“And the list I gave you, of people who lived in that apartment?”
Finch relaxed a little. “I’m still working on it. By tomorrow afternoon I should know more.” If Rathven’s finished by then.
Heretic considered this statement for a long time, then said, “You have withheld information from me. You haven’t even finished with the list. From now on, you will report every day. You are to tell me everything. Do not leave it to your judgment.”
Finch opened his mouth to speak. Heretic said words that sounded like kith vrisdresn zorn. Snapped his fingers.
The skery wound itself around Finch’s legs and tightened. Sudden tingling paralysis. He could not move away. Could not fall. Choking on his own breath. The paralysis brought with it an image of an endless field of dim stars, one by one extinguished. A gulf and a void. Finch was as afraid as he had ever been in his life. Because he didn’t know what he was looking at, or why.
Try to breathe. Slowly. Breathe slowly.
The skery curled its way up to his chest. Around his neck. It pulled tight so he was gasping in his motionlessness. He felt something like sharp leaves or thorns up against his neck. An impression of lips. A sharp, smoky scent. Half the field of stars had gone out. There was more darkness than light.
From behind Finch’s desk, from a thousand miles away, from behind a thick wall: Heretic. Saying, “A skery is not as bad for you as what I could bring with me.”
The skery curled back down Finch’s body. Released him. He stumbled forward, hands on the desk to stop from falling. The field of stars so bright he almost passed out. Then the desk came into focus. Prickles of sensation came back into his legs. Neck already sore and throbbing.
“Do you understand me, Finch?” Heretic said. “We can make it quite clear who you really are. To everyone. Or we can just put you in the camps. Or we can do much, much worse.”
Finch had killed a gray cap once. As an Irregular. Before the Rising. Out in the confusion of civil war. With a knife and a gun. He thought about that now, looking at Heretic.
Heretic: “How did Bliss manage to escape you? I expect that in your report by tomorrow night. You will leave your report on your desk. I will read it. If I am not satisfied, I will visit you. Find ways to convince me that you are more valuable alive than as a memory bulb. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Finch managed after a moment. Throat sore. Burying his anger deep. Just wanting to be away from there. Just wanting to be somewhere he might fool himself into calling safe.
The gray cap rose. “You’ll find Bliss’s information in the ‘memory hole’ by your desk in a few minutes.”
Heretic walked toward the back, holding his skery. Rivulets of golden spores swirled up from his footfalls. Sparkled in the murk like tiny blinking eyes.
Against all good judgment, against his shock at the skery’s touch, Finch spoke. “What happened when you took the dead man’s memory bulb?”
Heretic half turned, the look on his face murderous. “I did not eat the memory bulb. That was another fanaarcensitii. He saw nothing. He died within minutes, in horrible pain. Apparently, you are very, very lucky, Finch.”
A long peal of that awful laughter before Heretic disappeared behind the curtain.
* * *
Afterward, Finch couldn’t sleep. Stomach churning. Couldn’t get rid of a crawling sensation. Half his mouth felt numb. The other half tingled like a faint electric shock. His legs moved slowly, a deep ache in both muscle and bone.
Had returned to his apartment to find a note from Sintra shoved under the door: Can’t make it tonight. Tomorrow night. Found that a bad mood could get worse.
He went up to the roof of the hotel, a fifth of whiskey retrieved from his kitchen, and let a nagging Feral come with him. Carried the cat’s comforting weight, like a purring loaf of bread, in the crook of his left arm. In his other hand, the file on Bliss.
The stairs above his floor had been so colonized by moss and lichen that they didn’t creak. Dark. Dangerous. But Finch didn’t care. He’d lost his way anyhow, was in need of something sturdier than self-pity.
A hatch in the ceiling where the stairs ended led to the roof. He switched Bliss’s file to under his arm, next to a protesting Feral. Set down the whiskey long enough to push open the hatch without losing his balance. Picked it back up, and stepped through with Feral. Into a bracing wind. A wash of stars set against the black-and-green-tinged sky.
Except for the bit obscured by the dilapidated sign, Finch could see the whole city from here. One reason he’d chosen the hotel. The view from the roof helped him with his map overlay. Made him feel more in control, being able to see so much from one place. The soldier in him always wanted the best possible recon.
Muted lights from the buildings to either side. Like he saw them through a black curtain. Even the two towers seemed dulled, the emerald glow humble. A few sparkling clouds of spores, in blue and yellow, danced far out in the sky, to the south. Otherwise, just the inward-focused white of the camp domes, balanced to the north by the humming glitter of orange-green HFZ. The air didn’t carry the smell of mushrooms. As if a fresh breeze had come from outside the city.
A tall figure stood near the edge of the roof, looking out. Finch stiffened, making Feral hiss. He groped for the gun he had left in the apartment, Feral jumping from his arm. Then Finch realized it was just the Photographer, Rath’s brother. The man who liked to take pictures of water and ran a black market store out of his apartment.
Finch had seen the photographs. Stacked up next to the cameras. Plastered to the walls. Blown up, miniaturized, blurry, in focus. On anything that might serve, or re-serve, as contact paper. As if the Photographer looked for one particular thing in the water. As if not interested in water at all, searching for something he hadn’t found yet.
A fifth of whiskey was enough for two.
The Photographer turned as Finch approached. A slow, unconcerned motion. Finch had never seen him anything other than calm. Or maybe his mood was always resigned to whatever new thing came next. Didn’t know what had happened to him in the camps. Didn’t know much about him at all, except that he trusted the man. Which made little sense. He was so clearly damaged. So indifferent to Finch’s help in getting him out of the camp.
The Photographer nodded.
Finch passed the bottle to the Photographer. The man took a sip and handed it back. He stared at Finch with an unreadable gaze. A white face and a watchful mouth, with an upturn to the lips that could make him look devilish. The eyes and cheekbones didn’t match the mouth. The eyes were almost vacant, except for a deep-set glint. Finch thought of that glint as curiosity or obsession. The high cheekbones gave the Photographer an aura of deep or deeply denied suffering.
“Anything new out there?”
“A few things.” His voice a thin reed.
“Anything I should know about?”
The Photographer shrugged, looked out at the night. “More activity at the towers, just a little while ago. An emergency? Quickly solved, if so. Nothing there now. A few spore discharges to the west. Can’t tell if they’re human or mechanical. But not much, no … What happened to you?”
An involuntary snort. He must look as ragged as he felt. The Photographer had never asked after his health before.