“Dar Sardice,” Finch said. Didn’t know if he pursued it because he really believed it was important.
Bliss nodded. Didn’t seem surprised. “I met your father while using that name. Out in the desert. It was a complicated time. Many conflicting allegiances.” Seemed ready to say more. Stopped himself. Head tilted down. Eyes still on Finch. “But I’m telling tales when we don’t have much time. You need to focus on the present.”
He carefully laid the cigar on the edge of the table. Kept his other hand on the gun. Pulled something out of a pocket on the inside of his jacket. Put it down on the table. On Finch’s side.
A piece of metal, about ten inches long. Segmented, it looked like it folded out into something larger. Like one of the surveyor rulers his father had always carried with him. Except it was made of a strange alloy, the color deep blue, almost gray. With the rainbow hues when the light caught it that meant it was very old. Odd symbols had been etched into every inch of it. None of them familiar. They didn’t even look like what he’d seen of gray cap writing. The metal seemed heavy, substantial. But Bliss had lifted it from his pocket like it weighed nothing at all.
Finch said, “What is that? It doesn’t look like something made by us. Or by the gray caps.”
“It’s not.”
“Oh.” Again, the world opened up. Became larger, wider, deeper, than before.
Let it flow over and through you or you’ll be lost.
“Now give me the memory bulb the Photographer gave you,” Bliss said.
“Why?” Sarcastically: “How am I supposed to kill myself without it?”
“Just do it. Trust me.” In a pinched, irritable tone. Like Finch should know what was good for him.
Finch placed the pouch on the table.
From his pocket, Bliss took out a small glass vial with a blue crystal stopper. “Watch and learn,” he said, finishing his whiskey. Puffing furiously on his cigar.
He retrieved the memory bulb from the pouch. Broke it into pieces in his whiskey glass. Filling it to the top with a hill of colored dirt. Puffed on the cigar again. Blew away the ash column until there was just the blazing tapered tip.
“They call that a dog’s dick,” Bliss said, laughing.
“Here we call it the Kalif’s cock,” Finch said.
Bliss stopped laughing. Applied the tip to the memory bulb dust. “Yes, well, they call this … well, they don’t call this anything because your normal sort of person on the street never does this…”
The dust began to smoke, then liquefy. In a minute or so, the whiskey glass was filled with a pale blue liquid. Bliss carefully shepherded it into the vial. Stoppered it. Put it on Finch’s side of the table. Hard to think of backing out faced with something so specific. A procedure so matter-of-fact.
“In this form, it has a completely different effect,” Bliss said. “You’ll prop Shriek up when you get into the apartment and pour it down his throat, making sure he doesn’t choke. He won’t have a gag reflex, of course. It will complete the process of regeneration, taking maybe a minute.”
Complete the process of regeneration. Shriek awake. An image of everything happening in reverse. Of corpses getting up, walking backward to wherever they’d come from. Unliving their lives. Becoming children. Forgetting how to walk. Returning and returning and returning until they were gone. Never seeing Shriek or the dead gray cap. Never having to kill anyone, for any reason.
“What then?” Finch asked.
“You will give him the piece of metal. He’ll know what to do. Afterward, he’ll leave it behind and you will take the piece of metal with you. And I will come to get it from you.
“Just know that in all of this you must be fast. You won’t have much time. You’ll get in because you work for them. And that still means something. For a day or two, at least. They’ve had distractions thrown at them all day. Dividing their attention. But you can’t count on that. We don’t have eyes or ears inside of that apartment complex. Too risky. They’d find their way back to the Lady.”
“And what do I do then? Confess all? Throw myself on the mercy of the gray caps?”
Bliss shrugged. “If you have to, give yourself up, yes. If all goes well, you won’t have long to wait. We’ll be watching. But there’s always that risk.”
Up close, what appeared immaculate about Bliss was actually shopworn, threadbare. His pants. His shoes. A button missing on the jacket. Was it noble or sad that he was still out in the field, running games, networks, schemes?
“Who are you, really?” Finch asked.
The old eyes stared out from the well-preserved face. “Any spy worthy of the name would figure that out. Any spy. For anyone.”
Bliss came around the table, too fast for Finch to warn him off. Then stood there looking at Finch.
“Sometimes you have to take a leap into the unknown, John. Sometimes you just have to trust that, plan or no plan, you have limited control over the situation. Now, it’s almost dusk. Leave when it’s dark. Take the route you think gives you the most cover. That means people, Finch. Lots of confused, frightened people. Not back alleys. They can see a lone man. A crowd’s more difficult, even for them. But stay away from Partial checkpoints. They’re on edge, and that means they’re more dangerous and less predictable. Even with your badge.”
Finch felt for a moment out of his league, Bliss growing in stature with each word. Had nothing to say in return.
Bliss took something out of his pockets. Put it on the table. “Last thing. Sandwiches. Eat before you leave. And don’t go back up to your apartment. It isn’t safe.”
“But I have to change. I’m covered in blood.”
Bliss’s expression was grim. “You’ll fit in better that way.”
He walked to the door. Turned there, surrounded by photographs of water. Gave Finch a salute. “Good luck, Finch. And some advice: be prepared to kill.”
Said it casually. Almost as if he’d said it many times before.
8
Back in front of apartment 525. Where it had started. Only five days ago. Everything was different. Everything was the same.
Had fought his way through chaotic streets. Grim-looking men and women careening past in forbidden motored vehicles. Armed with everything from pitchforks and kitchen knives to rifles and semiautomatics. Then passed through the double doors. Bodies slumped on the steps outside the building. Strewn. Spasming in something between agony and ecstasy. An acrid smell lingered from whatever had poisoned them.
Inside, no one in the corridors. The floor no longer slick. No one on the landings.
No sign of any Partials. Distant sounds of conflict from outside only made it inside as a thud or rumbling echo. Could hear his own heartbeat. Couldn’t hear any sounds from inside the apartments around him. Held the gun up, two-handed grip, but it was the weight of the sword at his side that comforted him.
Same gray cap symbol glowing on the door.
Same hesitation, but more pain behind it. The light in the hall flickered crazily.
Finally mastered his fear. Held the gun in one hand while he turned the doorknob and pushed with the other. The door was unlocked. A prickle of unease up his spine.
He walked into the darkened hall with the empty bedroom ahead. A yellow, artificial light leaked into the hall from the doorway on the left.