Finch

by Jeff VanderMeer

  “I'm sorry,” she said.

  “Why?” Finch asked. “You had nothing to do with it, right?”

  A fire in her eyes. “No, of course not.”

  A feeling of hurt came over Finch. A sense of betrayal. It fascinated him. Worried at it like a piece of gristle between his teeth.

  “You should've been a detective,” Finch said. “Down here with all of your books. With that tunnel as an escape route.”

  “I should have been,” she said, dutifully. But there was nothing playful in her expression. “What do you want from me, Finch? The city is falling apart. They've even disbanded the camps.” Said it with a mix of regret and wonder. “I might have to-”

  “What? Leave? Like your `brother'?”

  She had the grace to look away. “I'm in a different place than you. You never went to the camps. You don't really know what they were like. It was a white lie. You wouldn't have helped him otherwise. He was still a friend.”

  “You mean, if I knew he worked for the rebels.”

  “Everyone works for the rebels,” she snapped.

  “Even Sintra?” Even me?

  “Sintra I know nothing about,” Rathven said. “Nothing. Except what I told you.”

  “Who else do you work for?” Finch asked.

  “No one. Everyone. You. Myself.” Wriggling in the trap. She softened her tone. A kind of misdirection: “I did check out those aliases for you. The Bliss aliases.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Just that `Dar Sardice' might not be an alias.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you go through some of the books about the wars, and the books I have about it from the Morrow/Frankwrithe side, you don't find Ethan Bliss's name anywhere until after the first mention of `Dar Sardice.”'

  “Do you mean that Dar Sardice is his real name?”

  “Either that,” Rathven said, “or he killed Dar Sardice and took his name. And then his real name isn't Bliss or Sardice. Or, my sources aren't complete enough.”

  Bliss pointing him toward Stark. Bliss bringing him into the next day while Bosun trashed his apartment. Bliss throwing him off the scent.

  “How about Stark?”

  Thought he sensed a hesitation before she said, “No.”

  “That's funny, because when I mentioned Stark before you didn't even stop to ask me who he was. Like you knew.”

  “I thought you'd tell me soon enough,” she said. “For Truff's sake, you were telling me your friend was dead!”

  “A lot of people come to you down here in the basement, don't they?” Finch said.

  “You knew that already. Don't do this, Finch,” Rathven said. Almost convincing him. But the ache was too great.

  “A lot of people the gray caps wouldn't approve of,” he said, pressing on.

  “You're tired, you're grieving,” she said.

  “People who want things from you,” he continued.

  She changed tactics, said, “Am I under arrest?” Was it disdain or an echo of hurt he saw on her face? Were they insulting each other or wounding each other?

  “No,” he said. “Where would I take you? The station was bombed today. It's gone. Matchsticks and stones. Everybody's gone.”

  She had no answer to that, must've known “I'm sorry” would just set him off.

  “Wyte's dead,” Finch said, “because Stark took him over the edge. Stark got hold of certain information to try to make me help him. How did he get it?”

  For a moment, Wyte sat beside him, saying, “How far are you going to take this?”

  “Finch.” Pleading. For what, though? For him to trust her? To stop questioning her? To keep things the way they'd always been?

  Finch leaned forward, reached out, and pulled her chin up when she tried to look away. She let him do it. “Listen carefully. Stark knew about Sintra. You told him. He found out about you from his predecessors, the Stockton agents he liquidated once he got here. He came, or he sent Bosun. They either threatened you or paid you, or both. And you told them about Sintra. About me. Maybe you tried to protect me, and that's all you gave them. You might even think you helped me. But you gave them something. I know you did. You're the only one who could. If I'm wrong, tell me. Tell me I'm wrong. Right now. But don't lie to me.”

  Her lower lip quivered. She pushed his hand away. “You have to choose a side, Finch. Eventually you have to choose a side, even if you pretend to be neutral. Even if you think giving out information is like selling smokes or food packets.”

  “And you chose Stark's side?” Incredulous.

  “No! But Stark would've killed me if I didn't give him something. And he hates the gray caps as much as I do. And I didn't think it would hurt to tell him what he could've found out about you in a couple of days anyway.” She looked small, miserable, utterly alone. But right then he didn't care.

  “Stark's a psychopath,” Finch said. “Only out for himself.” Repeating what Bliss had told him.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I just told myself it was okay because I didn't want to die.”

  “Couldn't your `brother' and his friends help you?”

  Rathven shook her head. “Everyone comes to me for information. Everyone sees me as neutral because I give everyone something.”

  “And you don't know Bliss?”

  “I know of him. He visited the Photographer a few times, but he never wanted anything from me.”

  Bliss. The Photographer. How did that work? And why?

  “Finch?” she said, and he realized he'd been lost in his thoughts. “What are you going to do?”

  It took an effort of will. But knew he had to do it. For himself as well as for her. There was no one else. Told himself: She delivered Duncan Shriek to you. She helped you when the memory bulbs brought you low. She never lied to you before. There is no one else. Not a soul.

  “Stark's as good as dead,” Finch said. “And, Rath, I'll forget the rest if you'll do me a favor. I need a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?” Abject relief in her voice.

  He placed his extra apartment key on her table. “Take care of Feral for me. Take care of the things in my apartment. If I don't come back.” Wasn't looking forward to saying goodbye to Feral. Wasn't sure that wouldn't be the final stupid little thing that broke him.

  “Where are you going?”

  Finch smiled. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”

  ut he didn't get very far. Bliss waited for him in the courtyard. Came out into the late afternoon light. One arm shoved into the outer pocket of his short brown jacket. Wore matching pants. A wide-brimmed black hat. A dark green scarf. Face flushed. Almost disguising a thin line of dull red that ran up across his right cheek. Another wound around his hairline, disappearing under the brim. Another remarkable recovery.

  Frost clung to his boots. Fast melting. A damp, wet smell to him. Where'd he been? Not here.

  “Put the gun away, Finch. And don't even think about drawing the Kalif's sacred steel.”

  Finch had no illusions about the hand shoved into the pocket. Could see something bulky there. He holstered his weapon. Stood in the gloom with Bliss.

  With Dar Sardice.

  “Now what?” Tried to push away the thought that Rathven had set him up somehow.

  “Now we go up to the Photographer's apartment.”

  “Not mine? I think you know where it is.”

  “I don't trust yours.” Bliss motioned with the gun in his pocket. “After you.” His face closed, angular, serious.

  Finch walked past him, tensing for a blow. But it never came. Bliss followed a step behind. Thought about turning on him, but had no illusions about what Bliss would do.

  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.”

  On the fifth floor, they walked to the end of the hall. Apartment 521. Half-hidden by the long stalks of slender lime-green mushrooms. Bliss tossed a key on the floor.

  “Open the do
or.”

  Carefully, Finch bent down to pick up the key, unlocked the door. Went inside, Bliss following.

  The room was empty, except for a stout table in the center. A bottle of whisky and two glasses.

  Photographs covered the walls. Nailed there. A half-dozen in frames were stacked against the far window. Which was blacked out with paint. Some of the photographs were larger than Finch, made up of many smaller pieces of contact paper. All showed water. In puddles. In waves. Close up. From far away. Noticed now how many of them had the towers as a backdrop. How many seemed to have been taken from areas of the shore the gray caps had blocked off.

  “Now lock the door.”

  Finch did as he was told.

  Turned to find that Bliss had taken off his hat. Taken out a cigar. Lit it with a quick scrape of a match against the table. Poured two glasses of whisky. Moved to a position behind the table. Put his own glass down. Returned his left hand to his pocket.

  Bliss took a puff of the cigar, said, “Whisky?”

  Finch moved uncertainly forward. “A last drink for the condemned man?” Took a glass.

  It was good stuff. Smashing Todd's, twenty-one years. Put into barrels near the end of one of the worst periods of fighting between F&L and H&S. Better than what he had in the apartment. So smooth it only burned a little on the back end. Tasted of Morrow peat. The River Moth.

  “No, Finch,” Bliss said. “A celebration. A kind of christening, even.”

  “What do you want?” Snapped it out. No patience left.

  “Bellum omnium contra omnes,” Bliss said in a thin, reedy voice.

  “You're my contact?” Rathven saying “Everyone works for the rebels.”

  “You're supposed to say, `Never lost.' Then I'm supposed to give you what you need.”

  “I thought you worked for Morrow.”

  A quizzical look from Bliss. “I do? Did I ever say I did? There are no Morrow interests in this city anymore. Only Ambergrisian interests.”

  “What's your real name, Bliss? Is it Graansvoort? Or maybe it's Dar Sardice?”

  “You must believe everything you're told.” Said almost without scorn.

  “Why were you really in my apartment?”

  Bliss's head tilted to the left. Considering Finch. “Checking you out. Seeing how you checked out. I found a lot of familiar books on those shelves. Familiar to me, at least. A curious lack of photographs. That's what really gave you away.”

  “Me catching you wasn't part of the plan.”

  “No. I'll never tell you.”

  “So what do you think you found out?”

  A bit of the old facile cleverness shone in his eyes. “Familiar books. No photos. I told her, `He's changed his look. Shaved the beard. The hair is lighter. He's older, but still him. James. The son John helped hide.”

  “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 a
re 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.

  Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

  8

  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.