Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (42 page)

"How did you know my father?"

Bliss sidestepped the question. "Your father knew how to keep a
secret. I always admired that about him. He had his head on straight.
He knew what was important. And what wasn't. I think you do,
too. Your father would have agreed to this mission without a second
thought."

"My father is dead," Finch said through gritted teeth. Put down
his whisky. Bliss knowing didn't shock him. It was the rest. "You still
haven't answered my question."

"I trusted your father," Bliss said. "And he trusted me. If that wasn't
the case, I'd have suggested one of the others. Blakely. Maybe even
Wyte. But your boss did make you the lead on the case. Much easier
for you to get in there."

"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 whisky. Puffing
furiously on his cigar.

He retrieved the memory bulb from the pouch. Broke it into pieces
in his whisky 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 whisky
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.

ack 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 careeningpast in forbidden motored vehicles. Armed with everything
from pitchforks and kitchen knives to rifles and semi-automatics. 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.

No sound but his tread on the wooden floor. Just an expectant pause.
Realized he was holding his breath. Let it out. An absurd whistling
through his nose that was worse.

He came out into the living room. A lantern on a chair by the balcony
window provided the light. Cast everything in buttery shadows.

The sofa. The chairs. The empty kitchen behind. A shape on the
rug. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it was the familiar shape of Shriek,
under the blanket. The rebels' great hope. A weapon. A beacon. A
human being.

He walked into the living room.

A movement from behind. Before he could turn, the muzzle of a gun
had been shoved into his back. Flinched. Felt like something alive was
crawling onto him from the gun.

"Drop your weapon, Finch. The bag, too." A familiar voice. The
Partial.

"I'm here on official business," Finch snapped.

"We both know that's a lie. Drop it now."

Heard the click of the safety.

Finch dropped the gun.

"Now the sword. Undo the belt. Let it drop."

Finch obeyed, trying to breathe slowly, not let panic take him. What
moment should he choose? This one? The next?

The sword made a dull clank against the floor. The slap of the belt
leather.

The gun muzzle withdrew from his back. "Now turn and face me."

He turned. Fast. Meant to rush the Partial. Get under his guard.
Too late. Saw the Partial's gun coming down for far too long. The thin
white wrist behind it. A thudding pain in his forehead. The buttery
light became death-white, intense. Then faded out.

He woke facing the window and the lantern, the end of the couch to
his right. Tied to a chair. Wrists and ankles burned from the tightness
of the rope. Shoulders ached from having his arms wrenched behind
his back. Head throbbed. Could taste blood. The jacket with the piece
of metal and the vial had been tossed to the side.

The balcony was empty. So was the kitchen. What he could see of
it. A series of knives had been set out on the counter. A pot of water
boiled on the burner. A hammer had been tossed onto the couch.

Tested the rope, but it just bit in deeper. Tried rocking, but could tell
he'd never get to his feet. He'd just fall over.

Heard footsteps. Winced. Expecting Heretic and the skery. But only
the Partial walked into view. Started rehearsing lines in his head.

"Hello, Finch," the Partial said. He'd brought a second lantern,
placed it to the side.

The same sneer. Same recording eye. Same ugliness. As thin and
pale as something dead.

"I've disabled the cameras in here, Finch," the Partial said. "I've told
the other Partials to give us some privacy, too."

"Why? We're on the same case," Finch said. "Untie me and we can
go our separate ways, no harm done."

The eye clicked and clicked. The Partial moved to his left. Finch
could see the gun now. Held in the Partial's right hand. A nasty hybrid.
An older Hoegbotton revolver altered to fire fungal bullets. The faint
red-green tips of the bullets naked in the barrel. Seemed to breathe as
they expanded, contracted.

"You should have checked the bedroom first, Finch. You would
have found me," the Partial said. "But I'm not surprised. You've been
very sloppy. Take the shoot-out at the chapel. A lot of my people died
there."

"That was Heretic's decision, to send us there. And this is still an
open investigation. I'm the lead detective on it. Untie me and I won't
mention this to Heretic."

"But it's not open, Finch," the Partial said. "You closed it yourself. I
have your final report. Or bits of it. It doesn't mention a lot of things.
Killing Wyte, for example."

Making Stark eat a memory bulb.

"Wyte was dying," Finch said. "It was a mercy."

"Convenient you weren't at the station when the bomb went off."