“No.” Didn't sound convincing.
“You're so full of shit, Wyte.” Exasperated because back in the day Wyte was the one lecturing him about being naive. Telling him not to trust the ship captains at the docks when what was in their hold didn't match the invoice. Always warning him about getting fooled.
“I'm not going to make any deals!”
Pressing: “What did Stark's people talk to you about then, Wyte? Scratch that-who are Stark's people?”
“Nobody! No one,” Wyte protested. “They didn't talk to me. I had a hood over my head. I never even saw them. And how do I know you didn't decide to trade information with Stark?”
“Because I didn't, Wyte. You know why? Because he's not like your Stockton contacts from before. You can't really deal with someone like Stark. He'll cheerfully sell you a knife and then slit your throat with it before you've even given him the money.”
“I know that. Tend to your own house.”
“Fair enough.”
A silence that spread and spread until it reached the sky. Not really mad at Wyte. Mad at Stark for making him powerless. For humiliating him.
Thick stalks of green appeared at the left edge of his vision. He turned his head. It was the underside of the two towers. The cross-section of scaffolding and support. It seemed alive. Made of vines wrapped around sinews that convulsively wove and rewove themselves together. Thought he saw a dead fox in there. Thought he saw a face.
Then they were past, and it was just the gray again.
Everyone has a theory about the two towers. Finch has heard them all, mostly at the detectives' nameless refuge. When they first decided on the location, they'd had to take the bell out of the bell tower to make more space. A grunting, straining ordeal. To get it down. To shove it out of the one window without destroying the place. It had sunk slowly. Much to their mutual amusement. “It should've sunk like the stone it is,” Blakely had said. “Something about the clapper,” Wyte had said. “The air trapped inside?” Finch: “Bullshit. It's just being difficult.” Could still see it in the water below. Dark and rippling. A shape like the bullet head of some monstrous fish.
Talk of one tower had led to talk of the others.
Skinner: “I hear the towers are being built over the ruins of the old gray cap library. For some ritual.”
Wyte: “I heard it's a power source for more electricity. When it's done, the whole city will be lit up again. They're nothing if not practical.”
Gustat, snorting his disdain, “Lit up for sure, because it's a weapon. Why else out in the bay? From there, it looks over the whole city. It'll shoot out some kind of energy. Another way to control all of us. First thing they'll do is destroy the Spit.”
Blakely: “You're full of shit. It's a huge statue to their god. Or a memorial. Whatever, those are just its legs.”
The “island” around their refuge is just floating debris that has matted round. Encouraged by them. Camouflage. Stability. Some day, the whole thing is going to rot. They'll have to go elsewhere. Or maybe by then the city will be theirs again and they'll have their pick of pubs. Won't have to be part of the same chain gang, the same galley crew.
One day they might even get around to building a bridge. But for now, the detectives have built a place to moor a boat, and used the boat to bring across an amazing amount of booze. Salvage from every murder scene. Every call of domestic abuse. A history of Ambergris in alcohol, from Smashing Todd's to Randy Robert's. A smell like sweat and beer. Better than the smell of the station. No electricity, but they've hidden an icebox in the waters below the rotting floorboards at the far end of the main room. Keeps cold enough. They bring food as they have it. Stock the place with gray cap rations too. Tastes like crap, but the food-if that's what it is-never goes bad.
Gustat: “What god? They don't worship a god. They're too practical, like Wyte says.”
Albin: “Too practical? By what measure? This is just them working up to another Silence. Better hope the rebels get to it first.”
Dapple, uncertainly: “Not true. They can kill us all now if they want to. They don't need more help.”
Albin: “Not enough of them for that.”
Blakely again: “Some people think it's some kind of gate. They swear late at night you can see things moving through it. That you can see strange stars.”
The detectives never talk about work. But, rumor? Rumor is like news from some far distant, more exciting place. Especially about the two towers.
Once, Finch offered his opinion. “They've got limits, first of all. You can see that already. They couldn't control the effects of the HFZ. They need help from the camps to build the towers. When the towers go faster, they put up fewer other buildings. The electricity goes out. Or their radio station goes silent. They have limits.”
Blank looks. Not getting it. Much easier to think of the gray caps as some implacable force. Like the weather. Something that can't be fought. Because the fact is: if the gray caps want, they can disappear your friends, your family. It doesn't take unlimited resources to do that.
Wyte and Finch aren't allowed at the hideout anymore. Once it became clear Wyte would never really get rid of his affliction. Ever since Finch decided to back him anyway.
Finch by Jeff VanderMeer
5
inch and Wyte returned to the station in time to witness the end of a rare fight. Blakely and Dapple had gone at it. Under the glow of spectral lamps, the gaze of the tiny windows. Not caring if the gray caps were watching.
Blakely faced them. Standing on the mottled green carpet right where it reached the desks. Nose bloodied. Dapple with his back to them. Hair rising in tufts like he'd been startled. Fists up, too. Albin watching from his desk. A peculiar look of interest and boredom on his face.
Back when it had mattered, Dapple had been a Hoegbotton man. Blakely had been with Frankwrithe & Lewden. Both stared at each other now across a battlefield of other people's betrayal.
The other detectives gathered around.
“I won't do it,” Dapple was saying.
“You've done it plenty of times before. Looked behind the curtain,” Blakely said with a kind of cruel confidence. “What's different now?”
“I was forced to those other times. None of you did anything to help.”
Finch doubted the fight had started there. Or that either remembered what it had really been about. Blakely was famous for baiting others. Daring them to look behind that damned curtain. Enter the haunted house. Walk through the graveyard at night.
After Stark and Bosun, Finch felt like he was watching Blakely and Dapple from on high. Children or midgets. Heard Wyte mutter from behind him, “Dumb fucks.”
Blakely saw them first. Lowered his hands. Tension losing out to puzzlement.
“What happened to your shoes, Finch?” Said with contempt.
Dapple turned, looked too. His eyes were red.
“Nothing as exciting as what was happening here,” Finch said, pushing through them, Wyte tightlipped behind him. Over his shoulder, “Whatever play you're practicing for, I'm not paying to go see it.”
That got a laugh, though not from Blakely or Dapple. Spared Finch from having to talk about his shoes.
As he and Wyte sat down, Finch tossing Stark's file onto his desk, they got plenty of stares. Looks that said you'll get questions later. For now, though, the Blakely-Dapple spat was still more interesting. Skinner was already trying to get them going again, asking Dapple, “Are you just going to take that from him?”
On top of the clutter on Finch's desk: a note to call Rathven. Felt a spark of excitement. Picked up the receiver. Dialed the number. Waited while it rang. Stomach growling. Didn't think he could take more gray cap rations, though. Might wait to eat until he got home. Hunger focused his thoughts. Made him sharper. For awhile.
Still ringing.
Wyte, searching through drawers: “I've got an extra pair of shoes somewhere. Too big, but...”
Still ringing. He'd try lat
er.
“If you find them, I'll take them,” Finch said. No hesitation. Didn't want to take another step without something on his feet. Too easy to pick up something nasty. Sudden memory of his father kneeling to tie his shoelaces. Eight? Nine? Saying, “Mud between your toes in the river, no one cares. Set one foot outside this house onto the street, I'll never hear the end of it.” Sounds of his grandparents in the background, arguing about something long forgotten. Father's bristly face inches from his, mouth transformed by a smile. “Let's go for a walk, shall we?” Never knew when that meant his father had to meet someone, or if it really was just a walk.
Finch called another number. A number Sintra had given him. None of the phones on their way back had worked. Felt a helpless need to tell her she might be in danger. That “a man named Stark” might be following her.
Experienced an odd relief when no one picked up. Because, really, how could he tell her? Without telling her too much?
All you have to do is play along with Stark and he won't touch her.
How had Stark known about Sintra? Bosun casing the hotel? Then following her home? Along with the unworthy thought: Maybe that's what you should do.
A perverse pang of jealousy.
A sound of triumph from Wyte, who had produced a scuffed old pair of shoes. “Socks still in them!”
Wyte tossed them at his feet. Wyte had left his fingerprints all over the socks. Blotches of red and black. With a grimace, Finch put on the socks, then the shoes. Too big, but they'd serve.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” In a whisper: “Now we just have to get new guns. There might be some in the supply cabinet, but Skinner has the key on his desk.”
“Lost your guns, too?” Never live it down.
Finch shook his head. “No. I'm going to get a real gun. Something more reliable. I'm done with guns that leak.”
Wyte raised an eyebrow at that. “You sure that's a good idea?”
“If I put a bullet in Stark, I want it to count.”
“If you put a bullet in Stark, make sure you've got a good reason. And that you've taken care of his men,” Wyte said.
Finch had no answer for that. He looked around. Blakely was by the coffee-maker. Laughing at something Gustat had said. Dapple was hiding behind his desk, pretending to work. Trembling. Let the gray caps figure that one out from their surveillance. Skinner and Albin had disappeared for the moment. Good. No one except Wyte was watching.
Picked up the file. Opened it. Saw the Stockton logo. “TOP SECRET” stamped in red across the top. Scrawled note from Stark, in a spidery script: “My gift to you, Finch. Let me know when you crack the case. If it doesn't crack you first.” Bastard.
“What is it?” Wyte asked.
“I don't know.” And he didn't. Not really.
He started to read, hesitated, then began handing pages to Wyte as he finished them. Wanted to say, “Don't share this with anyone.” Instead said, “Remember, Wyte, you told me not to protect you ...”
And, if you have made a deal with Stark, you'll just be feeding back to him what he already knows ...
REPORT 2A-ATC-001
Originating Agents: Classified, pending investigation Interrogation location: 22 East Lake Street Transcription: Classified
Details:
* 14.3 minutes of a damaged 60-minute tape.
* Breaks in the tape--of unknown length--are indicated in the transcript by “***.”
* Brackets around a word or phrase indicate poor sound quality and therefore doubts as to the actual word or phrase.
* There are three voices on the tape, labeled Agent #1, Agent #2, and Subject.
Agent #1: Is that thing turned on?
Agent #2: Of course it's fucking well turned on. It might say something we need to remember.
Agent #1: Then remember it. Don't put it on tape...
Agent #2: No. I want it all on the tape. So we don't [forget] ...
Agent #1: That Stark's orders?
Agent #2: What the hell is that?
(Sounds of a struggle, followed by labored breathing. Tape turned off, then turned on again.)
Agent #2: Get ... that thing away from me.
Agent #1: Goddamn it they're tough bastards. Even I forget sometimes. Okay, put it on the tape. Doesn't really matter, does it?
Agent #2: You want to ask it the questions?
Subject: I will [answer] no questions.
Agent #1 or #2: Shut up.
(Loud slap. Sound of a chair falling down?)
Agent #2: Be careful. Be careful. It hasn't even started talking yet.
Subject: Long and painful for you ... your insides will explode, your lips and cheeks split open. Your brains feed the birds.
Agent #1: Cheery fucker, isn't he? And they're all like that.
Subject: I do not know the answer to your questions. Your question sounds like a [question]. It does not sound like an answer. Do you have an answer?
Agent #1: What were you doing when we caught you? Simple question.
Agent #2: Oh, do it right. Do it right ... For the record: Subject was intercepted and brought to this location after stepping out of a strange door. Like a secret panel or something, which closed up after him.
Agent #1: You stupid fucking mushroom. Answer the question. Answer now and save yourself.
Agent #2: For the record, the Subject drew a symbol on the table. In some sort of golden dust. Kind of a half-circle then a circle then a line with another line across it. Then two more half-circles at the end. I'll draw it later.
Agent #1: More bullshit. Shove some more water into it. Only thing that works.
(A sound like water being poured from a jug. Splashes. Sounds of gasping. A cracking sound. A shriek. Silence for a long time, but no cut in the tape.)
Agent #1: Can you hear [me]? I know you can hear me. Subject: I hear [you]. [You will] all die. I will myself see you afloat in the canal. Cultured. You are not--
Agent #1: Just more water then.
Agent #2: It'll die.
Agent #1: Don't care.
Agent #2: Don't you think Stark should--
Agent #1: The hell with Stark. He's been here, what? Three seconds?
Agent #2: Record shows [name redacted] authorized additional water torture on the Subject.
Agent #1: Shut the fuck up and help with this.
(A gurgling, thrashing sound. Spluttering. Silence.)
Agent #1: Now, once again, where'd that door come from?
Subject: ... been where you were not. But you'll never read them. Not before we finish the towers.
Agent #1: What is behind the door?
Subject: Nothing for you. Too late.
Agent #2: Now I'm getting impatient with this. Maybe this will help you. Remember.
(Long, prolonged scream. Not human.)
Subject: Don't do that again. Don't do that again. Don't do that again. Don't--
Agent #2: He doesn't [know] what he means. I should just kill him now.
Agent #1: Not yet. Not yet. Tell me, mushie, about this gold. Where'd it come from?
(From here on, Subject's words are more garbled, as if its mouth had been damaged. Accuracy of transcript compromised.)
Subject: Not a [filo] left. Not one. What [indecipherable] would take me like this?
Agent #2: What about the gold?
Subject: Yes, lots of gold there. Lots of gold other places, too. Gold is everywhere. Gold and green. The light, the water...
Agent #1: Do you mean the door? Or do you mean real gold?
Agent #2: Should we start on his legs? Fucking thing [smells] like shit. I think he's rotting.
Agent #1: Other places? What do you mean, other places?
Subject: Someday we will move other places but you will still only be here.
Agent #2: Give it up. He's hallucinating.
Agent #1: Just wait. Mushie--tell me just a little more, and maybe we'll let you go. Back underground where it's safe. Would you like that?
&n
bsp; Subject: No place is safe. For you.
Subject: No more. No more. You, maybe if you [know] what it says there. Maybe you will not [indecipherable gray cap word].
Agent #2: We'll let you go if you just tell us--what is this weapon the rebels have?
Subject: [stream of gray cap swear words]
Agent #1: What about this address, then? The chapel at 1829 Northwest Scarp Lane. This rebel safe house. Ring a bell? Has it got something to do with the weapon? Our sources say it has something to do with the weapon.
Subject: Make me sleep. Burn me. Take me back to where I was.
Agent #2: He doesn't know anything about it. That much is clear.
Agent #1: Start on his legs.
(Prolonged screams.)
Agent #1 (panting): It's done. It's over.
Agent #2: Where do you think you're going?
Agent #1: He's not going to say anything else. If he is still alive--and I doubt that--kill him and throw him in a canal. No, wait, cut him up. Dump him somewhere they won't find him for awhile.
Agent #2: And what the fuck will you be doing while I'm doing [that]? That's going to take me a long
fucking time.
Agent #1: I've already got plans. And they don't include waiting around here. We've gotten all we're going to get.
Agent #2: You're staying. Stark's orders. I'm telling you-
(Sounds of something heavy falling over.)
Agent #2: ... Not dead! It's got a hand free.
Agent #1: Shit. Get that other light on. Get it on quick.
(Banging on the door. Calling out to some third agent.)
Agent #2: Open the fucking door! This isn't funny. I don't see it now. It was here just a second ago. Is it in the fireplace? Dammit, at least throw a gun back in here. And unlock the fucking door. I can't see a fucking thing.
Subject: But I can.
(Screaming for three minutes, then tape cuts off.)
Finch by Jeff VanderMeer
6
inch stared at his desk for awhile after he'd read the last page. A kind of primal horror rose even as he tried to tamp it down. Mixed up with a question: What does Stark want me to take from this? How does it help him for me to have this?
Finch Page 14