Finch

by Jeff VanderMeer

  “If you tell me enough I'll let you go,” Finch said. Tried to sound reasonable. As reasonable as he could while he kept the gun trained on Bliss. Truth was, he didn't know what he was going to do with Bliss. Or to him.

  After a moment, Bliss said in a dull tone, “We went through a door to another part of the city. Across a kind of bridge.”

  “That's how you escaped the first time. There was no hidden exit.”

  “No, there wasn't,” Bliss said.

  “It was night just a few minutes ago.” Couldn't keep the confusion from his voice.

  “From the position of the sun, I'd say it's noon now. Maybe it's the next day.”

  “The next day?”

  “Yes. If we're lucky. You surprised me. I didn't have time to be ... specific.”

  Impossible. Like a story told about the gray caps to frighten children. Fought the urge to bring the gun smashing down on Bliss's face again.

  Focus on what makes sense. Ignore the rest.

  He was in a courtyard, the tiles warm and rough beneath the shitty shoes Wyte had lent him. There was a breeze. The sun was out. These things were real.

  “What were you doing in my apartment?”

  Bliss put more energy behind his words suddenly. “Finch, listen to me: you don't want to know. It isn't what you find out that's going to keep you alive. It's where you're standing. You're in the middle of things you can't control. It's too big for you. You shouldn't be worried about me, or what I was doing. You should be worried about yourself.”

  “Answer the question.”

  Bliss must have caught the returning menace in Finch's voice. He tried to smile sheepishly, as if embarrassed. Said in his polished but shopworn voice, “I was looking for information on you.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Nothing. I didn't have time to find anything.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I work for Morrow,” Bliss said.

  “I don't believe you.” He didn't. Not really.

  “My answer won't change no matter how you rough me up.”

  Finch doubted that. Bliss's face was covered in blood. But more damage could be done.

  “Let's go back to what I asked you after we took you down off that wall. Why were you in the dead man's memories?” Bliss looked genuinely surprised. By the question? Or being asked it? “I ate the dead man's memory bulb. I saw you. I saw you near a desert fortress.”

  A kind of mirror. An eye. Pulling back to see a figure that seemed oddly familiar, and then a name: Ethan Bliss. Then a circle of stone, a door, covered with gray cap symbols. And, finally, jumping out into the desert air, toward a door hovering in the middle of the sky, pursued by the gray cap, before the world went dark.

  “Memory bulbs are unreliable. You know that. You can see almost anything in them.”

  Finch would never be able to tell when Bliss was lying.

  “What do the two towers have to do with all of this?”

  “Who says they do?”

  “Stark.”

  Bliss made a dismissive spitting sound. “Stark's a thug. He's nothing. Knows nothing.”

  “Yet he killed all of your men and nailed you to a wall.”

  Bliss grimaced, like he'd swallowed a mouthful of dirt. “That was beginner's luck. His days are numbered. In this city you adapt or you die.”

  Finch still didn't believe him.

  “Like you've adapted? Gone from Frankwrithe spymaster to politician to something else?” Then, on an impulse: “What were you doing during the war with the Kalif? Working for F&L and Morrow? For Hoegbotton?”

  Bliss smiled, though his eyes were cold. “I was doing my duty for my city.”

  “Which city?”

  “Like I said, you adapt or you die.”

  “What did you promise to Stark to save your life?”

  “Nothing. Stark's a smooth-talking thug. Anything he got I gave him because I wanted him to have it. Because nothing I have would've stopped him from killing me if he got it into his head to kill me.”

  “Then what did you want him to have?”

  Bliss just shook his head.

  “How do you travel between doors?”

  “Maybe there are some things I'm never going to tell you.”

  The sunlight, the fact it shouldn't be sunlight, kept getting into Finch's head. Disrupting his thoughts.

  “Let's talk about the towers again, then.”

  Bliss's expression had gone neutral. No one, looking at the spy's face, could've known what he was thinking. “The towers are close to completion. And the gray caps are putting all of their resources into those towers. Ignoring everything else. Even their Partials. But, still, they have an intense interest in this case. Curious, isn't it?”

  “Any theories?”

  “You already know more than you should. Enough to get you killed.”

  A weariness came over Finch. His skin still felt wrong. What would happen if he faded away with Bliss still there? Where would he wake up? The nausea was getting worse.

  “Here's a theory. It just came to me. I might as well try it out on you. I think my murder victim saw you, Bliss. I think he saw you because you were somehow involved with his murder. Maybe you took him through a door like the one you took me through. Maybe the door closed on the gray cap. But you led the victim to his death. The only thing is: I don't know why you would do it.”

  But Bliss was done. He lowered the handkerchief from his cheek. “Are you going to try to take me to the station now? Or just start hitting me again?” Defiant. Almost smug.

  For one terrible moment Finch had the sense he hadn't been hurting Bliss at all. That it was all an act. A light shone in Bliss's eyes that seemed shielded from the moment.

  Finch let out a deep breath. Lowered the gun. Shoved Bliss away from him. “Go. Get the fuck out of here.”

  Bliss looked surprised. “Just like that?”

  Finch gave a tired smile. “Just like that. I've run out of questions. And you'd just jump through a door before I got you back across the bay.” He was going to be sick in a second. Didn't know how much control he'd have then.

  “Letting me go doesn't make me forget what you've done to my face, Finch.”

  “I could've done worse. Don't come near my apartment again, Bliss, or I'll kill you.” Don't come near Sintra. Don't come near Rathven. No one.

  The spy's voice went cold, condemning. “When you see me again, it will be because I want you to see me. And not before.”

  Finch turned around. He really didn't want to see Bliss leave.

  Bliss said, “You could escape, you know. You could just disappear.”

  “I tried that once,” Finch said. “It didn't work. I'm still here.”

  A pause. Then a sound like darkness imploding on itself, a brief flash of green-gold light.

  Bliss was gone. The scent of limes hung in the air.

  Cursed and shuddered as he realized something: Bliss's hands hadn't been bandaged. They'd looked good as new. Who healed that fast, even with fungal help?

  Bent over. Threw up his guts onto the courtyard tiles.

  When he'd recovered, he sat down heavily on the edge of the fountain. Bone-tired.

  Wondering what day it was.

  Ten doors knocked on. Three doors that actually opened for him. Only the last one had a working telephone inside. An apartment a few blocks from the courtyard. He flashed his badge. An emaciated woman in a flower pattern dress let him in, checking first to make sure none of her neighbors on the ground floor saw her do it. Eyes large and bloodshot. Anywhere from forty to sixty. A purple growth on her left shoulder like a huge birthmark.

  Inside, a bald man in socks but no shoes sat in a wicker chair facing the wall in a spare living room. Staring at a crappy painting of a beach in the Southern Isles. Wore a stained white undershirt and brown shorts.

  The woman went to stand beside the man, protective hand on his shoulder, while Finch leaned on the kitchen counter.

&nbs
p; Dialed the station. Wyte's number. Listened to it ring once, twice, ten times. His mouth was still dry, vision a little blurry. Jacket dirty. His hair full of grit. Wyte's extra pair of shoes scuffed from kicking Bliss. A sound in his ears he couldn't identify. Tired because he hadn't slept? Or because of stress?

  A click, and someone said through the crackling, “Wyte's desk.”

  “Who's this?” Finch asked.

  “Blakely. Who's this?”

  “Blakely? It's Finch. Where's Wyte?”

  “Finch. Where the hell have you been?”

  Now he'd find out. “Have I been gone that long?”

  “Just the whole damn morning.” Blakely sounded rattled, and a little drunk.

  Perverse relief. He'd only lost a half-day, maybe less.

  “I had to follow up on a lead. Can you pass me over to Wyte?”

  “Wyte's not here. Heretic came in. Smoldering mad about your case. He ordered Wyte to go investigate an address. It related to something in your report, I think. Wyte was told to take Dapple with him. Poor bastard.”

  “Crap.” Consequences of being honest with Heretic. “How long ago did they leave?”

  “An hour. Maybe a little more.” That meant he could still catch up with them. He was already on the right side of the bay.

  “By boat?”

  “Yes. Western canal.”

  What experience did Wyte and Dapple have investigating rebel safe houses? Partials and their snitches usually followed up on those kinds of leads. A spark of anger and guilt. Anger at Stark for giving them the information. Guilt at himself for putting it in the report.

  “Remind me of the address?”

  “1829 Northwest Scarp Lane. Wyte made sure I wrote it down.”

  “Right,” Finch said.

  The edge of the Religious Quarter. Dogghe-controlled territory. A low-grade war still going on between the native insurgency and the gray caps. The war they'd all forgotten. Either the gray caps no longer saw that insurgency as a threat, or the towers took up all of their time now. Or Finch just wasn't in the loop.

  “Putting Dapple and Wyte together. That's like a suicide mission.”

  “No shit, Finch. But Heretic wanted it done, said Wyte knew the area.”

  “Only because he was a shipping manager for Hoegbotton, Blakely.” Twelve years ago. More.

  “I wasn't the one who sent them out there,” Blakely said, irritated.

  The crackling became a roar, flooding the phone, then subsided after a minute.

  “Blakely? You still there?”

  “Barely. Listen, there were two messages for you. One from someone called Rathven. Another from a woman who just left her name as `S'.”

  “What'd they say?”

  “Just to call them. You should get back here. Soon. People are saying strange things, like the towers will be finished this week. We're all on edge.”

  Didn't know you cared.

  “I've got to find Wyte first.”

  “You're an idiot,” Blakely said, hanging up.

  The woman stirred. An accusing stare. Hand still on the man's shoulder. “Are you going to go now?” she asked. It didn't take much effort to realize the gray caps or the Partials had done something to her husband. No stretch at all to blame the stranger with the badge.

  “One more call and I'll leave,” he said.

  She held his gaze for a second. Then turned to the painting as if it were a window.

  Finch dialed the number Sintra had given him. Rathven could wait.

  A voice answered after a moment. Finch wasn't sure it was her.

  “Sintra?”

  “Finch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Finch.” Relief in that single word, but also something that he couldn't identify. “I was worried. I went by your apartment. Your door was open. You weren't there. Are you okay?”

  More than they'd said to each other in person sometimes.

  “I'm fine.” An ache rose in his throat. His hand on the receiver shook. No, he wasn't fine. Exhausted. Starving. Still trying to process losing twelve hours in a blink of an eye. Holding it together because he had no one to hold it together for him.

  “Are you back home? I came by, and when I saw the door open I locked it.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “Where are you, Finch?”

  Where was he? Clinging to a lifeline. He'd meant to warn her to be careful. But, somehow, talking now, it felt like he was talking to a stranger. A voice in his head told him he should be careful. How had Stark found out about Sintra? What if Sintra had told Stark? About him? Was that possible?

  “I'm working on a case.”

  “But why was your door open? Things were knocked over, as if there'd been a struggle.”

  “I'll tell you later.”

  “Can I come by tonight?”

  Lump in the throat. “Sure,” he said. “I just called to hear your voice. Tough day.”

  “Finch,” she said. “Is everything really all right?”

  “No,” he said. Made a decision, leapt out into the abyss. “Not really. I'm about to go into a dangerous situation near the Religious Quarter. There's an address we're supposed to check out.”

  “Then don't go. Just don't go.”

  “I have to. I don't have a choice.” Not with Wyte out there with only Dapple for backup.

  “You're scaring me, Finch,” Sintra said.

  “I'm going to hang up now,” Finch said. “See you soon. Be safe.” A click as the phone cut out. Didn't know if she'd heard him or not.

  The woman watched him without saying anything. Even as he told her thanks. Even as he left a gray cap food voucher on the counter. Even as he backed out into the corridor.

  Relax your guard in this city and you were dead.

  Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

  2

  n hour later, Finch stood on the ridge and stared down. Far below, .the dull blue snake of a canal. Two detectives in a boat. Slowly making their way northeast. Finch was about three hundred feet above them. Wyte was a large shadow with a white face, the boat a floating coffin. Dapple had been reduced to a kind of question mark. Not a good place to be. Anyone could've been on the ridge, looking down. Lucky for them it was just him.

  A steep hillside below Finch. Made of garbage. Stone. Metal. Bricks. The petrified snout of a tank or two. Ripped apart treads. Collapsed train cars pitted with scars and holes. Ragged, dry scraps of clothing that might've been people once.

  A dry smell hung over it all. Cut through at times by the stench of something dead but lingering. He'd been here before, when it had just been a grassy slope. A nice place. A place couples might go to have a picnic. Couldn't imagine it ever returning to that state.

  The weather had gotten surly. Grayish. A strange hot wind dashed itself against the street rubble. Blew up into his face. Off to the northeast: the Religious Quarter. A still-distant series of broken towers, steeples, and domes. Wrapped in a haze of contrasting, layered shades of green. Looking light as mist. Like something out of a dream from afar. Up close, Finch knew, it reflected only hints of the Ambergris from before, the place once ruled by an opera composer, shaped by the colors red and green.

  The canal led into the Religious Quarter, but Wyte and Dapple would have to disembark much earlier. Their objective lay just outside the quarter.

  Finch's gaze traveled back down the canal, toward civilization. Zeroed in on a series of swift-moving dots some two hundred feet behind the boat. Dark. Lanky. Angular. Using the bramble on the far side of the canal as cover. Partials. Trailing Wyte.

  Stared down at the story unfolding below him with a kind of absurd disbelief. Swore under his breath. Took the measure of the Partials down the barrel of his Lewden Special. But it was a long shot. Literally. He lowered the gun.

  Maybe Wyte knew about the Partials? What if they were providing support? No. Blakely would've mentioned that. Blakely would've told him about Partials. Probably sent to make sure Wyte did as he'd been told. Was t
he Partial with them, or was he back at the apartment guarding a dead man?

  For a moment, Finch just stood on the ridge, under the gray sky. Watched with envy the wheeling arc of a vulture like a dark blade through the air.

  Easy to turn away. Heretic didn't expect him to be there. Wyte didn't know where he'd gone. Finch could say he'd been investigating some other lead. Could go back to the station. Forget he'd seen any of this. Wait for them to get back. If they came back.

  Bliss: “It isn't what you find out that's going to keep you alive. It's where you're standing . . . You shouldn't be worried about me, or what I was doing. You should be worried about yourself.”

  Bone-weary. Hungry. Bliss's words still in his thoughts. The long fall through the door still devouring him. Finch looked back the way he'd come. Looked down at Wyte and Dapple. Remembered Dapple calm once, at his desk, stealing a moment to write a few lines of poetry. Remembered Wyte training him as a courier for Hoegbotton. His patience and his good humor. Long nights in their home, laughing and joking not just with Wyte but with Emily. Back before the end of history.

  Now he was standing on top of a mountain of garbage, trying to figure out how he'd gotten there.

  “Fuck,” he said to the vulture. To the false light of the Religious Quarter. “Fuck you all.”

  Then he was descending the ridge at an angle. Trying to put enough shadow, enough debris, in front of him and the canal that the Partials couldn't see him.

  This was going to get worse before it got better.

  Finch caught up to them as they were mooring the boat to a rickety dock under a stand of willow trees. Shadowed by a lichen-choked, half-drowned stone archway that led nowhere now. The canal had a metallic blue sheen to it. Nothing rippled across its surface. The gray boat had that mottled, doughy look Finch hated. Like it was made of flesh.

  He said nothing. Just came out of the shadow of the trees and leaned against the arch. Waiting for Wyte to see him.

  Looping one last length of rope round a pole, Wyte did a double take.

  “Finch?” he said. “Finch.” A slow, hesitant smile broke across his troubling face. A sincere relief that softened the sternness of his features. “It's good to see you.”