The Dark Side (7 page)

“Thought of the political angle?”

“Of course. Except that—you said it yourself—Professor Decker was popular. And into agriculture. Food supply. Recycling. He doesn't seem the sort of target, assuming he was the target, for a political assassination.”

“He was virtually Fletcher Brass's right-hand man.”

“
Was
,” Justus says. “From what I understand, he was losing prestige.”

“Who told you that?”

“It's what I heard.”

“Well, that's baloney. Brass had a lot of faith in Decker. Thought he was the most honest man in Purgatory. He liked fucking kids, yeah, but so what?”

“Decker was seventy-nine years old.”

“Seventy-nine years
young
,” Buchanan says. “Seventy-nine ain't old around here.”

Justus is bemused by Buchanan's insistence—he's become so passionate that he's briefly not even munching on a Moonball®. “Well, if it's a political assassination then we're in very deep waters. And it also leaves me somewhat out of my depth.”

“How so?”

“Well, I'm no more than passingly familiar with the political machinations in Purgatory. I thought, for instance, that Fletcher Brass was popular here.”

“Who said he wasn't?”

“You just did—by suggesting that Decker was killed owing to his association with him.”

Buchanan uncaps one of his pill bottles. “Well,” he says, “I only mean that Brass is a figurehead, that's all—it's the system that's rotten. And to anarchists the system is
always
rotten.”

“So Brass himself
is
popular?”

“ ‘Popular' is a bit much. But he's feared. Which is better than being popular.”

To Justus it sounds like one of Brass's own laws. “So you wouldn't rule out an assassination, then? Or a terrorist attack?”

Buchanan gulps down his pills. “Well, things are changing here in Purgatory, that's a fact. Brass is leaving for his Mars trip soon—you must've heard of that. And various factions are swirlin' around, lookin' for a piece of the action. While the cat's away, you might say.”

“Was Decker in line to take over in Brass's absence?”

“ 'Course he was. Few others too.”

“QT Brass?”

Now Buchanan sniggers. “You really don't know much about this place, do you, Lieutenant?”

“I'm all ears.”

“Well, let's just say Fletcher Brass and his daughter don't exactly toast marshmallows together. They cozy up for the cameras, but behind the scenes little QT is stirrin' the pot. Brewin' up something, that's for sure. Something that tastes good only to her. And the schemers in her club.”

Justus is surprised by Buchanan's open disdain. “So you think QT Brass might be behind all this?”

“Hey, I didn't say that. Fact is, I got no fuckin' clue. But that's why you're perfect for this investigation. You got no loyalties one way or another, right?”

“I guess so.”

“ 'Course you don't. By the way, if you need any more help—personnel-wise—you just let me know.”

Justus shakes his head. “I like the size of my team as it is. And I'm still learning to trust them. Or not trust them, as the case may be.”

Buchanan raises an eyebrow. “Not sayin' you've had trouble, are ya?”

Justus doesn't want to say it, but there are some on his team who seem too enthusiastic. Too cooperative. And then there are others who aren't cooperative at all, who give him cutting glances. There's one guy in particular, a blubber-lipped Russian officer called Grigory Kalganov, who looks like he could easily stab Justus in the back—or anywhere else.

“No more than on Earth,” Justus says finally—which is more or less true.

Buchanan smirks. “You now, what you really wanna do is interview Fletcher Brass—the Patriarch himself. That'll give you a better picture of the landscape.”

“I intend to.”

“Just don't expect a magic carpet ride—he's a busy man.”

“I keep hearing that.”

“Then again, I guess he'll be more than happy to help you out, considering his fondness for Decker. And you probably should speak to QT Brass as well—just let us know and we'll arrange it. She's slippery as an eel.”

“I'm not frightened of eels.”

Buchanan makes an approving noise. “You know, this could be a big chance for you, Lieutenant. Do a good job here, you could find yourself movin' up the ladder quicker than you ever dreamed of. I'm not gonna be at this desk forever, you know. In fact, I've been thinking of handin' in my badge for some time now.”

Justus blinks. “I'm sorry, Chief—are you talking about
me
? As a possible successor to you?”

“Why not?” Buchanan says. “You're a clean slate, ain't you? Brass is gonna like that. And I happen to know he rewards people who get results. So who knows? Maybe you arrived here at exactly
the right time. And maybe this murder is exactly what you need to get yourself noticed.”

“I don't work for personal advancement.”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand.”

“And I don't use murder cases for that purpose.”

“Yeah, yeah, 'course.” Buchanan coughs and changes the subject. “You know, I'm havin' a barbeque at my place in a few days—genuine beef and pork too, none of that synthetic stuff. Why not come 'round? It'd be a good chance to meet the guys who might soon be answerin' to you.”

“Is that an order?”

“Hell no, it's an invitation.”

Justus shrugs. “Well, I'm afraid I'll have to get back to you on that. With a case of this complexity, I might be too busy for a barbeque.”

Buchanan pauses for a second, his eyes dancing over Justus, as if he can't work out how to react. Then he launches into a laugh so hard the whole desk—the whole
room
—shakes. “Jesus, man, you're one outta the box! Too busy for a barbeque! Wait till I tell the boys that!” He reaches into his bowl of treats and holds one out across the desk. “Moonball®?”

Justus shakes his head.

A
LL THOSE ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS
that worshipped the Moon, all those early science-fiction writers who romanticized it, and all those pioneering astronomers who studied it—none of them ever clapped an eye on Farside. No one, not a soul, even knew what it looked like until a Soviet satellite pulsed back a few blurred images in 1959. And what these images showed, in a nutshell, were fewer dust seas and more craters. No volcanoes, no water, no signs of habitation—just a hideous, pockmarked face; one that, in truth, looked better in the dark. And that's why “the Dark Side,” though technically a misnomer, is such an apt name. Not because Farside gets less sunlight than Nearside—it doesn't. Not because it has more dark spots than Nearside—in fact, its percentage of volcanic maria is considerably smaller. And certainly not because it's been a secret location for Cold War military bases, spaceship landing zones, alien cities, or anything else dreamed up by the conspiracy-minded.

No, it's “the Dark Side” because it looks not upon the glorious orb of the home planet but upon the icy emptiness of space. Because it's less populated, less charted, and less studied. Because it's appreciably more dangerous. Because no satellites or shuttles are allowed to fly over it. Because it's
luna incommunicado
—in permanent radio blackout. And because it's been home, for twenty years, to Purgatory and Fletcher Brass.

The droid knows nothing of this. The droid does not care. The droid is walking at a considerable pace, something between a lope and a skip, toward the terraced rim of Gagarin Crater. The crater was formed by an asteroid impact three billion years ago and later filled with shock-melted rock, debris, lava flows, and meteor dust. Then over countless millennia the surface was baked, frozen, irradiated, and sandblasted by micrometeorite impacts into a fine and deeply abrasive powder—the moondust upon which the droid now walks.

Having left about 150 kilometers of tracks in the dust of this crater, and about twice as many in the dust farther south, the droid calculates that at his current pace—with most of his servomotors, actuators, and traducers running simultaneously—he will need to refuel on sugar and alcohol every 225 kilometers. And judging by the position of the sun—it's holding at about ten degrees above the horizon—he's certain to be traveling in darkness well before he reaches Purgatory. Meaning the temperature will plummet significantly. A thermostat will of course activate his internal heating systems, but the extremes of hot and cold on the Moon are twice as severe as anything on Earth. And such jarring shifts—a hundred degrees in seconds—can, if not precisely counterbalanced, crack plastic, warp metal, shatter ceramic. They can immobilize robots, blow their circuits. They can make them do strange things.

The droid has fail-safe systems, but he's not confident they can be trusted in such conditions. So he's decided that he would be much better off in an LRV. A vehicle like that would get him to Purgatory much faster and more efficiently. He actually spotted one in the distance well before he entered Gagarin Crater, but it was speeding in the opposite direction and he had no idea, at that stage, just how far away his destination would be. Nevertheless he figures he will come across a similar vehicle eventually—there's sufficient human activity on Farside to make it inevitable—and this time he will not let it get away.

As he advances toward the ringwall he examines its terraced heights. Looking for openings. Looking for the lowest elevation, for the most economical route to get over it. A human being in such a situation would find the process strangely stimulating. But the droid does not find it stimulating at all. To the droid it is merely a calculation designed to get him as quickly as possible to his destination. And the destination, for such a self-motivated achiever, is all that matters.

Find Oz. And be the Wizard.

See El Dorado. Take El Dorado. Find another El Dorado.

The droid cares nothing for happiness. To the droid, expressions of happiness are merely a means of conveying superiority. Or domination. Or revenge. But he has a sizable memory. Most of it has recently been erased, true, but there remain tiny vestiges of past experience buried deep in his logic circuits and his sensorium. And if he were programmed to reflect on these experiences, he might find some of them—living in a city, serving a man, conferring with other droids—curiously satisfying.

But all that's just a splutter of electrons now. Of much greater relevance are his recent experiences, none more than thirty-six hours old, of ascending various crater rims southeast of Gagarin.
It was in performing these little actions, thanks to his inbuilt positive and negative reinforcement algorithms, that he acquired the skill of calculating time/efficiency ratios in lunar climbing to within a few points of error. And what his current survey of the talus slopes in front of him has determined is that the most favorable point has an elevation of approximately 950 meters and will take him approximately half an hour to scale. Considerable, no doubt—greater than anything he has attempted so far—but there's not much he can do to avoid it. Other than go significantly out of his way—and that would be even more draining on his power reserves. So he negotiates the quickest path through some scree and springs his way diagonally to the first terrace, then to the second terrace, and with only a few slips and slides, unleashing mini-avalanches of slow-moving dust, he reaches the crest of the crater rim in a little over twenty-nine minutes—almost exactly as he calculated.

He stands for a moment at this lofty height, overlooking Gagarin's enormous ejecta blanket—rocks and sand thrown far and wide by the asteroid impact—and sees many more obstacles ahead. Many more deeply shadowed craters and craterlets. But he will not be daunted. He will not wilt. He will
never
shy away from a challenge. As always, he has a sacred verse or two to guide him:

The greater the odds, the sweeter the victory.

And:

Losers make hurdles. Winners hurdle them.

Then, just as he is about to set off, he spots something. It's actually beyond the horizon, at about three and a half kilometers and thirty degrees northwest. A puff of lunar dust rising from the darkness and sparkling in the sunlight. It can't be naturally levitating, not at this time of day, so there's human activity down there. A few scientists, perhaps. An expeditionary team.

But to the droid it represents the very opportunity he was counting on. The possibility of finding more fuel—or something even better.

He buttons his jacket, deploys his shit-eating smile, and begins his descent.

T
HERE'S A POPULAR STORY
about Fletcher Brass.

It goes back to the days when he was lobbying aggressively for government contracts to mine the Moon's resources. At the time he was repeatedly met with nothing but red tape and skepticism:
Who is this jerk, this entrepreneurial clown? He's claiming he can land privately funded spacecraft on the Moon? And he might already have done so? The man's off his nut!

Then one day the Washington bureaucrat in charge of lunar development gets two parcels delivered by courier. The sender's name is Fletcher Brass. The bureaucrat finishes his paperwork, blows his nose, and opens the first of the parcels. Inside he finds two golf balls mounted in crystal. So he scratches his head and opens the second parcel. And finds the Stars and Stripes, neatly folded in a velvet-lined case. But still he doesn't know what to make of it all. So he repackages everything and puts it aside,
intending to return it to sender, or maybe give it all to one of his kids. Then he gets a phone call.