Currently Macleod is a freelance bus driver again. He has at his disposal a very long range transverse vehicle formerly used to ferry tourists from Doppelmayer Base to the first Chinese landing zones. With eight variable-diameter wheels, six regenerative fuel-cell batteries, integrated mesh-gear transmission, eighteen high-pressure halogen lamps, seating for six (not including the driver), and a reliable daylight range of two thousand kilometers, the VLTV is far more sophisticated, more expensive, and safer than any moon-buggy LRV. But it’s still old, jarred, scratched, and even rusted; Macleod has never been much interested in maintenance. Most of the time he uses it to take scientists, technicians, miners, and company representatives on trips around Nearside. He usually parks at the ExelAnt Mining Base at Schubert Crater, where he rents a room, but he makes sure he doesn’t get pinned down by any routine. Macleod prefers to keep on the move, as independent and elusive as possible, because he’s again running a not-strictly-legal business on the side.
Dark Side Tours, as it is known, appears in no official brochures but is pretty much an open secret on the Moon. For a substantial fee—as much as five thousand U.S. dollars per head—Macleod will drive you and your entourage into “the forbidden realms of Farside.” And there you will experience something “immeasurably more powerful than the Overview Effect.” You will experience, in fact, its very opposite—“the No-View Effect.” Because you will be in the only place in the solar system, and possibly the entire universe, where it’s never possible to see Earth, even with the most powerful of telescopes. You will be like a child completely cut off from its mother. You will be out of sight and out of mind. You will be, for perhaps the first time in your life, beyond the range of radar. You will be naked to the cosmos. You will feel, in quick succession, abandonment, liberation, and empowerment “in ways you have never experienced before.” And (if you believe the word-of-mouth advertising, anyway) you will “never be the same again.”
Today, Macleod is delighted to be driving four members of the retro rock band Dustproof Shockproof. Macleod has chauffeured lots of musicians in his career, but at fifty-one he’s now a generation older than most of them. Dustproof Shockproof, however, is almost of his own vintage, so spiritually he feels that they’re on the same level. He understands them. He thinks they understand him. They make him feel like he’s chilling with old friends. He hasn’t even sold them the cut-down drugs.
Presently the band members are all high on Selene, an LSD derivative that’s popular on the Moon, and Macleod has taken a tab too, just to be sociable. The boys, along with two hot groupies, are slumped in the passenger seats; Macleod is at the steering wheel. To this point he’s kept mainly to the hard-packed maintenance tracks, veering off only to avoid an encounter with official vehicles. The science and maintenance teams don’t usually enter Farside during the darkness—it’s much easier to work in the fourteen days of warmth and sunlight—so it’s usually at lunar nighttime that Macleod conducts his tours. But Dustproof Shockproof is returning to Earth in a couple of days, and for them he’s compromised—he’s racing across the sunlit surface for the day-night terminator. For the genuine Dark Side of the Moon.
“Are those penguins out there?” It’s the drummer, Spyder Blue.
“Don’t see no penguins,” replies the bass guitarist, Q’mar Kent.
“They’re penguins, I’m telling ya—all waddling about and shit.”
“They’re rocks, man—they’re rocks.”
“They’re moving and shit.”
“My head’s moving, man—this is top-grade junk. Top grade.” Q’mar Kent locates Macleod and shouts his approval. “Top grade!”
Macleod just nods. He’s taken so much Selene since he arrived on the Moon that in small amounts it no longer has much impact on him. But he knows very well it’s the best acid in the universe.
“When you gonna open the sky, man?” It’s the band leader, Maxx Dee, now—he’s staring at the vehicle’s glass ceiling, which is covered with a radiation shield.
“When we cross the terminator,” Macleod tells him.
“Why not now?”
“Sun damage. You don’t want that glare on your skin if you don’t need it.”
After a while Dee grunts. “We gonna see the diamonds?”
“You’re gonna see more than just diamonds, man. You’re gonna see constellations, whole galaxies you never knew existed.”
“Nocturnity?”
“That’s right, man—Nocturnity.”
Nocturnity—“endless night”—is the name given to the skies during the 328 consecutive hours of darkness on Farside: unpolluted, breathtakingly clear, awesomely endless. No sunlight, no Earthlight, no cloud cover, no diffusing atmosphere, no murmurs of wildlife or rustling trees—just you, the black sphere beneath you, and the naked majesty of the cosmos above. It’s an experience, even more powerful than the No-View Effect, that has the potential to warp minds. They say it can turn a saint into a psychopath—and vice versa. And it’s even more powerful under the influence of Selene.
“Where’d you get this acid, man?” It’s Q’mar Kent again.
“From Purgatory,” says Macleod.
“This is top grade.”
“Stuff from Purgatory usually is.”
“We going to Purgatory?”
“You got an extra five grand on you?”
“What if I wash the dishes?”
Macleod chuckles but doesn’t answer. He’s been to Purgatory a couple of times but doesn’t need to go again. And he didn’t personally get the Selene from there. Drugs manufactured in Purgatory are frequently smuggled out and made available, if you know where to look, on Nearside. And on Earth too, at astronomical prices.
“We gonna see the golden dust clouds?” asks Maxx Dee.
“If the conditions are right,” says Macleod.
“Hope so, man, I’m tired of this . . . mouth. You see the mouth, ladies?”
“I see . . . amoebas,” answers one.
“I see Christmas decorations,” says the other.
“I see penguins,” repeats Spyder Blue. “Fuckin’ things are dancing now.”
Macleod wonders if he’s given them too much Selene. When passengers really start tripping out, in a confined and pressurized environment, it can get ugly. Once Macleod had to belt a guy over the head with the fire extinguisher. Still, he’s confident nothing unpleasant will happen with Dustproof Shockproof—as long as he keeps them entertained.
“Wanna see the crashed satellite?” he asks.
“What satellite?” someone asks.
“Luna 14—it’s Russian. Came down in 1968, a year before the Apollo 11 landing. It’s one of the only wrecks here that hasn’t been pilfered, because it’s pretty much hidden. Hardly anyone knows it’s there.”
No one seems enthusiastic.
“How far is it?” asks one of the groupies.
“Couple of klicks. Take us five minutes.”
Still no one seems interested.
“I wanna see the diamonds,” says Maxx Dee, sighing.
“I wanna see the Orion nebula,” says the other groupie.
“I want some more acid,” says Q’mar Kent.
“There’s a fuckin’ kangaroo out there now!” exclaims Spyder Blue.
Macleod laughs under his breath but doesn’t turn. They’re in a region of featureless plateaux and gently flowing hills that could be mistaken for parts of the Australian outback. He suspects the kangaroo is a twisted boulder or a broken-down robot. But Spyder Blue is insistent.
“Fuckin’ thing is coming this way—the kangaroo!”
“You’re freakin’ out,” says Q’mar Kent.
“I’m telling you, man—a kangaroo—see for yourself!”
There’s a long silence.
“What the—?”
“Ya see it—ya see it?”
“What the fuck?”
“I told you, man—I told you! A kangaroo!”
“But . . . but that ain’t a kangaroo—it’s a d
ude!”
“It’s a kangaroo!”
“It’s a fuckin’ dude, jumpin’ like a kangaroo!”
Macleod is starting to think that maybe it was a bad idea to travel this far. They left Schubert eight hours ago, and he broke out the tabs not long after that. Normally his passengers wouldn’t be this amped out—not this far from Nocturnity.
“He’s jumping after us!”
“He’s coming this way!”
“Man—look at that fucker jump!”
“Where’s his spacesuit?”
“How the fuck’s he breathing?”
One of the ladies has joined in now, Macleod hears—it’s like a mass hallucination—but still he doesn’t turn.
“Man—that fucker’s serious!”
“He’s not serious—he’s smiling!”
“He’s coming up right behind us!”
“He’s chasing us—he’s chasing us!”
“You gotta stop this thing, man!”
This last is addressed to the driver, but Macleod doesn’t stop.
“You gotta brake this thing, man—he’s running for the bus!”
“We don’t need to stop—he’s catchin’ up!”
“Look at that fucker!”
“Where is he now?”
“Where’s he gone?”
“He’s still behind us—we just can’t see him!”
“What the fuck’s he doin’?”
“Is he still chasing us?”
There’s a sudden whump. It reverberates through the interior of the VLTV. And Macleod takes his foot off the pedal, astonished. He glances around, but everyone else is looking up. Then there’s a scrabbling sound. A dragging sound. So Macleod brakes—he stops the VLTV entirely. Wondering if he himself is hallucinating.
“He’s on top of this thing now!” says Spyder Blue.
“He’s crawling on the roof!”
“It’s like a safari!”
“He wants to eat us up!”
“Fuck, man, is this part of the tour?”
Macleod doesn’t answer. His whole body is tensed, his ears cocked, trying to make sense of it all.
Then there’s more scrabbling—directly above the driver’s seat. And thumps, as if someone is pounding on the roof. Trying to break in.
Macleod stares upward, waiting for some sign of what it is.
“No one fuckin’ believed me, man!” exclaims Spyder Blue. “No one fuckin’ believed me!”
Then a head appears at the top of the windscreen—upside down.
Macleod blinks a few times, then takes it all in.
It’s a man. Or at least it looks like a man. Black-haired, black-suited, and black-eyed. Looking in at them. And smiling. Smiling like an idiot.
Macleod doesn’t know what to do. Part of him is scared shitless. Another part is delighted—because whatever the hell is going on, it’s interesting. It’s more than interesting. It’s everything you’d want in a Dark Side tour. He just hopes the band is enjoying it.
“Looks like a fuckin’ narc!” says Maxx Dee, chortling, as the black-suited man swivels his body and drops down to the lunar surface in front of them.
27
BACK IN THE SIN vehicle bay, Justus is greeted by a gum-chewing Dash Chin and escorted swiftly to a police car.
“Okay,” he says, getting inside, “tell me what we’ve got.”
“Two bodies,” Chin says excitedly. “Just wait till you see! This is real butcher’s-window stuff!”
“A terrorist attack?”
“Supposedly. There’s another statement too.”
“At the crime scene?”
“Right next to the bodies.”
“And what’s it say?”
Chin sniggers. “You’ll see.”
Justus, who’s spent the entire journey from the rocket base hoping for an uncontaminated murder scene, wonders just how many cops have handled the statement already. “And the victims?”
“Kit Zachary—ever heard of him?”
“Who is he?”
Chin starts the car. “A builder—biggest builder in Sin. Least he was when he got up this morning.”
“And why would terrorists be killing a builder, exactly?”
“He was a high-profile builder. A big cheese. A real mover and shaker here.”
“With political ambitions?”
“He had his hat in the ring, sure.”
Justus nods. “And the other person?”
“Huh?”
“You said there were two bodies.”
“Oh,” laughs Chin, backing out of the vehicle bay, “that’s just some whore he was with.”
They race recklessly through the streets, nearly clipping a couple of tourists, and in no time they reach Sordello, the red light district of Sin. Here, in a labyrinth of neon-washed streets, Chin brings the car to a jolting halt outside a narrow multistory brothel called Cherry Poppins. A crowd of half-dressed prostitutes, many resembling famous sex symbols, are being restrained by the police. Two of the cops are bashing someone with a truncheon.
“Third floor, sir,” Chin says.
“You’re not coming up?”
“Gotta spare my appetite—haven’t had a bite to eat since last night.”
Justus doesn’t insist because he doesn’t trust Chin anyway. Inside the brothel he’s directed to a cage elevator but he elects to take the stairs. Halfway up a bunch of cops are grinning and joking. Justus hears a few comments in advance:
“. . . didn’t even get his dick out—”
“. . . one helluva head job, though—”
“. . . yeah, probably got the instructions mixed!”
But when they see Justus they stiffen, give unconvincing nods of deference, and zip tight until he passes.
Finally Justus enters a room on the third floor. There’s an unmade bed, a bedside table, Pompeian sex murals on the walls, and suspended from the ceiling a spinning mirror ball that’s throwing out shards of white light. There are plenty of cops too: Hugo Pfeffer, Jacinta Carvalho, Prince Oda Universe, and the surly Russian Grigory Kalganov among them. Pfeffer’s eating a hot dog. Carvalho’s got a steaming coffee in a Styrofoam cup. They’re slouching around, looking like they’re discussing the latest baseball results. Then, when they see Justus, they straighten self-consciously and shift to reveal the featured tableau.
“Need a barf bag, Lieutenant?” one of them asks.
Justus shakes his head. “I’ve seen worse,” he lies.
The man looks to have been about fifty-five. He’s still in a well-cut suit, but his head’s barely attached to his body. From what Justus can figure, he must have been attacked from behind with a heavy blade, probably a meat cleaver. There are thick gashes around the neck and shoulders and one crushing blow to the back of the head. Blood everywhere—owing to fewer clotting agents, the blood of long-term lunatics shoots farther when arteries are severed—though it’s difficult to make it all out against the room’s cherry-red decor. The girl, purple-haired, pouty, and to Justus curiously familiar-looking, appears to have had her throat slashed. Her windpipe is visible. Her eyes are unnaturally wide open, like she couldn’t believe what was happening. She’s wearing pink toenail flashers that are still blinking on and off.
“Any idea what exactly happened here?” Justus asks.
No answers at first, but then someone pipes up:
“We were waiting for you, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, you’re the man in charge.”
“You’re the chief detective.”
Justus ignores the insolence. “Okay, then, you can at least tell me what you know. When were the bodies discovered? And by whom?”
The cops look at each other. Finally Grigory Kalganov offers, “It was me, Lieutenant.”
“You answered a call?”
“I was in the area. The receptionist hailed me.”
“And this receptionist was the one who found the bodies?”
“That is so.”
“And has this receptionist been
interviewed?”
“Not by me.”
Carvalho interjects: “We’re still trying to find her.”
“What,” Justus asks, “she’s out to lunch, I suppose?”
Carvalho doesn’t know.
Justus looks back at Kalganov. “Did you seal off the scene immediately?”
“I called for backup.”
“But you didn’t set up a cordon?”
“That is not my job, Lieutenant.”
“Then how many others—cops and others—have been through here since you arrived?”
“Fifteen, sixteen.”
“Sixteen. What about the Forensic Response Team?”
Kalganov shrugs.
“You mean to say they haven’t been called?”
Carvalho says, “They’re on another job.”
“Something more important than a murder?”
“A hotel break-in. A tourist got robbed.”
“And a robbery is more important than a homicide in this town?”
“Depends. It was a big tourist. A travel writer.”
“So no one’s done a sweep of this room?”
“Not yet.”
Justus has already noticed that no one is wearing gloves or shoe covers. He points. “And what’s behind that door there?”
“That’s the bathroom.”
“Well, how many people have—?”
But at this stage a high-pressure toilet flushes noisily and the bathroom door opens. Chief Buchanan, hitching up his pants, squeezes through.
“Ah, Lieutenant,” he says, sniffing, “pleased you could make it. Traffic problems or somethin’?”
Justus ignores him. “I was just about to ask about Forensics.”
“What about them?”
“It would have been preferable if they’d been here already. Done a survey of the crime scene—that bathroom in particular. But I guess we’ll have to work with what we’ve got.”
The Dark Side Page 17
