"Dapple's dead," Gustat said, hand still on the radio tuner. A blank stare into the distance. Began to cry. As if Dapple had been his best friend, instead of just tolerated.
Harsh laugh from Blakely. "Sorry we didn't have a chance to catch up on your exploits before now. But last night we were too busy sticking it out here in the station next to a pile of corpses."
"It happens, Gustat," Finch said. With a toughness he didn't feel. Ignoring Blakely. Hadn't expected Gustat's tears. Hadn't expected a lot of things. Wondered how much longer he could endure it. When would whatever kept him going run out?
"Look in your memory hole, Finch," Blakely said.
A message? He leaned down. Pulled the pod out uneasily, with the other two watching. Went through the ritual of opening it. Just a note. From Heretic.
PLANS HAVE CHANGED. FILE A FINAL REPORT ON YOUR CASE. THEN REPORT WITH WYTE TO THE TOWERS FOR WORK DETAIL.
A vast improvement over the last message.
Blakely's face held fear and smugness all at once. "You're off the case. He told us before he left. The case is over."
Incredulous: "Who is taking it over, then?"
"No one. Working on the towers is punishment for what happened at the safe house. If you ask me, you got off light. He was in a good mood. Calm. Almost happy. Even when he put them to sleep." A tilt of the head toward the holding cage.
"You've got to work on the towers," Gustat said, still messing with his radio. An odd look on his face, halfway between a frown and a smile.
"Thanks for the reminder," Finch said. "Now f**k off."
"Cheer up," Blakely said. "I don't think Heretic's coming back. I don't think anyone's coming back."
The clock ticked. The phone on Finch's desk rang a few times. Mostly people scared because of the destruction of the Spit. Even though the towers had done nothing since. Some of the people who called even had some small hope he could help them. But they were living in the grip of memories of the old days. A past that had never really existed.
Finch worked on his final report. Going through the motions. Sticking to routine. Waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him the rest of the plan. He would call Wyte soon, too. Just working up the nerve.
Started out with pen and paper. Wrote drivel. Fuck you . . . Am I just the bait? . . . There's nothing here you can use . . . You're monstrous .. .
Paralyzed for a moment by the thought of the look on Sintra's face as she walked away from him for the last time. Clinging now to what she'd told him even as he'd told her to stop before. "My mother had gotten better, but my father had lost his arm to a fungal bullet. He couldn't work for a long time he was so depressed. He'd been a journalist."
Threw away his pointless notes. Went to the typewriter. Soon had a real report that while bland made a kind of sense. Was it good enough to satisfy Heretic while he completed his mission? Had no idea. Read it over one last time.
There are no definitive conclusions to be drawn in this murder case. I have found no information on the identity of the dead gray cap. The man may be related to a fringe historian, Duncan Shriek, who lived in the apartment more than a hundred years ago, but this appears to be a coincidence. Two names came up repeatedly in investigating the case: Ethan Bliss, an operative for Morrow, and "Stark," the alias of a spy working for Stockton. Their relationship to the case is oblique at best, but both appear convinced that the man carried a weapon created by the rebels for use against Fanaarcensitii. I remain convinced that the man fell from a great height and was moved to the apartment-that he died elsewhere. Both Bliss and Stark may know more, but they remain fugitives, and we have not been given the resources to track them down. If the dead man was part of a rebel conspiracy, then it appears to have failed. I would suggest that the Fanaarcensitii put all of their resources into tracking down Bliss and Stark. Interrogations of both parties might provide more information. All other intelligence can be found in the attached notes and prior reports.
--Detective John Finch
Short. Protective of those it needed to protect. Giving up those who were asking for it.
Cowardly. Masking death, despair, destruction.
Put it aside.
Typed, pushing the keys down hard:
EVENTS ARE MOVING BEYOND YOU. THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO. YOU'RE NOT EVEN THE CRAFTIEST BASTARDS IN THE ROOM. YOU'LL ALL GO DOWN WONDERING HOW IT HAPPENED. I'LL NEVER UNDERSTAND YOU, BUT YOU'LL NEVER UNDERSTAND US, EITHER.
Felt like a child. Took that message, too, and walked back to his desk. Pondered both of them, lying there like some kind of judgment on his integrity.
A few minutes later, still thinking, the phone rang.
"Finch." Wyte. The voice barely recognizable. As human. "You've got to help me."
"When the time comes, right, Finch?" "Sure, Wyte. When the time comes."
"Finch. Are you there?"
"Yes."
"It's time."
Every memory of Wyte invincible the day before cracked into pieces. Finch's throat tightened. The world around him spun, lost focus. Blakely hunched over his desk. To the left was a splotch of ruddy white. The windows seemed to contract.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay, Wyte. Okay."
"And, Finch, I don't think I'm going quietly. Not like Richard Dom."
The voice, once so deep and gravelly, had changed since they'd first met. Become soft and liquid, lighter yet thicker.
"Where are you?"
"At my apartment."
"You'll know what to do." "I'll know what to do."
"I'm coming," Finch said.
Wyte hung up.
Sat there a moment. Leaned forward a little over his desk. Elbows digging into the wood. Marshaling his strength.
You can do this. You have to do this. You promised him.
Finch raised his arm. Smashed his fist into the desk. Just to feel the pain shoot up through his shoulder. Stood. Swept everything off of his desk. Made a sound almost like a roar. Almost like a moan. While Blakely and Gustat, standing now, just stared at him.
Tonsure's bones in the little house by the underground sea. Strange stars. Falling with Bliss into darkness. Emerging into light. Heretic's skery crawling up his leg. Sintra disappearing into darkness.
"What the f**k are you looking at?" Finch snarled. He began to break everything on the floor into pieces small enough to feed into the memory hole. Bits of pencil. Torn paper. The gaping jaw of a stapler. Shoved them into it. The hole rasped and protested.
Then tore up his report and his pathetic message. Put them both down the hole as well.