Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (36 page)

No longer muffled, the thud had a growling rasp to it. An immediacy.
Like a cannon was going off near his head. With each new thud a
murmur rose. Of concern? Of awe? Shoved his way through the crowd
until he was near the edge of the roof.

Out in the bay, an emerald light shot out from the tops of the towers,
combined into one oddly thick ball of sparks. Hurtled toward the Spit.
Smashed into the boats. Sent up steam and fire. Seemed to cling there.
The Spit. Burning. Some would say "long overdue," but what would come
after? A fireworks display to the few children, who were clapping.

A slightly unreal aspect to it. Watching it from afar. The Spit so
tiny. Each boat a sliver. A toothpick. Rocking on a vast sea. The
tyranny of distance. A few boats had become unmoored and were
drifting across the bay. Aimless. Half on fire. Were Stark and Bosun
still on the Spit? Desperately moving from boat to boat. Making for
shore. Finch didn't think so.

Wondered if Wyte was watching somewhere or still dealing with his
condition.

The sky between the towers had become darker, shot through with
shades of amber. In the backdrop: a flock of strange birds and the
silhouette of an island that shouldn't exist.

The people around him were talking about the green light.

"Getting rid of that nest of spies. Should've done it a long time ago."

"No friends of Ambergris. No friends at all."

"But what's next, then? Where does it stop?"

Finch looked over at the HFZ. Violent strands of strobing orangered fungal mist rose into the sky. Like an infection running rampant.
Remembered the hill he had stood atop with the Lady in Blue.
The image came back with a vividness that took over his vision for
a moment. A roiling mass of particles. Discharging light until a steady
humming glow suffused the city in a kind of dawn. There came in reply
from the city a hundredfold bestial roar.

"Why do they ever do anything?"

"They're all dead by now. Or dying."

Could the Lady in Blue be both right and wrong? Could Duncan
Shriek be alive but the towers have some other purpose altogether?
Under that sharp blue sky, he didn't know the answer. What if he was
bait? A distraction? Once again, the disconnect hurt him. Between
what she'd shown him and Ambergris as he knew it. An ethereal
beauty that no longer lives here. A dream to believe or deny. A vision as
different for him as it was for Wyte or Rathven.

"The city fighting itself. Pointless now ..."

The Photographer came up next to him. Binoculars hung from his neck.
He carried a small pouch by the drawstring. "Breathtaking, isn't it?"

"No," Finch said. "No, it's not. It's fucking awful."

The Photographer said, "Just look at the way the water reacts. Look
at the patterns." Almost giddy.

An orange eruption of flames over the Spit. Accompanied by spirals
of black smoke. Another blast. Another. The building didn't shake as
much now. As if used to it. Or as if Finch were.

"When did it start?"

"Twenty minutes ago? Suddenly most of the workers climbed down
from the top of the towers. They're at the base now, still constructing
something."

A sudden spark of hope hit him hard. Hadn't realized he still had
the capacity for it. "So they aren't finished yet."

"Almost. And so is the Spit."

Finch stared sharply at the Photographer. But there was no hint of
triumph in him.

"It's a strong warning," the Photographer said. "They're clearing the
way for something."

"I wonder what they'll do when they've finished off the Spit," Finch
said, almost to himself.

The Photographer pointed to the east. "What's missing?"

The other camp dome was gone. Had left behind only a kind of
ghostly white outline, broken by mottled gray. With that lack, the
greens of the Religious Quarter burned even stronger in the sunlight.
And through that entanglement lay the distant echo, the distant
shadows, of cupolas and minarets. Like a dream. Like a trap. Was
Sintra watching from there even now?

"Fuck."

A new phase of the Rising.

The crowd had begun to realize the roof might be dangerous.
Thinned out. Just a few left. A woman in her fifties dressed in a
bathrobe, arms wrapped tightly round herself. A couple in their
twenties who had never, Finch realized, known anything but
war or the Rising. Three old men in their best clothes, watching
solemnly.

Better for most to hunker down in their apartments and not see the
end coming. Or go out onto the streets in one last gasp of defiance.
Against what?

The towers continued to pound the Spit. A white smoke had
overtaken the black smoke. It looked now like the thick green
spheres slamming into the Spit were dissolving into a cloud bank
or a thick mist.

"I have something for you," the Photographer said. Put the pouch
in Finch's hand. "It looks just like a memory bulb, but it isn't. Keep it
with you at all times."

Finch stared at the pouch. Stared at the Photographer. Taken
completely by surprise.

The Photographer said, "If you aren't caught, you'll need it for your
mission. If you are caught, take a bite. Just one bite."

"And then what?"

The Photographer's face was as blank as the side of a wall. "There
will be nothing left of you. Nothing they could trace. Nothing they
could read."

Nothing left. No pain. No concealment. Nothing.

"We're changing, too, Finch. There's no one under my command who
hasn't been altered in some way. The question is how much you change.
Change too much and you're no different from Shriek, no different from a
gray cap. And then even if we win, we lose."

Instinctively tried to give it back to the Photographer. The man
stepped away, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

"Don't talk about this in your apartment," the Photographer said,
as if nothing had happened. "Don't write down anything while in
your apartment."

"Why not?"

"The message last night left intruders. We can't run interference on
them without leaving a trail."

Didn't even bother to examine that, turn it over in his mind. Just one
more intrusion in a life littered with them. No anger left to shed.

The Photographer continued: "Later today someone else will
approach you with the rest of what you need."

Assuming I'll do it. But standing there, pouch in hand, it seemed
impossible he wouldn't do it. The only way out. To take control of the case
before it imploded. Let it not be a case anymore. Let it be something else.

"I always thought it would be the madman out front," Finch said.

A thin smile from the Photographer. "He's just a madman."

"Do I need to stay here?"

"Follow your usual routine. You'll be followed. We'll know where
you are no matter where you go."

After a pause: "Does Rathven know?"

"No," the Photographer said.

"She's not even your sister, is she?"

"Goodbye, Finch," the Photographer said, and stuck out his hand.
A stronger grip than he'd imagined, and more final.

He wasn't coming back.

"What about your photographs?"

"You can have them if you want them. I don't need them anymore."

Then he was gone, walking down the stairs.

In the bay, the towers had fallen silent. There was just the heavy wall
of black smoke from the southeast shore. Already he could hear the
sound of angry voices from below. Could see, at intersections far below,
crowds gathering.

Finch stood there awhile. Looking out over the city. Not sure
whether to believe he held its future in his hands.

t the station, Blakely had barricaded the door with a couple of
filing cabinets and an empty desk. Finch slid through a narrow
gap that Gustat quickly closed behind him. Blakely had the smell of
whisky on his breath, masked by coffee. The flushed face of someone
trying desperately to get drunk for a long time. Behind him, Gustat
was fiddling with his radio, with no luck. No sign of Wyte. Or Albin
or Skinner.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Blakely: "You've seen what's happening. We'll be targets. We're
thinking we might fortify the bell tower. If things don't get better."

Finch just stared at him. "Fortify the tower?" Make one last stand.
Wait out the siege in a pathetic excuse for a tree fort, a few dozen
bottles of whisky and beer for comfort. Had a flash of Blakely as a
bullying, pimply faced child, strong-arming his way into the local
clubhouse.

"You have a better idea?" Blakely asked.

Saw the fear in his face now.

"There are no better ideas," Finch muttered.

But Blakely had a point. The mood on the streets had been fearful,
murderous. He'd kept his detective's badge in his hand the whole time.
Other hand on his gun. Hating the way the sky made everything so
clear, so clean-looking. Hating the weight in his pocket of the thing the
Photographer had given him. Partials had been rounding up anyone still
in a camp uniform. Bashing in heads. But no statement had been made by
the gray caps. By a stroke of bad luck, it was also another drug mushroom
day. Everyone wanted them now, to stock up against disaster.

Finch walked toward his desk. Bodies had been stacked in the holding
cell. On top: a man of about thirty-five in a lacerated brown suit and a woman in her twenties, wearing a fancy red dress. A plate-like lavender
lichen had begun to cover up their faces. A dozen others under them.
All dead. Thought he recognized one or two from the chapel.

"What's this about?" he demanded.

No response for the longest time. Then Blakely spoke up. "Heretic
said they were traitors. With the rebels. Brought them here last night.
They had to be liquidated, Heretic said."

Gustat wouldn't look at Blakely. Wouldn't look anywhere.

"So Heretic was here?" Finch asked.

"Yes, he was. Last night."

"And you just plan on leaving the bodies here?" Failing to hide his
disgust. At them? At the situation?

"He told us to."

Gustat spoke up. "There's talk of the gray caps getting ready to
cleanse whole neighborhoods with spore clouds. They've closed off
the streets nearest the bay and the towers. The towers will be done in
the next day or two." The words said with a mixture of awe and dread.

"They're pretty well done already," Finch said. "They took out the
whole fucking Spit this morning if you hadn't noticed. Where are the
others?"

"Told to go work on the towers, so I guess they aren't done,"
Blakely said.

Finch sat down at his desk. Anger building in him. For having to go
through the motions. At the casual cruelty of his position.

New case notes on his desk. In Blakely's hand. A domestic dispute.
A mugging. Someone had stolen someone else's food. Someone's dog
had gone missing and the owner had filed a missing person's report.
Amazing how the mundane shit never ended. While the world went
to hell. Again tried to chart the sequence of events that had led him
to this moment. Couldn't.

"Heard anything from Wyte?" he asked, to distract himself.

"He's alive?" Gustat seemed shocked.

"Yes, he's fucking well alive." Then realized he hadn't called in to the
station after the shoot-out. Need to call Wyte. "Dapple's dead, though. We
had a shoot-out with rebels and Partials." The words came out so matter-
of-factly. So easily.

"Dapple's dead," Gustat said, hand still on the radio tuner. A blank
stare into the distance. Began to cry. As if Dapple had been his best
friend, instead of just tolerated.

Harsh laugh from Blakely. "Sorry we didn't have a chance to catch
up on your exploits before now. But last night we were too busy
sticking it out here in the station next to a pile of corpses."

"It happens, Gustat," Finch said. With a toughness he didn't feel.
Ignoring Blakely. Hadn't expected Gustat's tears. Hadn't expected a
lot of things. Wondered how much longer he could endure it. When
would whatever kept him going run out?

"Look in your memory hole, Finch," Blakely said.

A message? He leaned down. Pulled the pod out uneasily, with the
other two watching. Went through the ritual of opening it. Just a note.
From Heretic.

PLANS HAVE CHANGED. FILE A FINAL REPORT ON YOUR CASE.
THEN REPORT WITH WYTE TO THE TOWERS FOR WORK DETAIL.

A vast improvement over the last message.

Blakely's face held fear and smugness all at once. "You're off the
case. He told us before he left. The case is over."

Incredulous: "Who is taking it over, then?"

"No one. Working on the towers is punishment for what happened at the
safe house. If you ask me, you got off light. He was in a good mood. Calm.
Almost happy. Even when he put them to sleep." A tilt of the head toward
the holding cage.

"You've got to work on the towers," Gustat said, still messing with his
radio. An odd look on his face, halfway between a frown and a smile.