Finch

by Jeff VanderMeer

Stark circled him. “I'll bet you were. Saw your exotic girl leave. She looked well satisfied. Did you give her a good time in there? You should be glad I'm a man of such refinement, Finch, or we might've given her a better one.”

  “Is that all you came here to say?” Finch asked.

  Bosun nodded and two of his men wrenched Finch's arms back. Painfully.

  “No, not really. We've some more serious matters to discuss. Like, did you know there's a bounty on the head of the Lady in Blue?” Stark came close, looked him in the eye. “I think you do know that. It applies to anyone who associates with her-on my side or yours.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  Stark nodded. Bosun punched him in the stomach again. Grunted. Fought through the pain. The thugs held him up.

  “I think you do, Finch. I think you do. At least, those two thought so. Show him, boys.”

  They dragged him closer to the wall. Saw four pale feet, the rest of the bodies hidden by shadows.

  “The two morons that Bosun saw spirit you away. They didn't say much before they died. But they said enough.”

  Finch didn't think they'd said anything at all. “I don't even know who they are.”

  “Of course you don't, Finch,” Stark said with disgust. “You never saw their faces. Let alone their feet. So, again, where did you disappear off to?”

  “Nowhere.”

  Stark looked at him a second. “Nowhere? Nowhere. Next you'll be saying you've made no progress on the case.”

  “There is no progress, Stark.”

  “Even after I gave you that juicy transcript? I think you're lying.”

  Finch, reckless: “I think you fed us that address in the transcript. It almost got us killed. For nothing. And I wasted a day. So I've got nothing for you, either.”

  Stark pulled back a second, as if to get a better look at Finch. “Are you serious, Finch? Because that's not what I heard. I heard Wyte blew it for you. Your man transforms into some huge fucking monster and charges the stage. That's what I'm told. Not exactly proper procedure. Not exactly what you'd expect from a detective. Or maybe it is. Maybe it's the old quick-change comic theater routine. Maybe that goes over big in this shit hole. What is Wyte, anyway? Some kind of secret weapon?”

  “He's sick,” Finch said.

  “Any sicker than Duncan Shriek?” Stark asked, with a knowing leer. “Because I hear Mr. Shriek is dead. And holed up in a certain apartment on Manzikert Avenue. Writing his ghost memoirs.” Stark's refinement was slipping. A rougher voice, with a gutter accent.

  “Why not go look for yourself,” Finch said. “Maybe you'll turn up some clues.”

  Stark kneed Finch in the groin. Finch groaned. Couldn't fall down, held by the two men. “Think you're funny? I know that's a kill zone. You don't get me, Finch. Do you think I give a fuck about this sewer of a city?” Stark whispered in his ear. “I don't give a fuck about this dump. I don't care if it all goes up in pillars of flame. It's not my fucking town. But I don't like being lied to. And I don't like people getting in the way of what I want.”

  Apparently no one did. Not Stark. Not the Lady in Blue. Not Heretic. Finch was tired of it.

  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.

  Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

  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. An
d 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?

  Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

  1

  he 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.

  A slightly unreal aspect to it. Watching it from afar. The Spit so tiny. Each boat a sliver. A toothpick. Rocking on a vast sea. The tyranny of distance. A few boats had become unmoored and were drifting across the bay. Aimless. Half on fire. Were Stark and Bosun still on the Spit? Desperately moving from boat to boat. Making for shore. Finch didn't think so.

  Wondered if Wyte was watching somewhere or still dealing with his condition.

  The sky between the towers had become darker, shot through with shades of amber. In the backdrop: a flock of strange birds and the silhouette of an island that shouldn't exist.

  The people around him were talking about the green light.

  “Getting rid of that nest of spies. Should've done it a long time ago.”

  “No friends of Ambergris. No friends at all.”

  “But what's next, then? Where does it stop?”

  Finch looked over at the HFZ. Violent strands of strobing orangered fungal mist rose into the sky. Like an infection running rampant. Remembered the hill he had stood atop with the Lady in Blue. The image came back with a vividness that took over his vision for a moment. A roiling mass of particles. Discharging light until a steady humming glow suffused the city in a kind of dawn. There came in reply from the city a hundredfold bestial roar.

  “Why do they ever do anything?”

  “They're all dead by now. Or dying.”

  Could the Lady in Blue be both right and wrong? Could Duncan Shriek be alive but the towers have some other purpose altogether? Under that sharp blue sky, he didn't know the answer. What if he was bait? A distraction? Once again, the disconnect hurt him. Between what she'd shown him and Ambergris as he knew it. An ethereal beauty that no longer lives here. A dream to believe or deny. A vision as different for him as it was for Wyte or Rathven.

  “The city fighting itself. Pointless now ...”

  The Photographer came up next to him. Binoculars hung from his neck. He carried a small pouch by the drawstring. “Breathtaking, isn't it?”

  “No,” Finch said. “No, it's not. It's fucking awful.”

  The Photographer said, “Just look at the way the water reacts. Look at the patterns.” Almost giddy.

  An orange eruption of flames over the Spit. Accompanied by spirals of black smoke. Another blast. Another. The building didn't shake as much now. As if used to it. Or as if Finch were.

  “When did it start?”

  “Twenty minutes ago? Suddenly most of the workers climbed down from the top of the towers. They're at the base now, still constructing something.”

  A sudden spark of hope hit him hard. Hadn't realized he still had the capacity for it. “So they aren't finished yet.”

  “Almost. And so is the Spit.”

  Finch stared sharply at the Photographer. But there was no hint of triumph in him.

  “It's a strong warning,” the Photographer said. “They're clearing the way for something.”

  “I wonder what they'll do when they've finished off the Spit,” Finch said, almost to himself.

  The Photographer pointed to the east. “What's missing?”

  The other camp dome was gone. Had left behind only a kind of ghostly white outline, broken by mottled gray. With that lack, the greens of the Religious Quarter burned even stronger in the sunlight. And through that entanglement lay the distant echo, the distant shadows, of cupolas and minarets. Like a dream. Like a trap. Was Sintra watching from there even now?

  “Fuck.”

  A new phase of the Rising.

  The crowd had begun to realize the roof might be dangerous. Thinned out. Just a few left. A woman in her fifties dressed in a bathrobe, arms wrapped tightly round herself. A couple in their twenties who had never, Finch realized, known anything but war or the Rising. Three old men in their best clothes, watching solemnly.

  Better for most to hunker down in their apartments and not see the end coming. Or go out onto the streets in one last gasp of defiance. Against what?

  The towers continued to pound the Spit. A white smoke had overtaken the black smoke. It looked now like the thick green spheres slamming into the Spit were dissolving into a cloud bank or a thick mist.

  “I have something for you,” the Photographer said. Put the pouch in Finch's hand. “It looks just like a memory bulb, but it isn't. Keep it with you at all times.”

  Finch stared at the pouch. Stared at the Photographer. Taken completely by surprise.

  The Photographer said, “If you aren't caught, you'll need it for your mission. If you are caught, take a bite. Just one bite.”

  “And then what?”

  The Photographer's face was as blank as the side of a wall. “There will be nothing left of you. Nothing they could trace. Nothing they could read.”

  Nothing left. No pain. No concealment. Nothing.

  “We're changing, too, Finch. There's no one under my command who hasn't been altered in some way. The question is how much you change. Change too much and you're no different from Shriek, no different from a gray cap. And then even if we win, we lose.”

  Instinctively tried to give it back to the Photographer. The man stepped away, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

  “Don't talk about this in your apartment,” the Photographer said, as if nothing had happened. “Don't write down anything while in your apartment.”

  “Why not?”

 
“The message last night left intruders. We can't run interference on them without leaving a trail.”

  Didn't even bother to examine that, turn it over in his mind. Just one more intrusion in a life littered with them. No anger left to shed.

  The Photographer continued: “Later today someone else will approach you with the rest of what you need.”

  Assuming I'll do it. But standing there, pouch in hand, it seemed impossible he wouldn't do it. The only way out. To take control of the case before it imploded. Let it not be a case anymore. Let it be something else.

  “I always thought it would be the madman out front,” Finch said.

  A thin smile from the Photographer. “He's just a madman.”

  “Do I need to stay here?”

  “Follow your usual routine. You'll be followed. We'll know where you are no matter where you go.”

  After a pause: “Does Rathven know?”

  “No,” the Photographer said.

  “She's not even your sister, is she?”

  “Goodbye, Finch,” the Photographer said, and stuck out his hand. A stronger grip than he'd imagined, and more final.

  He wasn't coming back.

  “What about your photographs?”

  “You can have them if you want them. I don't need them anymore.”

  Then he was gone, walking down the stairs.

  In the bay, the towers had fallen silent. There was just the heavy wall of black smoke from the southeast shore. Already he could hear the sound of angry voices from below. Could see, at intersections far below, crowds gathering.

  Finch stood there awhile. Looking out over the city. Not sure whether to believe he held its future in his hands.

  Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

  2

  t the station, Blakely had barricaded the door with a couple of filing cabinets and an empty desk. Finch slid through a narrow gap that Gustat quickly closed behind him. Blakely had the smell of whisky on his breath, masked by coffee. The flushed face of someone trying desperately to get drunk for a long time. Behind him, Gustat was fiddling with his radio, with no luck. No sign of Wyte. Or Albin or Skinner.