Stark wrenched Finch’s head back by his hair. “They’re working all night on the towers, Finchy. All night. Like there’s a deadline suddenly. Driving people past their limits. Until they’re dying. Until they’re falling from the scaffolding. Why are they doing that, Finch? Why are the towers so important? And what’s it got to do with that apartment, Finchy? And what’s that got to do with the rebel safe house, Finchy? And how is all of this going to benefit me?”
With every question, Stark seemed smaller. More brutish.
A wash of stars. An underground sea. A thousand green lights out in the desert.
“You’re the professional spy, Stark. Why don’t you figure it out?” Made professional sound small.
Somehow that made Stark laugh. “I’m trying, Finch. Believe me, I’m trying. But people like you make it so difficult.” Stark nodded.
They let him fall to the ground. Bosun tossed his gun back to him.
Stark leaned down. “There are no professionals here, Finchy. We’re all amateurs. That’s what makes us dangerous. Now, you’d better start getting results. You’d better start thinking about your future. What’s left of it. Or all the lovely people around you are going to suffer. Starting sooner than you think. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll just come for you. There’s not much time left. This is your last warning.”
Had the feel of a well-worn speech.
Stark stalked off, the rest behind him. Leaving Finch beside the two corpses.
Above them all: the towers. Finch saw that the blackness between them was different than to either side. Showed no stars. Blurred, with the vague impression of shadowy nighttime scenes sliding across. Fast.
Now he knew why.
* * *
Back in the hotel. Near midnight. Didn’t know for sure. Approached the landing below the seventh floor. Heard Feral hissing at something. Saw a flickering, golden light that projected a circle of fire. Elongated and slanted down the hallway. Distorted further by the fungus on the walls. A rank smell, like too-strong perfume.
Bliss? The Partial?
Already had his Lewden out. Slowly walked up the steps. Saw Feral, fur puffed out, standing a few feet from his door. Staring up the source of the light. The thing had attached itself to the door. It looked like a golden brooch with filigree detail extending out in wavy branches or tendrils. From that angle, he could see the transparent cilia underneath. Almost looked like a larger cousin of the starfish he’d seen in the underground cavern.
Came closer, gun aimed at it. Arms shaking a little.
Feral saw him and scurried over to stand next to him. Now a low growl came from the cat’s throat.
From ten feet away, the front of the organism had the look of pure gold. A rough flower pattern. In the middle, a closed aperture divided into four parts.
A beam of light flashed out from the thing. Blinded him for a moment. Withdrew.
“Finch!” Heretic’s voice. A ghostly quaver.
Finch lowered his gun. Didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. “Not worth your time, Feral.” A message from Heretic. A little more dramatic than usual.
The aperture dilated. Out leapt the skery. Finch screamed. Stumbled back. The skery reached its full length an inch from his face. Receded. Bobbed there, long and black. Curling downward. Until he could see it wasn’t the skery at all. Just a sick joke. In another second, it broke off and fell to the floor.
Feral came forward. Hissed at it, smacked at it with his claws. Jumping back even as he did so.
No one stirred in the apartments to either side. Finch didn’t blame them.
The oval in the middle widened. An approximation of Heretic’s face appeared. He looked almost jolly. As if he’d known how horrified Finch would be of the skery.
“Finch,” Heretic rasped, “you’ve been gone a long time. Almost long enough for me to suspect you had left us. I thought you’d run. Until you appeared again shadowing Wyte—”
But most of the rest was lost. Whatever it was supposed to be. Reverting to a series of clicks and whistles and moist suppurations. The garglings of a monster. As if Heretic didn’t care anymore whether Finch had orders or not. Or something had gone wrong when recording the message. Or everything was falling apart.
Finch listened to the obscene chatter for a minute. Then he put a couple of bullets in Heretic’s face. With a sigh the golden organism slid slowly to the hallway floor. Began to curl in on itself.
Picked up Feral, opened the door, locked it behind him, and went to bed.
FRIDAY
I: When did you first realize how deeply you were involved?
F: I didn’t. I mean, it wasn’t clear. I mean, I never did.
I: That is a lie. You’re hiding things again.
F: Then kill me and use a memory bulb to find out the truth. Bastard.
I: We can only kill you once. And once you are dead, all we would have is your bulb. They’re unreliable.
F: Then trust me.
I: People lie. They lie and they keep lying. Eventually, they can’t remember the truth. Is that your problem, Finch?
F: I’m not really a detective. That’s why I can’t answer your questions.
I: Once they made you a detective, you were a detective. Why did you never understand that?
1
The bed shuddered beneath Finch, almost seemed to gasp. He reached for his gun as a deep thudding vibration shook the hotel. An after-sound like shredding or tearing. Timbers settling and creaking like an old ship. Thought for one sleep-muddled moment it was his damaged shoulder.
Took a moment to realize the impact came from outside the building. He pulled on pants. Ran to the kitchen window as another shuddering thud struck. Looked down through the smudged pane. Nothing on the street below, just a few people running. Checked from the bathroom. No one in the courtyard.
A commotion outside. People on the stairs. All he could think was: fire? Or, worse, Partials rounding up people. Wished Wyte were there with him.
Threw on and buttoned a shirt, put on shoes without socks. Feral meowing round his feet. Agitated. A burning smell in the air now. Or was he imagining it? Shoved his gun into his waistband. Went out the door fast.
Stumbled over the remains of Heretic’s message, curled up like a husk. Residents were shoving their way up the stairs to the roof. While his neighbor, the old man, stood watching them from the hall. Framed by a rough stain of blue-gray fungus on the wall.
“What’s happening?” Finch asked.
“The towers!” The man spat out the words. “The towers are starting a war. Everybody wants to go watch. Idiots! I’m staying right here.”
* * *
On the roof the burnt smell was stronger. A cloudless sky. Searing blue. More hotel residents in one place than he’d ever seen before. Black market vendors. Clinic workers. Camp guards. Scavengers. Druggies. All holding on to their gas masks. Just in case. All looking out toward the bay.
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.