“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 whiskey 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 platelike 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. “Thanks for the reminder,” Finch said. “Now fuck off.”
“Cheer up,” Blakely said. “I don’t think Heretic’s coming back. I don’t think anyone’s coming back.”
The clock ticked. The phone on Finch’s desk rang a few times. Mostly people scared because of the destruction of the Spit. Even though the towers had done nothing since. Some of the people who called even had some small hope he could help them. But they were living in the grip of memories of the old days. A past that had never really existed.
Finch worked on his final report. Going through the motions. Sticking to routine. Waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him the rest of the plan. He would call Wyte soon, too. Just working up the nerve.
Started out with pen and paper. Wrote drivel. Fuck you … Am I just the bait?… There’s nothing here you can use … You’re monstrous …
Paralyzed for a moment by the thought of the look on Sintra’s face as she walked away from him for the last time. Clinging now to what she’d told him even as he’d told her to stop before. “My mother had gotten better, but my father had lost his arm to a fungal bullet. He couldn’t work for a long time he was so depressed. He’d been a journalist.”
Threw away his pointless notes. Went to the typewriter. Soon had a real report that while bland made a kind of sense. Was it good enough to satisfy Heretic while he completed his mission? Had no idea. Read it over one last time.
There are no definitive conclusions to be drawn in this murder case. I have found no information on the identity of the dead gray cap. The man may be related to a fringe historian, Duncan Shriek, who lived in the apartment more than a hundred years ago, but this appears to be a coincidence. Two names came up repeatedly in investigating the case: Ethan Bliss, an operative for Morrow, and “Stark,” the alias of a spy working for Stockton. Their relationship to the case is oblique at best, but both appear convinced that the man carried a weapon created by the rebels for use against Fanaarcensitii. I remain convinced that the man fell from a great height and was moved to the apartment—that he died elsewhere. Both Bliss and Stark may know more, but they remain fugitives, and we have not been given the resources to track them down. If the dead man was part of a rebel conspiracy, then it appears to have failed. I would suggest that the Fanaarcensitii put all of their resources into tracking down Bliss and Stark. Interrogations of both parties might provide more information. All other intelligence can be found in the attached notes and prior reports.