The Dark Side (21 page)

“Does that mean that your daughter
won't
be taking over from you?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Does it mean you have someone in mind?”

“I've yet to decide, if truth be told. But that brings me to my second point. About Otto Decker. He was a very good friend of mine and may even have seen himself as a natural successor, or at least an acting leader. But let me be brutally frank with you: Otto was an old man. An old, old man. Yes, in actual years he wasn't much older than I am—but that's not what I mean. I mean he was losing his mind. He took brain boosters, of course—he
overdosed
on them—but they weren't working. In short, Otto was slowly going senile.”

“I know,” says Justus.

“You
know
, do you?”

“I checked with Mr. Decker's doctors.”

“You did, did you?” Brass looks genuinely surprised.

“Apparently he'd been diagnosed with vascular dementia. It's common on the Moon, owing to the congested blood flow. He was having treatment with one of your neurologists here—very advanced treatment—and he was taking plenty of corrective drugs. But he was still afflicted.”

“Well,” says Brass, his eyes shifting for the first time, “there you go. Then you'll know that Otto was the
last
man I'd have in mind for a position of any authority. In fact, I've spent the last couple of years slowly prying his major responsibilities from him.”

“I saw that too,” says Justus.

“You saw it, did you?”

“I checked his career history. He used to be secretary of trade, secretary of transportation, and secretary of energy. He was secretary of the interior when you decided your daughter should have the job. And he was secretary of law enforcement before you awarded that job to QT as well. But I don't have to tell you that.”

“No,” says Brass. “And neither should I have to point out that this backs up everything I've just said. Otto was no threat to
me—none at all—so I had no
reason
to want him out of the way. Nor was he capable of doing much but planting trees and opening goat farms anyway. He wasn't the sort of man who could be a threat even if he
wanted
to be. And as for my daughter, QT, well, if the tensions between us are so profound, why would I entrust her with so many departments? All those portfolios you just mentioned? It makes no sense at all.”

“I take it, then, that you believe that a terrorist group is really responsible?”

“Did I say that?”

“Well, if there's no practical motive for Decker's assassination, then the reason must boil down to his symbolic political value, correct?”

“Perhaps,” Brass says, with an ambiguous smile.

“What does that mean?”

“Look, Lieutenant”—Brass is starting to look annoyed—“that's not for me to say. I've presented you with all I know and I've given you plenty of possibilities to contemplate. But I can't do
all
your work for you. That's up to you—and the PPD.”

“Then may I ask if you exert any power over them, Mr. Brass?”

“Over who?”

“Over the PPD?”

“What kind of a question is that? Of course I exert power over them—I'm the Patriarch of Purgatory. They're loyal to me by oath.”

“But you're not the secretary of law enforcement, are you? Your daughter is. And you've been extremely busy, as you've said yourself. So I just wonder if you issue the PPD with orders. If you have meetings, every now and then, with Chief Buchanan.”

“No, I don't issue the PPD with orders—where is all this leading?”

“Questions are my job, Mr. Brass. Did you tell them, perhaps, not to pursue the terrorist angle?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I've just come from a conference at PPD headquarters. The prevailing attitude there seemed to be that the terrorist declaration was an obvious hoax. That it didn't even merit a serious investigation.”

“Well, that's because the police here are indolent—always have been.”

“Would you be prepared to tell them that personally?”

“Of course. I'll tell Chief Buchanan to kick some heads.”

“Chief Buchanan was the most adamant of all.”

“Then I'll tell him to kick his
own
head.”

“So you
do
have meetings with him regularly? You didn't answer that question before.”

“I speak to him when I need to, Lieutenant.”

“He claimed he only speaks to your double.”

“Well, that's both correct and incorrect. I speak to Buchanan
through
my double.”

“The double is like a ventriloquist's dummy, is he?”

“Aren't
all
actors?”

“It's a curious arrangement.”

“Well, look, Lieutenant, if I need to speak directly to Chief Buchanan—because
you're asking me to
—then I'll do so. Satisfied?”

“Would you agree with your daughter that the PPD needs reforming?”

“
Everything
needs reforming.”

“Does it bother you that she might do some reforming while you're away?”

“Of course not. I told you I'm not troubled by her agenda.”

“Is it true she's not popular at the PPD?”

“I don't work for the PPD, Lieutenant—I'm sure you can answer that better than I can.”

“I've only been here for two weeks.”

“Then I'm sure you can find out.”

“Did you hire me?”

“Did I—? What are you talking about now?”

“There seems to be some confusion. The
Tablet
claims that I was recruited by QT Brass. You yourself have suggested much the same. But Ms. Brass seems to think that she merely signed off on my appointment.”

Brass makes a sound of exasperation. “Is this important, Lieutenant?”

“I don't ask questions without a cause.”

“Well,
I don't really know
—that's your answer. I probably read about your appointment in the
Tablet
myself. So ask
them
why they said that.”

“I have. They said they'd get back to me. Do you think I might be able to view the immigration records for the past six months?”

“Why?”

“Apparently every person seeking citizenship gets approved by someone high up in Purgatory.”

“And you think you can find out that way if you were appointed by my daughter or me?”

“That's partly the reason.”

“Go to the Department of Immigration.”

“I did. Last night.”

“Well”—Brass can't seem to decide if he's angry or impressed—“you
have
been busy, haven't you?”

“After your valet visited I decided I couldn't sleep. There was too much I needed to find out about. My own records, for a start. And the names of everyone else who's migrated or visited recently.
Because there could be unknown terrorists among them. People with experience in anarchy, perhaps. Ms. Brass said she had a weakness for political fugitives.”

“Then ask my daughter.”

“The Department of Immigration said I'd need permission from you.”

“Then I
give it to you
.”

“Can I have that in writing?”

“You can have it on stone tablets if you want. Is that all?”

“I'm afraid not. Your valet appears to have unlimited access to all residences and—I assume—workplaces in Sin. Is this normal?”

“Someone
always
has a master key, Lieutenant.” Brass is getting more and more annoyed.

“And that someone is you, is it?”

“Can you think of someone more appropriate?”

“No—it makes perfect sense.”

“I'm glad you approve.”

“I don't approve. But it makes sense.”

Brass is now exuding his surgically implanted musk of sweet sandalwood and raw myrrh—according to
Unpolished Brass
, it oozes out of his pores when he's angry. “Well, is
that
all, then, Lieutenant?”

“No, Mr. Brass. For a start, I must ask if you really consider yourself above the law.”

“What? Where did you get that idea?”

“Your valet told me you were. But I checked the Purgatory constitution—admittedly not yet ratified—and saw no evidence either way. So are you or are you not above the law?”

“If I were above the law, would I really be speaking to you right now?”

“I take it that's a no.”

“It's certainly not a yes.”

“Then I must insist on unlimited access to you at all times.”

“We'll see what can be done.”

“No, Mr. Brass, I must insist.”

“You know how to reach me.”

“Is that an answer?”

“It's my last answer.”

“Well, unfortunately I have one last question.”

“That's nice.” Brass is already gesturing to someone out of sight.

“Where is Leonardo Black?” Justus asks.

That stops Brass in mid-movement. His arm wavers. He glances back at Justus.

“Where is Leonardo Black?” Justus asks again.

“Where is—?” Brass repeats, as if he's trying to work out what the question means. “Where is—?” he says again, like he's momentarily lost for words. But then his face colors, his eyes become enflamed—the brass flecks actually seem to ignite—and for the first time Justus experiences the full force of the fury he's heard so much about.

J
USTUS, HOWEVER, ISN'T FAZED
at all. Of all the people he's ever interviewed, he's found it's the billionaires and blue-chip CEOs who are always the most belligerent. The high flyers who think their time is far too precious to be wasted on insignificant questions from detectives and law enforcement hacks. Who think that bumbling policemen, tight-assed bureaucrats, petty politicians, bloodthirsty journalists, and sniveling tax inspectors are always out to get them, just because of who they are. And the eruptions of these lords of creation, when they come, can be truly volcanic, because their great wealth and security allow them to vent thoughts and emotions that the more dispensable must constrain.

“
Do you see this fucking thing, Lieutenant?”
Brass's teeth are clenched and his lips are firing the words out like shotgun pellets. “
Do you see this fucking thing I'm in?”
He's holding out the arms of his brass-colored spacesuit, which is studded with inbuilt controls
and radiation gauges.
“Do you think I'm wearing this fucking thing for fun? Is that it?”

Justus doesn't blink, doesn't move an inch.

“Do you know how long it takes to get into one of these things? Do you know all the dangers and complexities of traveling in space? Do you appreciate all the training and safety checks that an astronaut has to endure? And can you guess what I've been doing in here today, just by the look of me?”

Justus says nothing.

“
No?
Well, let me tell you.” Brass thrusts a finger at the
Prospector
. “I was downstairs—
down there
—inside a Mars landing vehicle. In the tiny cabin of a landing vehicle. With my mission commander. And my medical supervisor and engineer. And all our equipment. Practicing the descent procedures.” He sucks in a lungful of air and his chest inflates. “Now do you know—
can you even guess?—
how difficult it is to squeeze four people into that thing? And get everyone fully suited up? And harnessed? And helmeted?
For that matter
, do you know what we're actually attempting here? Can you imagine how dangerous it all is? Do you have
any idea
what it means to go all the way to Mars—and
live
there—for up to five hundred days? And do you have any understanding why all this is so imperative in the first place? Can you
possibly
appreciate all the other dangers? The dangers to Earth? If I don't succeed?”

Justus thinks it really is true—the guy sees himself as the savior of the universe.

“Well, surely I don't need to tell you, do I? You've just come from Earth, haven't you? So you must've seen it all for yourself—all the chaos
down there
? All those pandemics and civil wars, all those natural catastrophes? All those vanishing resources, shrinking spaces, exploding populations? You can't possibly say you haven't seen it with your own eyes! So how can you deny it? The
human race
needs
to migrate to the frontiers of space or it
risks total annihilation
. But that sort of thing takes vision and determination.
And most of all it takes balls.
And who's got balls on Earth anymore? Who's got
anything
on Earth anymore? Except cowardice? And laziness? And soul-sapping
envy
? Who can get
anything
done on Earth without some half-assed committee and a plague of bloodsucking leeches? Well, that's exactly why I've had to come here,
to the far side of Moon, for fuck's sake
, just to get away from all those losers! All those chicken-livered little Chihuahuas! Just to get the job done in peace! Because no one else has the vision! No one else has the balls!
Because Fletcher Brass is the last fucking hope of human history!
” Brass exhales bitterly. “So please, Lieutenant, put everything else in proper perspective when you speak to me. When you have the
temerity
to speak to me about . . . whatever the fuck it is you've come to speak to me about.”

“I was asking,” Justus says, “about Leonardo Black.”

“Goodbye, Lieutenant.” Brass, with his musk positively flooding out of him, is heading across the catwalk. “I dearly hope we don't have to meet again.”