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. And 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?
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 f**king 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?