The Dark Side (38 page)

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.

T
HE 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.”

“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.”

“You—?” The man snorts. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I am trying to establish a good relationship with you, sir. It would be mutually advantageous to establish an emotional bond, since we need each other to reach our objectives.”

“Well, maybe we do—maybe we do at that.” The man shakes his head. “But my main objective right now is to get her to Purgatory as soon as possible, okay?”

“You talk sense, sir. I too would like to get to Purgatory. Will you join me up front, and offer me directions?”

“In a few minutes. I wanna give her a checkup first.”

“Very well, sir.”

The droid returns to the driver's seat, parting some hanging beads, and before long the van is hurtling along at ambulance speed.

“Can I open your first-aid kit?” the man asks from behind.

“Of course, sir, I have no further need of it.”

The man fumbles through the case, holding objects up to the light.

“There are no disinfectants in this kit,” he says.

“I am sorry, sir, I drank them.”

“You
drank
them?”

“For the alcohol content.”

They continue in silence for another ten minutes, the man attending to his colleague with fresh bandages. Then he clears his throat and says, “Since when does the postal service hire androids anyway?”

“Androids are more efficient and cost effective, sir.”

“But there are limitations . . . cognitive limitations.”

“There are no limitations, sir. I am, on top of everything else, not really an android.”

“Is that right?”

“It is right.”

“Well, what are you, then?”

“I am a man, sir. A man's man. A ladies' man. The main man. The big man. A man among men. I am
the
man, sir.”

The other man is quiet for a few moments, then says, “You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

“I am also the Wizard, sir. A conquistador. And soon to be the King.”

The man considers this in silence as the van races through the darkness.

“What happened to that other guy?” he asks.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That Vietnamese guy—D-Tox or whatever he was called.”

“Why do you ask, sir?”

“This is his van, isn't it?”

“It is.”

“Then what happened to him? He delivered some supplies to us just a couple of days ago.”

“I'm afraid he has suffered a fit, sir. At a compound farther south.”

“A fit? What sort of a fit?”

“A fit so violent that he cannot be transported in a fast-moving vehicle.”

“And he just had a violent fit? Just like that?”

“You might say he lost his head, sir.”

The man thinks about it. “So you're going to Purgatory to fetch help?”

“That is correct.”

“Then where did
you
come from? That you just slipped into the driver's seat?”

“I was in the van all along.”

“Like a spare wheel?”

“I suppose you could say that, sir.”

“But you don't know the way around?”

“Only what I've seen on these maps, sir. I am not fully programmed with directions in this hemisphere, as I've been working elsewhere.”

“In the southern hemisphere?”

“That is correct. Are you able to offer me directions right now? I wish to know the best means of entering Purgatory.”

The man gets up and leans forward over the front seat, examining the illuminated maps. “You see that highway there?”
He points. “That's the Road of Lamentation. If you enter at that junction—there—you can get to the Gates of Purgatory.”

The droid examines the map. “But that means going
past
Purgatory, sir.”

“You can't get in any other way. The walls of Störmer Crater are high security. Cameras everywhere. Automated laser-sighted guns. They'll just rip us apart, no questions asked.”

“I see. Then I thank you for providing this information. I will head for this junction as you say. Then I will head down the Road of Lamentation to Purgatory. I am certainly glad that I stopped to pick you up. You are indeed a worthy acquisition.”

“Don't mention it.”

“You just go back to your sexy colleague now, and keep attending to her. Leave everything else to me. I will drive us into Purgatory, and I will make sure she receives the best medical attention possible. This is in gratitude for your service, sir.”

“Well . . . thank you.”

“No, thank
you
, sir. You have provided me with an excellent opportunity to show how I intend to reward good service. I will not forget you. And I hope your colleague survives so you can fuck her at your leisure, if you have not fucked her already.”

The man is silent, and the postal van charges like an ambulance through the lunar night.

J
USTUS NEEDS TO GET
to Peary Base. In Sin's departure bay he requisitions a pressurized police car without too much difficulty—the bombings have got everyone distracted—but he's never been at the wheel of one before. From the outside, apart from the luminous blue trimmings, it looks basically the same as any standard-issue all-terrain lunar vehicle. But once inside he finds a control console that's a lot more complex than anything he's seen on Earth. Nevertheless he figures he's seen enough by now, on rides with Dash Chin and others, to wing it. So he buckles himself into the harness, activates the pressure seal, and runs through the safety procedures. He toggles the exterior heating unit to maximum, makes sure the terrain mode is set to “tarmac,” spins a couple of dials, and guns the motor. The vehicle starts humming. He waits a few seconds before pressing experimentally on the pedal. And with a slight shudder and a clash of gyros, the
vehicle moves—it eases out of the parking bay, through the airlocks, and onto the floor of Störmer Crater.

The darkness is immense: a life-crushing force. The temperature reads 170 below. The roads weave around the radar dishes in a serpentine labyrinth. Justus is not even sure of the correct path, and has to follow his instincts for a while, heading in a northerly direction and just hoping he's on course. But then the beamless discs of his headlamps dance across the rear of a tourist coach ahead, and he knows he's on the right track.

Nevertheless it seems almost inconceivable that he'll get all the way out of Purgatory without being stopped—by Brass's heavies, maybe, or even the PPD itself. Unless he's really caught them off guard. Or unless they have some reason for
letting
him get away—temporarily. Maybe they're just going to kill him outside the crater, and claim he was on the run.

So when the guys at the outer processing center just wave him through, and when the marshals with the glowing batons direct him into the airlock, he's not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed. He puts the car into neutral behind a minibus carrying what looks like an Indian cricket team. His foot taps restlessly on the floor. Then the green lights start to spin, the gates separate, and the minibus takes off. Justus maneuvers his foot, presses gently on the pedal. He moves for the exit. A sign above is all the time flashing:

FAREWELL FROM PURGATORY. YOUR MEMORIES ARE HEAVEN.

And then he's out. He's back on the Road of Lamentation. He takes one final glance at the rearview screen, which shows the illuminated gates closing, and then blurts past the minibus and takes the first turn with pedal floored. In no time the great ringwall of Störmer is far behind him.

But there's still too much darkness ahead to get complacent. The only illumination comes from the reflectors and the occasional streetlight. From the rear the giant Dante statues are visible only as silhouettes against the stars. Tourist coaches flash past. Tractor-trailers. Refrigerated trucks. A bright red postal van. All the oncoming headlights are unblurred by atmospheric diffusion, and there's no vehicular noise whatsoever—for an inexperienced lunar driver it's startling and dazzling, and Justus, clamping the steering wheel tight, makes every effort to remain undistracted.

He drives for hours without stopping. He swings around curves, launches off crests, and just keeps speeding, faster than he's ever driven before. And when he finally considers pulling over for a rest—his right leg is going numb and his stomach is growling—he starts to get suspicious about the bright orange headlamps that seem to be hugging the horizon behind him. Maybe someone's tailing him. Maybe someone's going to run him off the road—run him right up the retaining wall and into the lunar desert. Smash, bang, a terrible accident—these things happen on the Moon.

So he turns on the police lights, firms his jaw, and begins ducking and weaving between the vehicles ahead. But he never quite succeeds in leaving the orange headlamps behind. Numerous times when he thinks he's finally shaken them off, suddenly they'll be there again, right there in the middle of the rearview screen. And meanwhile he's getting dangerously dizzy, pained, and thirsty. There's every possibility he'll crash from sheer exhaustion.