The Dark Side (31 page)

“The Leafists, the ones that died right here in Purgatory—they were killed too. For the local organ trade. Because they were in perfect condition, unpolluted, premium goods . . . and because
no one would care
.”

Kalganov nods grimly. “You are not dumb, Lieutenant. The cult was invited here for a reason, that is true. And they were allowed to live here for a few years while their bodies adjusted, that is true also. But I must correct you. These organs, they are not good for people from Earth—they are too big—and do not often end up in the organ trade.”

Justus thinks about it. “They were used for locals, then—the billionaires, the mobsters—they were cultivated for that reason . . .”

Kalganov shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Maybe . . . ?”

“Maybe they were used for gangsters eventually—that I do not know. But I do know that their organs were originally meant for one man. For one man and the members of his expeditions.”

“For Brass?” Justus says. “For Fletcher Brass?”

“For him and the others. There is much radiation in space, is there not? And solar fluxes that make pacemakers and other
devices malfunction? So the pure organs, they were to be held in storage, in case transplants were needed on the trip to Mars.”

Justus thinks about it some more. “But if that's true, then why were the Leafists not killed more recently? Closer to the launch date?”

“I think that Brass did not care to wait, in case something went wrong. And he needed a new kidney anyway. So it was easy enough to put the other organs on ice.”

“And they're still on ice?”

“In the spaceship, in lead-lined freezers. Ask to see them, if you dare.”

Justus shakes his head—it's breathtaking. “But that's genocide. It's a crime against humanity.”

“That's for the World Court to decide—if it can.”

If it can
. Justus remembers the murky waters of Purgatory's legal status, and all the rumors of secret deals with world superpowers . . .

“How many people know about this?” he asks.

“Enough people know.”

“How many have proof?”

“I do not know. What is proof?”

“Does QT Brass know?”

“Ask her. But my guess would be yes.”

Justus's mind is racing. “And is it possible that Fletcher Brass is eliminating the people who know too much?”

“I would say no, Lieutenant—there are too many people who know too much, and he cannot kill them all.”

“But if everyone knows . . . and if the world finds out . . .” Justus remembers QT telling him about the maximum-security penitentiary. She said it was the reason her father was trying to frame her. So is that it? Is she building the penitentiary to hold her own
father? For crimes against humanity?
If you give it enough feathers you can make anything fly.

Kalganov looks at him with amusement. “You are wondering about Fletcher Brass and his daughter—if all this is part of the war between them.”

“Do you know?”

“I wish I did.”

“Do your colleagues know?”

“Some of them, I suppose. But me—I'm just that cricket in its hole. But I will say this, Lieutenant. Both of them, Mr. Brass and his daughter, have a thousand ears and a thousand eyes. They both have connections everywhere, even in the PPD. They are each as big and dangerous as the other.”

Justus nods. He has to admit he's wondered about QT—if she's even more devious than her father. “What about my appointment, then?” he asks. “To the PPD? Do you know who authorized it?”

“Is that important?”

“I'd just prefer to know.” The lists supplied by QT showed only that his entry into Purgatory had been officially signed off on by Otto Decker. Which could indeed be true—Decker was nominally in charge of the Office of Law Enforcement at the time—but there's no way of verifying it now.

“I know only that it came from very high up,” Kalganov says. “And when this happens, I look the other way. I ask no questions. Just as you should not ask too many questions—not if you want to live. And that is my final warning to you. As someone I hope
you
can trust.”

“I'm too deep now.”

“It is not too late. You can pull out.”

“I won't be pulling out.”

“Why not?”

“Because I
won't
.”

Kalganov pauses but seems strangely impressed. “Then you are a stubborn man, Lieutenant. But it will not save you. Nothing will save you. They will come for you in the end. And this time they will do more than splash acid on your face.”

Justus does his best to shrug it off. “Forewarned is forearmed,” he says—it's the best he can do.

The two men get to their feet and shake hands. Kalganov's palm, Justus notices, is cracked and leathery. The Russian seems to read his mind.

“Formaldehyde,” he explains. “From the morgue.”

“Then it seems both of us,” Justus says, “have gotten a little too close to acids.” And Kalganov actually cracks a smile—the first time Justus has seen anything like it.

But by the time they've reached the door it's completely faded. “One last thing,” the Russian says. “About Fletcher Brass and his daughter. About their place here in Purgatory.”

“Go on.”

“I do not know where it will end, and I do not know who will be left standing when it does. But I do know this:
Dva medvedya v odnoy berloge ne zhivut.
‘Two bears cannot live in the same cave.' ”

Justus nods grimly. “They're very dark, those Russian sayings.”

“They're even darker in Purgatory.”

“That makes sense,” Justus says. “Can I call upon you if I need you?”

“Quietly, if you can. I do not think this meeting fooled anyone.”

They leave the speakeasy one at a time, fifteen minutes apart, and slip out of the Revelation through separate exits.

B
EFORE HE LURED THE
Leafists, Fletcher Brass tried to attract to Purgatory an obscure eschatological cult called the Rapturians, an extreme offshoot of the Mennonite Church. What distinguished the Rapturians from their brethren (apart from their celebrated belief that all human reproduction is sinful) was their intense commitment to preparing themselves for the imminent apocalypse. And so fervent was their conviction that the end of the world was nigh, and so great was their disdain for all the decadence, materialism, greed, blasphemy, depravity, hedonism, violence, and paganism that had consumed Earth, that they had become convinced God would be forced to smite the whole planet in one indiscriminate swoop, obliterating their own souls in the process. As a means of separating themselves from the great annihilation, then—long enough, it was hoped, to be judged on their own merits—they started entertaining the possibility of relocating to the new frontier
of the Moon. And this was when Fletcher Brass offered them an isolated compound in Purgatory where, in his own words, they “would never have to look upon the God-damned Earth again.”

But to the Rapturians it was inconceivable that they might exchange Sodom for Gomorrah. After all, what they had learned of Brass's fiefdom made it seem even more decadent and depraved, if that were possible, than Earth. Nevertheless the very real attraction of living on Farside, notwithstanding all the concessions to modern technology they would need to make simply to stay alive, proved irresistible. And so, after drawn-out negotiations with the Russian Federation—in which most independent observers agreed that they were rudely shafted—the Rapturians secured an abandoned biohazard lab, just north of the Sea of Moscow, which they systematically converted to their own Spartan requirements.

It is at the door of this habitat that the droid has been pounding for nearly ten minutes. But there is no response. He walks around the compound, briefly considers breaking in through one of the greenhouses, then returns to the front door. Noticing for the first time an old-fashioned bellpull hanging from a post, he tugs on it experimentally. He tugs on it again. He almost rips it out of its moorings. And eventually he spies movement through the windows. Someone has noticed him. Someone is opening the airlock.

The door rises as slowly as a castle portcullis. When it's high enough, the droid ducks underneath. Through the inner window he now sees a couple of men observing him—both young, bearded, and wearing violet broadcloth shirts and slate-grey waistcoats. They appear to be manually turning a winch.

The outer door closes slowly and the air is repressurized as usual, though there are none of the traditional flashing lights. Then the inner door starts creaking upward, again as slowly as something in a castle.

The droid ducks under again and enters a larger-than-usual vestibule, which seems to double as a vehicle bay. The walls are plastered with gypsum. There is more natural wood, in rafters and arches, than he's ever seen. Flickering electric candles are mounted on brackets. To the side there are parcels wrapped in brown paper. The two young men, one short and the other tall, are looking at him curiously.

“Have you come with our timber?” the smaller man asks.

“I have not, sir.”

“Are you to pick up our parceled goods?”

“I am not, sir.”

“You are . . . an artificial man?”

“I am the Wizard, sir.”

The two men glance at each other. They look like they need to think carefully before they speak. Meanwhile, the droid can make out a raised voice—almost a harangue. He turns and to the left, through an open door, sees a heavily bearded preacher addressing his flock.

“
. . . heard whispers of indecision, and questions of commitment, together with murmurs of desire for godless conveniences . . .”

“How may we be of help to you?” the taller man suddenly asks.

The droid looks back. “I am looking for someone to fix my vehicle, sir.”

“What sort of vehicle is it of which you speak?”

“It is a very long range traverse vehicle, sir.”

“And what is wrong with it?”

“I am not certain, but I would like to recharge its batteries. And I would also be grateful for some sustenance.”

The two young men consider their replies again. The droid hears more from the preacher:

“. . . 
these are the baits of mammon, which appear in dreams like hooks in a stream, to lure the unwary like fish . . .”

“You are welcome to take some of our food,” the smaller man says. “But we are simple folk here, and we know nothing of batteries.”

The droid frowns even as he continues to smile. He looks from one to the other and back again. “Are you suggesting, sir, that you are unable to help fix my vehicle?”

“I am afraid that is so. We can, however, offer you the use of a bicycle, if you wish, or a pogo stick.”

“And what is a pogo stick, sir?”

“It is a device we use for hopping great distances.”

“Is it powered by batteries, sir?”

“It is powered by a spring.”

“By what sort of spring?”

“A very large spring.”

Now it is time for the droid to consider his response. The preacher goes on in the background:

“
. . . for the prophets tell us that the end times will be preceded by the worship of money, by wholesale conceit and selfishness, by spurious advances in technology, by the unholy speed of human communication . . .
”

Finally the droid says, “Are you mocking me, sir?”

“I am not mocking you.”

“But you refuse to help me?”

“We will gladly help you, but we can only do so to the extent that we are able.”

The droid stares at them. “And yet that extent does not involve recharging my batteries or providing me with adequate transportation?”

“We can only do so much.”

At this stage one of the cult's elders—a bespectacled man with a pinched face—shuffles out of the chapel, drawn, it seems, by the disturbance, and looking very grave.

“Seth? Abram? What goes here?”

The smaller one nods at the droid. “We have a visitor, Brother Job—a robot man.”

Brother Job huffs and snorts and adjusts his spectacles, examining the droid. “And where exactly have you come from, Mr. Robot Man?”

“I have come from the deep south, sir, on an arduous journey.”

“Have you indeed? And where, pray tell, are you going?”

“I am going north, sir. To Oz. To El Dorado. To Purgatory.”

“To Purgatory?” Brother Job says, nodding. “Aye, that would be so. And what is it that you seek from us here?”

“I seek a battery recharger, and sugar.”

“A battery recharger?”

“I have been told by these young men that they are not willing to assist me in this regard. I hope for your sake that you are more accommodating, sir.”

Brother Job leans forward, cupping his hand around his ear. “What—what did you just say?”

The droid doesn't back down. “I hope that you are not vermin, sir, with nothing to contribute to the bottom line.”

Brother Job straightens, nods indignantly, seems several times on the verge of responding, but in the end just says, “Please wait here, Mr. Robot Man. Please wait here.”

Then he goes into the chapel and discreetly approaches the long-bearded preacher, who is still in the middle of his sermon:

“
. . . Paul implores us not to be deceived, for the Rapture shall not come before the falling away, and the revelation of the man of lawlessness, the son of perdition, the proud one, the King of Babylon . . .”

At this stage Brother Job whispers in the ear of the preacher, who squints in the droid's direction. The congregation looks
around too. The droid stares back at them, grinning. Eventually Brother Job comes out and beckons.