Had he argued, where they’d been persuaded?
Dear gods, had the people I’d spoken to in Barlow’s hotel room been who I thought they were? Trumbull was alone with them now.
“You’re talking nonsense,” said the man who wasn’t Spector. His eyes focused on the gun, as anyone’s would. I didn’t know whether Audrey could shoot. I didn’t want to imagine what it would look like if she did. My traitor mind colored the sand with blood and bone.
“Were they all replaced?” I asked. “Was Neko?”
“No one’s been replaced,” he insisted. “I swear I’m myself—I can prove it. I don’t know why you’ve got this idea into your heads.”
Fury roiled in my throat. “Stop telling me you don’t know what we’re talking about. You’re not a good enough actor, and we know Mr. Spector better than you thought. You’ve failed—the best thing for you now is to cooperate, and hope your masters will take you back in exchange for our friend.”
“You may have suddenly decided not to trust me,” he said. “My own supervisors will know me when they see me—and they won’t be happy that you threatened me. They’ll be even less happy if you actually hurt me.”
He sounded even less like the man I knew—but he was right. If Audrey did shoot him, we’d have the corpse of an FBI agent on our hands, indistinguishable from the original. Even if we hid the body, everyone knew he was with us. The state would gladly mete out punishment to what remained of Innsmouth, and what remained below it.
Audrey’s aim wavered, and I knew her thoughts followed the same logic.
“Let me,” said Grandfather. He stalked toward the man, and Nnnnnn-gt-vvv backed away to make room out of Audrey’s line of fire. I expected him to put claws to the intruder’s throat, another visceral threat. Instead, he stopped an arm’s length away. “If you run, we will kill you and deal with the consequences. The stakes are too high for us to do otherwise. If you sit down, we’ll know you can’t do anything sudden or rash, and I’ll tell the girl to lower her gun.”
Deedee spoke up. “Check him for weapons first. Mr. Spector only carried a service pistol, but this fellow might have something extra from the Outer Ones.”
“Good thought. Do that, then—you know how, and your palms are more sensitive.”
Deedee patted him down efficiently and without any particular delicacy, then nodded. “He’s clean—though I assume they can track him.”
“Unlikely,” said Nnnnnn-gt-vvv. “For this kind of replacement that’s often considered too risky. Especially now, when they want to fool their own kin.”
The man looked at us all, and sat.
Frances tugged at my arm. She’d been smoking steadily since Audrey grabbed the gun, and my fear-shortened breath grew rougher as the smell rolled over me. “Are the elders going to … hurt him?” she whispered. “I know we have to—we have to do whatever’s necessary, to find out how to rescue him—them—everyone they’ve taken prisoner. I just need to know what they’re going to do, so I can brace myself.”
“I don’t know,” I whispered back. I’d seen Grandfather threaten people before. I knew he’d hurt people, killed when he thought it needful. I tried to tell myself that torture for a purpose wasn’t the same as what the state had done to my mother. But then, her captors had thought their study reason enough.
Grandfather heard us, of course. “Pain makes men talk. It doesn’t make them honest.” He looked the man over, searchingly. “Some men will confess as soon as I bare my teeth. They’ve never seen anything like me before, and they’re convinced I must command storms and spirits or hunger for human flesh. You can get almost anything out of someone who’s just learned their orderly cosmos is an illusion. But I don’t think that’s you. You’re not the sort to be shocked by men with scales—you’ve traveled the stars, met people who make me and Miss Winslow look like twins. You go everywhere, and you talk to everyone.”
The man was nodding along. I recalled my own relief when I’d heard my gods named in a strange place—I couldn’t fault him for that instinctive response to an adversary voicing his own truisms. But in a moment he jerked still.
“There, you see,” said Grandfather. “This will be much easier if you tell us your name. Something to call you, so we can talk like civilized people. I’m Obed Marsh.” His child-name would be more comfortable for most men of the air.
“How is he civilized?” demanded Caleb. His voice was stiff with anger. Grandfather gave him a quelling look.
The man looked at us, more nervous than when Audrey had threatened to shoot him. His shoulders slumped, then rose with reclaimed dignity. “I’m Nick Abrams. And this isn’t as nefarious as you’re making it out. When Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt presented his case, the agents agreed that Mr. Spector should travel to Yuggoth so he could report on the truth of their claims. Shaping someone as a ‘replacement’ is standard practice when a person can’t vanish even briefly without arousing suspicion. It isn’t meant to fool the government, only his acquaintances.”
Charlie gritted his teeth. I shook my head. “No. We aren’t just acquaintances—he would have told us. He wouldn’t try to fool us this way.”
“Not hurting him doesn’t seem to make him honest either,” said Caleb.
“Patience,” said Grandfather. He put his hand on Nick’s wrist. The edge of one talon lay a hairsbreadth from his skin. “Mr. Abrams, give some credit to our intelligence. You wanted us to negotiate with your—travel-mate, is it? We won’t do that without full understanding. We know Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt’s done things he doesn’t want us to know about. But you can’t expect us to sail in without a map. You have to give us something, to get what you want. Where is Ron Spector, really? And where are his irritating colleagues?”
The man didn’t answer right away. For once, no one jumped in with a sarcastic jab or impatient demand. There was silence save for the ocean’s endless whisper, ten people breathing, and the creak of shifting metal in the distance.
“No one else has been replaced,” he said finally. “That’s the truth—your friend Miss Koto has been in the mine for days with no need to hide her absence. The other agents were willing to listen to Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt, and it spoke honestly with them.” I breathed gratitude—Mary’s anger had rung true, but I’d been frightened still. Even if Abrams was lying, if Barlow or Peters had quailed at cooperating with the Outer Ones, Trumbull wasn’t alone with three doppelgangers. He went on. “Mr. Spector didn’t trust it, and argued both with Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt and his colleagues. But he’s vital—a voice for peace in a government of wolves. You know that yourself. He advocates for the worth of many kinds of people, just like we do. Once he sees how we live and travel together, he’ll understand that we’re alike. We can help him convince his colleagues to work with people—like you—who they’d otherwise treat as enemies. He’ll be back in a few days, no worse for wear.”
I imagined Spector stripped of all but his voice and vision. Spector’s contorted body lying on an altar to a god not his own. “But his colleagues don’t know,” I said. “They’d never have gone along with it.”
“You’ve hidden things from them before, to prevent them from starting wars. If you don’t want them picking fights with the Yith, you don’t want to turn them against the Outer Ones, who actually care enough about humans to notice if they’re attacked.”
“Credit Barlow with some intelligence as well,” said Grandfather. “He knows Spector at least as well as my granddaughter does.”
“Your granddaughter didn’t notice. She did.” He glared at Audrey, who smiled demurely back. He blinked rapidly and flushed.
“Be that as it may,” I said. “They know him very well.” I hoped it was true—in Barlow’s case, I was sure of it. Trumbull walked among her colleagues as an eternal stranger, so her replacement with an ancient and inhuman intelligence had drawn no comment. Spector made himself known. “You’re no better an actor than I am. But if we go to them now, you still might salvage your masters’ desired alliance.”
> “And then what? If I confess to them, will you talk with Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt?”
“No!” said Nnnnnn-gt-vvv.
“I know what you think of it,” said Grandfather. “Help Miss Winslow guard our prisoner while we confer.”
He beckoned me and Caleb, S’vlk and Chulzh’th, and, after a moment, Frances. Charlie levered himself up with his cane and followed, uninvited. Deedee stood as well.
“He’s my colleague,” she said.
Audrey smiled at me and patted the gun. I’m needed here. I trust you. But I could still feel her heartbeat, only a little slower than when she’d first pulled the gun.
We walked down the beach, where only the sea could hear us plan our assault on the mine.
CHAPTER 23
Mary Harris—Solstice 1949:
George’s hands cut through my exhaustion. A decent back rub’s no trade for the ability to take notes, but it’s far better than nothing. I hate being tired—fatigue blurs the little mnemonics that keep my thoughts in order, the walls that keep me sane and focused and distracted from how much I yearn to read myself to sleep. But tonight the sleep won’t come, and the walls can’t keep out my useless desire. George and Virgil, bless them, won’t leave me up alone.
Virgil’s reading Gaudy Night aloud while George works painful knots from my muscles. It’s one of my favorite books, and I don’t have the heart to tell him that tonight it’s the opposite of a distraction. I’m almost grateful when someone knocks at the door again.
Virgil peers over the chain. “You’ve got nerve, showing up here.”
Catherine’s voice quickens my heart. I can’t sift fury from terror, anticipation, pleasure. “I’ve wanted to talk to Mary about the Yith since I came back. Now I can. Please, let me help.”
“You’ve done enough already.”
“I haven’t done anything, and you know it. But I’ve studied with the people who did.”
So tired—too tired for Virgil’s well-meaning, vicious defense. “Let her in.”
Catherine’s hair frizzes from its bun. Her dress is wrinkled. Her dignity infuriates me even though she’s done nothing to deserve my anger. She enters, ignoring George and Virgil: her eerie attention focused entirely on me. She sinks to her knees, and my own awareness narrows to the point where our gazes meet. It feels like we should be able to touch our strange shared history, manifest it between us with the force of our absorption.
“My guest did a terrible thing to you,” she says at last. “I take responsibility for her work, and for agreeing to hide it from you. I’m sorry.”
“And you came here to apologize?” I ask. Virgil says something; I wave him back. George is still there, his touch a welcome intrusion from another universe. His hand rests lightly on my shoulder.
“I have to apologize before I can do anything else. But I came here to help.” She raises her chin, meeting my eyes. “You and I, the couple of times we’ve been able to collaborate, we’ve made incredible breakthroughs. And I have studied in the Archives, even if I only remember a little. It doesn’t have to be tonight—for once we’re not on a life-or-death deadline—and you don’t have to decide right away, but I couldn’t wait another day to offer. S’vlk could help too.”
I blink. “Why S’vlk?” I stumble, trying to wrap my tongue around the elder’s name. Not for the first time, I wish I could see it spelled out.
“I’m sorry, of course you don’t know. She’s like me—another captive in the Archives. We’ve been working together to interpret my guest’s notes.”
“Oh.” I have so many questions. I hunger to write them down, hand her a numbered list and study her answers with the grim focus of a late-night study session. “What are they like? The Outer Ones say they’re arrogant, that they believe themselves worth more than every other race, that they destroy peoples and civilizations for their own convenience. But we barely know the Outer Ones—it’s easy for them to throw around someone else’s secrets. You said you were the Yith’s prisoner, you must have opinions on them.”
She sits back on her heels, uncharacteristic humility giving way to the glint of academic passion. “Not a prisoner, a captive. They can’t exactly ask permission before they yank us out of our lives, to keep us millions of years in the past while they take our bodies for their own. Everything Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt told you is true, and incomplete. The Archives are the most important thing you can imagine. The Yith record every civilization that rises on Earth, and preserve them after the sun is a frozen ember. We captives have the honor—the grace—to add our stories to those records. The Yith give mortal humanity a legacy.” She stops for breath. “You know how rare it is to have true colleagues. In the Archives no one cares about your sex, or what family you come from, only what you bring to the conversation. The Yith do terrible things, and I can’t help but love them. I still care for those they’ve dismissed. All the sacrifices they demand for their great mission—I’d willingly lie down on that altar myself, but it would be my choice.”
Virgil glares at her. “Listen to you go on. You’re completely mad.”
She isn’t offended. “I’ve seen live dinosaurs. I’ve read books written a billion years after my death. I’ve argued theology with Cleopatra’s handmaid. You can as easily go mad from too narrow a life as from one thrown outside human experience. I know which madness I’d choose.”
* * *
Abrams came with us; what choice did he have? Even with Nnnnnn-gt-vvv carrying the willing elders through the outskirts, there were enough of us to surround him on the subway. He looked hopeful for a moment as we transferred between lines—two short flights of stairs that seemed miles long—but Audrey still had his gun in her purse, and her tight smile was enough to keep him close. Clara wore Shelean’s pendant, ready to pass along any updates on Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt’s subterfuge. Charlie swallowed hard when he looked at the imposter, nausea welling through his veins. I could tell how hard it was for him to stay close.
We’d spoken of logistics, agreed that having Barlow’s team at our backs was worth trying to appease their anger. Our own anger, we hadn’t discussed.
I had long ago admitted that Spector deserved my respect, even my trust. Now I had to admit that I liked him. As with Clara, I felt kin to anyone with so strong a sense of duty, whether or not I approved its object. That was Spector: loyal to a state he knew didn’t love him, determined to drag it into worthiness. He served with his whole body and mind—he had no long life to lose, no future transfiguration to risk, but he’d hate as I would to be severed from his perceptions, his ability to act, his hands and lungs and steadfast back. Freddy and Clara and Shelean found freedom in that lesion; we could not.
I wanted Neko back—or barring that, to speak with her face-to-face and know that she’d chosen to leave me with her whole mind. I wanted Freddy out of there too, away from Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt and its faction and their overweaning paternalism toward humanity. But he wasn’t being deceived. However foolishly, he’d chosen them, and he’d had plenty of time and cause to make that decision. When I thought of Spector, though, I wanted to tear apart the mine with all my half-grown strength.
Since he was likely somewhere sideways of Jupiter at the moment, strength and anger would not be sufficient. We needed as many people on our side as we could get, and we needed to break the nascent alliance that Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt was counting on.
Mary let us in, looking calmer if not yet friendly. She and her team were awake and dressed, but her eyes were bloodshot. Trumbull looked up, pen paused mid-note.
“Nnnnnn-gt-vvv and the elders will be here in a moment,” I said when we were inside. “We need to talk.”
“Why are you here again?” demanded Barlow. “Don’t you people ever sleep?”
Outer One and elders broke through into visibility. The elders wore their cloaks from the mine, though their faces and hands were bare. A shiver escaped Abrams’s facade. Unsympathetic, I pushed him forward.
“What the devil are you up to now, Ron?” asked Pe
ters. He sounded as much tired as upset.
“This isn’t Ron Spector,” I said.
“What?” Barlow glared at Abrams, and at me. He stalked forward and frowned at the man. “Let me see your ear.”
Abrams turned obligingly to the side. “I haven’t shaved since this morning, but the scar’s still there. Avignon, and that guard we weren’t expecting. George, you’ve got to believe me. We were in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation when these idiots pulled my own gun on me! They’ve been insisting I’m some sort of doppelganger—I don’t know how to convince them otherwise.”
“Are you going to try this again?” demanded Audrey.
“I’m going to keep telling you I’m me until you believe it.”
Barlow looked between us. “I’ve always hated this part of serials. I like knowing who people are. But you idiots—” He rubbed his forehead, wincing. “You wouldn’t be this ridiculous unless you really believed what you were saying. You’d never make up this kind of byzantine story, you’d just show up begging to talk. Again. And you—” To Abrams. “I think I’d know you anywhere, but I’ve seen some crazy things these last couple of days. Where’d we meet?”
“Fort Belvoir. I asked about the books in your duffle—we were both on special duty within the month.”
“What was the password to get back behind lines, the day you got that scar?”
“How the hell am I supposed to remember a thing like that?… Oh, but I do. I won’t say that in mixed company, George.”
“You wouldn’t even say it in front of the soldiers, with your cheek still bleeding. You were always a prude.”
“You do know me. What goes well with canned beans?”
“Truffles and chardonnay. Obviously. You’re fine. I don’t know what’s wrong with the rest of you.”
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