streaking at jet-liner speeds over the undulating grey/tan/beige terrain.

Looking through the heavily tinted windows you'll see quarries out there, and robotic excavators, and conveyor belts disappearing into flashing metallurgies. You'll see solar-panel arrays, flywheel farms, and microelectronics factories mounted on platforms. Not to mention trolleys and tractors and trenchers and scrapers and multilegged vehicles: all the vehicular accoutrements of grand-scale resource exploitation. You'll whisk over the viaduct of the sun-synchronous harvest train, ten klicks in length, which crawls around the lunar equator laden with fruits and vegetables. You might even see a freight train flashing past in the opposite direction, so fast that it will appear as a brief streak of light. Then you'll settle back as the m-train soars across the Sea of Showers,
cruises across Plato Crater, dissects the narrow Sea of Cold, and enters the northern uplands, where the dust is brighter, the terrain more mountainous, and the shadows long and eerie.