The Dark Side (40 page)

For a long time Decimus Persione simply stared. He couldn't believe what he'd done. It was completely out of character. And suddenly a dark and terrible future yawned in front of him—one in which he was stripped of all his prestige and privilege thanks to this one impulsive action, this one momentary mistake—and he rummaged frantically through his mind for a way out.

Leaning against the wall of the shack were some hanger bars—used to suspend seismophones in drill holes—and he thought it was just conceivable that he might have accidentally knocked them across her head. But what if Nawahine remembered something of their exchange prior to being hit? He wondered if it might be better if she just died. But then of course there would be a forensic investigation, which would very likely uncover anomalies in his story. So in the end he decided his best option was to try to save her, to do everything in his power to do so, and worry about
the consequences later. If all went well, and the falling bars story went unquestioned, he might even get some belated gratitude out of her. Maybe he would hold her hand at her bedside, keep a vigil there day and night . . . it could be the start of something.

So here he is now, in the back of the postal van, trying to find positives but tremendously wary of new complications. He was mortified when the android asked him if he wanted to have sex with Nawahine, and he still can't be sure if the droid heard about him somehow, or read something in his body language. Or perhaps there's just something wrong with the droid—he's certainly been saying some strange things. Plus there's some goo on the back of his head that looks like matted blood. And whereas in normal circumstances this would be enough to generate caution or even panic, Persione now wonders if it's an opportunity—if he can somehow blame Nawahine's injury on an out-of-control android. At the same time, he doesn't want to
deal
with an out-of-control android—he wouldn't know where to begin. Nevertheless, when he sees a hammer in a toolbox nearby he surreptitiously drags the whole box within reaching distance, just in case.

They reach the Road of Lamentation.

“I turn southeast from here, do I not?” the droid asks.

“That's right. And you can turn your flashing lights on now—this is an emergency.”

“I will do that, sir. How is your lady companion?”

“No change.”

“I am very concerned for her, sir. She is a physically attractive citizen in a perilous situation. I will spare neither time nor money to save her.”

“I'm grateful.”

An hour later the postal van joins a traffic jam of vehicles waiting to gain entrance to Purgatory. The backup seems even longer
than normal—over two kilometers at least—and for a few minutes the droid seems content to wait in the queue. But finally Persione—who briefly wonders if Nawahine might expire in the delay and he can blame forces beyond his control—sets him straight. Just in case this is being recorded.

“As an emergency vehicle, you're permitted to drive on the wrong side of the road,” he says.

“Thank you for your advice, sir—I will do that.”

The droid pulls out and a couple of minutes later they're at the Gates, where they're automatically redirected to a side entrance. Surveillance robots with optical scanners swarm around them before giving the all-clear. The airlock opens and they pass into a screening area.

Inside, Persione sees the same sort of barrel-chested and puffy-faced guards he saw on his first visit to Farside. They look a little distracted—overworked or something—but not so much that they can't register the appearance of the droid with some amusement.

“Hey, guys, look here! It's Leonardo Black.”

“Holy shit—what're you doing here, Mr. Black?”

“What're ya doin' in a postal van?”

“Say something funny, Mr. Black.”

Evidently the guards know the droid somehow. But the droid, stepping out of the airlock, does not appear to recognize them.

“Why do you call me Mr. Black, sir?”

“That's your name, isn't it?”

“I am the Wizard.”

Laughs all around. “Whatever you say, Mr. Wizard. Who ya got in the van there?”

“There is an extremely attractive young lady in the van, sir, who is in need of emergency treatment. She appears to have something wrong with her head.”

A couple of the guards scramble in for closer inspection. In the van, Persione shifts so they can see Nawahine. He pats her cheeks, doing his best to look deeply concerned.

“Kindly allow us to pass through,” the droid goes on, “so that I may deliver her personally to the hospital.”

One of the guards calls over his shoulder, “José—call the nurse, will ya? Got an injury here.”

The droid frowns. “A nurse?”

“The nurse will have a look at her.”

“But the lady needs to go directly to the hospital, sir. Her injuries might be severe.”

“Maybe so, but no one's gettin' through to Sin right now.”

“But I need to get her to the hospital urgently.”

“There were a couple of terrorist attacks a few hours ago. Seven people blown to bits.”

“That is not my concern, sir.”

“Maybe not—but it's
our
concern. What ya doin' out of Purgatory anyway, Black? Brass send you on a mission or somethin'?”

“I commandeered this vehicle in an emergency.”

“José,” the guard calls, “when you get off the line, call Kasr security, see if anyone can confirm what Leonardo Black is doin' out here.”

The droid is cross. “I'm not sure I understand, sir, why you keep calling me Mr. Black. Are you going to let me through, or am I going to have to take action?”

“Whatsa matter with you, Black? You used to be pretty cool, as droids go. You short-circuited or somethin'?”

“I am not short-circuited, sir, but I am very angry.”

The guard smirks and shoots a look at one of his companions. “Mr. Black here is angry.”

“Indeed I am. I have an excellent public-relations opportunity
here, but you seem determined to obstruct me. What is your name, sir?”

“You're asking me
my
name?”

“I have every right to ask your name.”

“What're ya gonna do—report me to Mr. Brass?”

“I am simply reminding you, sir, that you are answerable to higher forces. You do not appear to appreciate your proper place.”

To Persione, still in the postal van, it looks as if the guard is trying to work out if the droid is serious—if perhaps he comes with top-level authorization. But in the end he remains defiant. “I don't care what higher forces you think I answer to, Black. I know what I'm doin'. Now just stand to the side there and wait.”

“I will not stand to the side, sir—I am too big to wait.”

“Too big now, are you?”

“I am, sir. And I will not tolerate this bureaucratic madness. Kindly let me through or you will be responsible for what I do next.”

“Wait a minute, Black, are you
threatening
me?”

“No, sir, I am threatening
all
of you.”

“Oh yeah?” the guard says, starting to simmer. “And just what're ya planning to do?”

“I have a large blade here”—Persione can't see properly from behind, but it looks like the droid is drawing something from under his jacket—“and I will not hesitate to use it.”

The guards stare at him for a second, their eyes widening. Then the droid raises a blade—a wicked-looking thing, like something from a slaughterhouse—and the guards drop everything and reach for their own weapons.

“PUT THAT THING DOWN!”

“DROP IT!”

“DROP IT NOW!”

The guards have fanned out, assuming defensive postures, and give every impression that they
live
for just such moments. Meanwhile, a female nurse—dressed in a cartoonish costume—has appeared, just to make things more bizarre. The droid is immobile, his back to the postal van.

“PUT THAT WEAPON DOWN, I SAID!” The guards are training their zappers on him.

“I will not, sir, unless you allow me through to the hospital.”

“LOWER THAT WEAPON—NOW!”

“I am prepared to use it, sir.”

Inside the van, Decimus Persione watches the scene unfold with a mixture of fascination and fear. He can sense very well, with all his seismological instincts, that there is about to be an eruption. But just when he starts wondering if this might somehow be to his advantage, he hears a groan and sees Nawahine stirring at his feet.

“DID YOU HEAR ME? DROP THAT THING NOW!”

“I am being perfectly reasonable, sir.”

And now Persione doesn't know what to do. Because if Nawahine remembers, and accuses him—well, it doesn't bear thinking about.

“DROP IT NOW OR WE'LL TURN YOU TO TOAST!”

“You will only damage yourselves, sir, if you act rashly.”

But Decimus Persione suddenly sees—or, more accurately,
feels
—that there is a way out after all. If he can do something positive in the emergency, if he can rescue all of them, then there will be so much gratitude that no one will question him. And if he fails . . . well, it will hardly matter anymore.

So he reaches over Nawahine and picks up the hammer. He eases off his seat and makes for the airlock doors—both of which are open. He rises up, as quietly as possible, behind the
unsuspecting droid. And he draws back the hammer, ready to smash it through the back of the head.

“FIVE SECONDS OR YOU'RE GONNA FRY!”

“Five seconds, sir, or I start killing you all.”

Persione can see the guards willing him to do it, to swing the hammer. But he hesitates. A wave of guilt sweeps through him—the memory of swinging the flashlight on Nawahine—and he falters, his hand wavers.

“DROP IT AND SURRENDER NOW!”

“I do not even know how to spell ‘surrender,' sir.”

Then the guilt in Persione abruptly passes, replaced by a surge of disgust. He feels he can do it after all. He
has
to do it. So he raises the hammer and prepares himself to strike.

“
What's going on
?”

It's the voice of Nawahine, rising from her slumber, and Persione turns reflexively, guiltily, trying to shush her before it's too late.

N
OT LONG AFTER JUSTUS
graduated from police academy he talked a hysterical teenager out of suicide and received his first medal of merit. A few years later he negotiated with a man threatening to blow up a clutch of schoolkids, and though he didn't get far—police marksmen took the man out with a headshot—he was awarded with a medal of bravery. Some time later, in Vegas, he was sent into a penthouse where a drunken casino magnate had just shot one prostitute in the leg and was threatening to kill two others. It took Justus thirty minutes to free the sex workers and disarm the casino magnate. He should have received a medal of valor for that one, but the magnate, who wielded a lot of power in Vegas, didn't want the incident advertised more than necessary, so all Justus got was a gift basket, a weekend pass to the casino penthouse, and a ticket to a magic show. All of which he sent back immediately.

“How long has he been in there?” he asks presently—they're in an office next to the screening section.

“Two, three hours.”

“What are his demands?”

“To get out. To take the girl with him.”

“Is he damaged?”

“Mentally?”

“Physically. Did you zap him?”

“With everything we had.”

“What happened?”

“Just ruffled his hair.”

“Try regular ammunition?”

“Pumped three, four slugs into him.”

“You didn't hit the control centers?”

“Don't know where they are. Need schematics. Anyway, this isn't supposed to happen with a tinnie.”

“No,” says Justus, “this isn't supposed to happen with a tinnie.”

Justus knows that to the others he must appear eerily composed. But of course he expected it might come to this. Speeding back down the Road of Lamentation, all alone in the police vehicle, he had plenty of time to brood. And patch things together. And picture what was going to happen if he didn't reach Purgatory before the droid.

“I'm going in,” he says.

“You sure?” The cops and officials—the ones who survived—are glancing at each other.

“Someone has to.”

“But you'll need backup, right?”

“Why?”

“Just you? In the room with that thing?”

“There's a lady in there, isn't there?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Just get me a comm-link. Wait for my instructions. And clear a path at the inner gates.”

Now the cops are really confused. “You're going to Sin?”

“I am.”

“With
him
?”

“We'll see what happens.”

“But there are riots back there—that's why they couldn't send reinforcements. Folks are losing their shit over the death of QT.”

“Of course they are,” says Justus, and smirks. “Just get a vehicle ready. And get these doors open. We're wasting time.”

Justus, not caring if he seems half-mad, goes to the bulkhead-like security door and waits for the green light to flash. One of the younger cops, genuinely concerned, asks if he wants a flak jacket.

“What good would that do?”

“So you're not gonna shield yourself? Or arm yourself?”

Justus doesn't answer.

Then the light starts whirling and he steps through. The door clunks shut behind him.

The screening area is like a war zone. Justus allows himself to absorb a quick impression—Leonardo Black is standing in front of a postal van and a red emergency light is spinning garishly—but for the moment he doesn't look at the droid directly.