The Dark Side (36 page)

Brass chuckles and glances at Justus.

“Now you're probably thinking, well, what's the difference between that and Purgatory? And yes, I'm fully aware that our own society has many superficial similarities to Pitcairn. But the real wonder of it—and here I must allow myself a certain amount of pride—is that Purgatory has not just survived but boomed. Despite the enclosed environment and all the self-righteous sociopaths. I've certainly outlasted my namesake—I haven't killed myself, or died of natural causes, or been murdered by fellow criminals . . . not yet, anyway. And do you know why all that is? Well, there's the iron hand of discipline, for a start. There's the way I've contrived to make life here perpetually interesting—
tumultuous
, you might say—which is an important psychological factor in a place like this. But the principal reason, the
crucial
reason, though it's not one I ever openly advertise, is that Purgatory is
not really as isolated as you think
. Geographically, of course it is. Visually—that too. But
politically
and
philosophically
 . . . well, after a few years of showy defiance, I secretly began reopening the lines of communication. Covertly, of course, because it suited me to no end to be portrayed as the heroic exile. But behind the scenes the umbilical cord to Earth was quietly reattached. I accepted the inevitability of that. I swallowed my pride. I mean, do they still call me a megalomaniac on the Blue Ball? Well, it's a glib term, anyway. I can have my moments, to be sure. I frighten myself sometimes—and I mean that. But the real key to my success, the boring reality that finances all my astronomical ambitions, is my pragmatic side. I guess I'm trying to say that I'm not quite the pariah that I seem. I won't go into the full details, but I'm
much more powerful than you think. And my tentacles reach to places you wouldn't believe. Even on Earth.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A threat? No; why do you say that? I'm merely pointing out a cruel irony. That I have more control over parts of Earth than I do over parts of my own kingdom. Over parts of my own family, come to think of it. Ah, here she is.”

For a chilling second Justus thinks he's about to see QT Brass. But in fact they've arrived at a sort of garage or pit stop: automobile parts on shelves and hooks, a dismembered vehicle on a hydraulic lift, cans of obsolete engine fuels and oils. And off to the side, facing the open door, the centerpiece itself—a candy-apple red Mustang with white stripes, polished chrome wheels, and silver side scoops.

“She's a beauty, isn't she?” Brass is already opening the passenger door. “A 1966 Shelby Cobra GT350.”

“This the one you bought at auction—?”

“For nine hundred thousand dollars, that's right. All that time ago. You've read about it?”

“Something. Somewhere.”

“Then please, Lieutenant”—Brass is holding open the door—“get in.”

“Are you taking me for a ride?”

“In the most literal way possible.”

“In here?”

“Why not? You're not scared, are you?”

“I'm not scared.”

“Then please, get in.”

Justus, not without caution, slides into a creaky old bucket seat of hand-stitched leather. And for a minute he just takes it all in: the stainless-steel instrument panel, the deeply recessed
analogue clock, the wood-grain steering wheel, the silver gearshift, the whole
smell
of an era when there were filling stations on every corner and car accidents at every second intersection.

“Even better inside, isn't she?” The car actually bounces as Brass folds himself into the driver's seat.

“Like an office,” says Justus.

“Like an office—that's it exactly. You've read about it, I assume? How I've cut some of my most important deals in this car?”

“Something. Somewhere.”

“Well, it's a tradition, really. All those people I've done business with over the years, all those corporate rivals and bureaucrats and the like, they never really felt at ease in a boardroom. Too stitched up, or too paranoid about being recorded, I suppose. But take them for a ride on this filly, let them feel the 335 horsepower rattling up their spines—well, that really loosened them up. Made liars into honest men. The security, I think, of speaking under the growl of a roaring engine. Listen to this.”

He inserts the key in the ignition and guns the motor, makes it throb and rumble, makes every bone in Justus's body vibrate.

“What do you make of that?” he asks.

“Impressive,” says Justus.

“Sensual, I like to think.”

“You could say that.”

“So are you ready, Lieutenant? For a bit of a spin?”

“Sure.”

“Then you'll need to buckle up, I'm afraid.”

Justus fastens the belts as Brass releases the brakes and sets the car rolling. They go slowly down a bumpy incline and around a bend, and come to a halt in a whole new gallery—a massive tunnel stretching for about a mile in a gun-barrel line, smoothed and featureless on all sides but for air vents and sunken lamps. It's like
something you might find under the Swiss Alps or the English Channel or an old Soviet palace—a muscle-car driver's dream, and all, it seems, so that Brass can go for a joy ride on the far side of the Moon.

“Not quite the Nürburgring,” Brass says. “But we've learned to love it.”

“We?”

“I'm not the only speed freak in Purgatory.”

“Uh-huh.” Justus discreetly clutches the seat.

Brass applies some pressure to the pedal, so that the engine snarls and the needles bounce and the exhaust blasts coils of smoke. Then he releases the hand brake and puts the pedal to the floor and the Mustang blurts off with a howl and a screech, so that for a moment Justus's worst fears seem realized. But they travel for over a minute down the lava tube and the speedometer doesn't register anything higher than forty miles an hour. And then, with space abruptly running out, Brass quickly shifts down and the car eases to a halt within a few meters of a moonrock wall.

“How was that?”

“Smooth,” Justus says, relieved.

“We've ballasted the car's chassis to give it some stability. But in this gravity it can go off the dial, literally—well over 160 miles an hour. On Earth that was the absolute limit. But even there I did it when I felt it was appropriate, when I really needed to loosen a tongue a two. One of my favorite unofficial courses was Highway One on the Pacific Coast. I guess you could say I had an understanding with the highway patrol down there. I remember one time I took the governor himself on a bit of a joy ride. God, I can't even remember his name.”

“Governor Guerra.”

“Guerra, that's right.” Brass is slowly executing a U-turn. “And when we hit 120 I asked him if what I'd heard was true, all those rumors. Something to do with aerospace restrictions—I can't even remember the details.”

“California was going to ban Mach One flights over residential areas unless you paid a yearly stipend.”

“That's right! That's exactly right! Was that in one of my books?”

“In a few of them.”

“Well, I probably don't need to tell you, then, do I?” They're facing down the tunnel again, the Mustang idling. “I asked Guerra if he'd cut a sweetheart deal with one of my rivals. If he'd really accepted a few million under the table and was trying to force me into a corner. And he sat for a while in the seat you're sitting in now—we were at maybe 140 by that stage, really hanging out over the edge—and he wasn't saying a word. But this wasn't
frightened
silence, you see. This was
eloquent
silence. The silence had
meaning
, like the silence from outer space. Because the silence
was
the answer—do you understand what I'm saying?”

“You'd scared the truth out of him.”

“In a way. But it's a little more elegant than that. Let's have another spin, shall we?”

And without waiting for an answer Brass gears up and floors the pedal, and the Mustang blurts off down the tube, snarling and spitting and coughing fumes. This time they go considerably faster, maybe eighty miles an hour, hurtling toward the far end of the tunnel, through the lingering smoke, through the beams of light, too fast to take the curve, and aimed like a missile at the rock face. For a few seconds it seems certain to Justus that they're going to hit the wall—just so Brass can make some mad point—and he feels himself pressing back, appalled, into the upholstery.
But just in time Brass slams the brakes and the car shrieks to a halt amid more clouds of smoking rubber.

Brass has a crazed look in his eyes. “Loosen some marrow that time?”

“Loosened something,” Justus says.

Brass chortles. “It's good to taunt death sometimes. It's one of the great paradoxes, isn't it? That people only appreciate life after they've come close to death? I mean, how long has it been since Earth faced a planet-ending threat? Something that really jolted them out of their complacency? That burnt-out comet a few decades ago? And yet we get arrogant again so quickly. We forget that sweet taste of mortality. Of course there are plenty of people who flirt with death purposely—who seem positively addicted to it. They used to say that about me. They
still
say that about me—about this whole trip to Mars. It could be said of my daughter too—the foolish way she goes about things. Foolish, I say, because in her case there's no real point to it. So why does she do it? Is she trying to prove herself? Should I blame myself, perhaps, for failing to control her? For being asleep at the wheel, so to speak? Well, I'll leave that for others to decide. But I do know that she's recently become something of a problem. A major problem. You have a daughter yourself, do you not?”

Justus stiffens. “That's right.”

“Then you probably know what I'm talking about. Children can be so problematic, can't they?”

“They can be.”

“Oh, don't think I'm casting aspersions on your own daughter. I'm just pointing out that QT has become
particularly
problematic. Perhaps she's always been that way. Perhaps I've been too long in denial. She
was
the one who forced you to make that phone call, am I right?”

“What phone call?”

“Come now, Lieutenant—you know the call I mean.”

“No, I don't.”

Brass's lynx eyes flare. “Then I'll
tell
you the call I mean. The one just hours ago, when you asked my flight coordinator for details of the passenger list for the Mars trip. That was my daughter pulling your strings, was it not?”

“I don't let anyone pull my strings, Mr. Brass—I thought that was understood.”

“Then she pulled your strings without your even being aware of it—she can do that too.”

“I'm telling you she didn't.”

“And I'm
informing
you that she did.”

“Well, then”—Justus shrugs—“perhaps you'd like to tell me why that passenger list is so sensitive to you.”

“Is that an admission?”

“It's nothing of the sort. But why is it important?”

“Why is it important?
Why?
” Brass chuckles madly. “Because the silence is the answer.”

“I don't get it.”

“Are you sure you want to?”

“I am.”

“Then
let me show you
, Lieutenant.”

Brass suddenly squeezes the steering wheel and slams the accelerator and
bang
, the Mustang blurts off again down the lava tube, hurtling through the haze and the light, and when they're halfway down the tunnel he steers the Mustang onto the rounded wall, as though it's the most natural thing imaginable, and there they stay, actually
driving on the wall
, and heading for the end of the tunnel—it's a hundred meters away, fifty, twenty—before he swings the steering wheel and thumps the brakes and they level
off to another heart-stopping halt, a single car length from destruction.

“Because the silence is the answer!”
Brass cries again, and there's a fierce tremble to his voice now. “Because the universe is
screaming
it at us—are we too deaf to hear? We're
that
close to death—just
one inch
from oblivion! We must reach out, we must explore, secure a foothold, blaze a trail—we
must
! Because this is our purpose—
our only purpose
! It's a divine fucking mission! Nothing else matters!
Nothing!
And I can't let anything—
anything
—stand in my way. Or anyone—
even if it's my own fucking daughter
—try to thwart me. Do you understand what I'm trying to say now, Lieutenant?
The silence is the answer!
”

Justus doesn't say anything, but his face twitches, betraying his confusion.

So Brass spins the wheel again and screeches around and slams the pedal and they
explode
down the tube—zero to sixty in five seconds—and accelerate and accelerate and
accelerate
with the engine howling and Brass spinning the wheel and they shoot up the walls and before Justus knows it they're driving
on the ceiling
—unbelievable!—and then back down the walls and onto the floor and up the walls again and onto the ceiling—they're
corkscrewing
down the tunnel—and Justus coils his body defensively as they flash toward the wall again—150 meters, 50, 25—until Brass wrenches the gearshift and floors the brake pedal and suddenly they're screeching to a halt
not five inches
from the wall, with the engine growling and the smoke rising like fog and Brass turning with lips curled and his eyes flashing and his mouth snarling: