Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (32 page)

The Lady in Blue said, "You are, supposedly, John Finch. And I am,
reportedly, the Lady in Blue. You have questions, although I may not
have as many answers as you'd like. Let's sit." She spoke with the
quiet, weathered quality of experience. Mixed with a bluntness that
was nothing like her radio broadcasts. It came as a jolt. Thought for a
moment that she might not be the Lady after all.

His captors uncuffed him. Shoved him into a chair opposite the
Lady in Blue. Withdrew out of the light.

Finch rubbed his wrists. Sitting in the chair a kind of weight dropped
onto his chest. Didn't know if it was some after-effect of how he'd
gotten there. Or the presence of the Lady in Blue.

"Where are we? Why am I here?" Aware he sounded weak. Because
I am weak. Sintra's scent was still on him. Felt trapped.

"Where are we?" echoed the Lady in Blue. "Maybe it's a place you
know. Maybe it's, to pick somewhere random, a place called Alfar. Or
one version of Alfar. Does it matter? No. We could be anywhere. That's
one thing you'll learn."

She leaned forward, poured a clear liquid from the pitcher into a
glass. Offered it to him. He took it but didn't drink.

"Go on. If I wanted you dead, you never would have woken up."

"Maybe you're cruel," Finch said. But he drank. The water was cool
on his throat. Drove away the lingering nausea.

"Do you know why you're here, `Finch'?" she asked, leaning back.
An appraising look.

"Only you know that." The way she said "Finch" made him feel
naked, exposed. His awe was fading. Replaced by a kind of perverse
resentment. This woman had helped ruin his father.

"Bellum omnium contra omnes," she said, and the little hairs on Finch's
neck rose. "Maybe I say those words to you three times and you wake up
from this dream you've been living and remember your mission."

"I don't believe you," Finch said. Waking up to the fact that he'd
been kidnapped. That he was in a dangerous situation. She'd hinted
she knew his real name. She knew he worked for the gray caps. Knew
he'd been at the rebel safe house.

The Lady in Blue laughed. "Of course you don't, because, unfortunately,
you're correct. You're not a secret agent for the resistance."

"What do the words mean?" Asking questions meant he didn't have
to answer any.

"Maybe it's in a language from another place, a place the gray caps
don't know about. Maybe we're the only ones who can understand
it. `War of all against all,' that's what it means. Though we won't be
using it again after today. You've made sure of that."

"Never lost is the countersign."

"Part of the countersign." She wasn't smiling.

"We were just doing our jobs," Finch said. "We were going to ask
some questions and leave. We wanted to stay alive."

The wind coming from the city below had faded. Finch could hear
strange mewls and moans. Then a sound like a million leaves rustling.

The Lady in Blue folded her arms. "Maybe we should talk about
your murder investigation instead. Such as it is."

"You're not the first to be interested."

Her smile was as humorless as a knife blade. "Then one more won't
hurt, will it? Tell me what you know."

Remembered the transcript Stark had given him: "There's a weapon
in the apartment where we found the dead man. You, the rebels, lost a
weapon there."

"We lost an agent there, Finch," the Lady in Blue said flatly.

Duncan Shriek.

"What's his name? The man?" Finch asked.

A look of profound displeasure from the Lady in Blue.

"Now that is disappointing, Finch. Disappointing in three ways. First
because I don't have much time and you're wasting it. Second because I
suppose this means you're going to try to survive by giving me scraps. And
third because I'm not your unimaginative little gray cap boss." Unable to
keep disgust out of her voice.

"You left," Finch said. "You left all of us behind. We've had to live
in that city for six years. Survive any way we could."

You abandoned us. Curled up inside that outburst all the bottled-up
frustration from nearly eight years of playing a role. A role inside of
a role.

The Lady in Blue nodded as if she agreed, but said, "Do you think
we've been having a party out here, Finch? Do you think we've been sitting out here waiting for the end times? No. We've been learning
things. We've been gathering our forces. Waiting for the right moment.
It's been as hard for us as for you. Harder maybe."

At least you've had a change of scenery.

When he remained silent, she said, "Tell me the name of the man
in the apartment. Think of it as an exercise in trust."

They already knew. He had no leverage.

"It's a man named Duncan Shriek. Except he died a hundred years
ago. That's what I don't understand."

The dead man sat in the chair next to him, smiling.

"Was there anyone with him?"

"Half of a dead gray cap."

Falling through cold air and couldn't feel his legs.

"Is the body still in the apartment?"

"Not the gray cap, but Shriek's is."

"Is there any visible sign of injury to Shriek?"

"Not really."

"How did he die?"

"I don't know. He looks like he might have fallen. Twisted his neck
a bit."

"Don't you feel better, telling the truth?"

"Yes," he said. Meant it.

She paused for a moment, as if marshaling hidden forces. Then
said, "While we're telling the truth, Finch, I should let you know
something: I knew John Crossley. John Marlowe Crossley."

A sharp intake of breath he couldn't control. Too long since he'd
heard that name spoken. Hadn't uttered it in years, either. Had tried
to unthink it.

The Lady in Blue continued: "John had a strange idea of honor. He
had genuine disagreements with us. With everyone, really. That's why
he fell so hard. Why no one could protect him. It would have been
easier if he'd been a simple spy, one side against another, not working
for the Kalif."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Finch said. Although he
knew it was hopeless. He felt like a hermit crab being pulled from
its shell.

The Lady in Blue nodded, but not to Finch.

A slamming blow came down on Finch's bad shoulder. He cried out,
fell from his seat into the grass. Moaning in pain. Turning to protect
his shoulder.

The Lady in Blue had risen. Stood next to him. Suddenly more
threatening, more terrible, than anyone he had ever seen. "You do
know what I'm talking about, James Scott Crossley. You do know."

Like looking in a mirror and seeing a double that didn't really match
up. He'd been Finch for so long that he didn't know James Scott Crossley
anymore. Not really. Some stranger who hadn't survived the Rising.
Some poor bastard who'd never made it back, like so many others.

She pulled the chair away from the table and sat down. "Do I have
your attention?"

Through gritted teeth. "Yes." He didn't want to remember Crossley.
Crossley was dead. Both of them.

"You've changed your look. Your hair is lighter, and you've shaved
the beard. You're heavier. Older, of course. But it's still you. What
would people do if they knew? With your father's reputation for
treachery? Even now, maybe they'd be firmer with you. Maybe they'd
stop what they're up to long enough to settle old scores. One thing
to protect the key to a weapon. Another to find out the key has close
ties to someone who betrayed the city to a foreign power. Maybe
you'd wake up to a bullet in your brain. And know this, too, John:
your father brought it on himself. Don't delude yourself about that."

"Fuck you," Finch said. "Fuck you, Alessandra Lewden."

Got a kick in the ribs for that. Lay there, saying nothing. Pinned to
the ground by her words. Shoulder knifed through with broken glass.

She relented then. Said in something close to a kindly tone, "But
that's not why you're here, `Finch,' if that's what you'd prefer I call
you. A year ago? Maybe. But now? No."

Through gritted teeth, "What do you want, then?"

"We've time enough to talk about that," she said. "Soon we'll be
leaving here. It's never safe to stay in one place for long. Get up."

Finch stood. Holding his shoulder.

"Look," the Lady in Blue said, pointing out past the ruined hulks of
tanks. Toward the dull orange dome.

"What am I looking for?"

"Just wait."

As she spoke, the dome exploded. A thousand streamers rising in
intense shades of red and orange. Like some kind of land-bound sun.
The tendrils arched into the sky. Hung there. Then disintegrated
into a vast cloud. 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 hundred-fold bestial roar. Strange
fractal creatures began to grow at a frenetic pace across every surface.
Straining up toward the light. While the orange dome, much reduced,
seemed to breathe in and out. Beyond the particle cloud the darkness
continued unabated.

"Dawn, Finch," the Lady in Blue said. "That's the kind of dawn they
have here."

"Yes, but what is this place?" Finch asked, almost pleading. "Where
am l?"

"It's a place where the echo of the HFZ-just the echo of it-destroyed
a city. Subjected it to this perpetual artificial dawn. There's no one
living down there now. No one. Just flesh that serves as fertile soil ... for
something else. The HFZ is like a wound where the knife cut through
more than one layer. And that's really all you needed to see. No, it
hasn't been fun out here for six years, Finch. Not really."

She nodded to someone behind him. A man came up and got Finch
in a choke hold. He struggled against it. Kicked his legs. Frantic. The
woman came around front. Stuck a needle in his arm.

The stars swirled into a circle, then a haze.

The world disappeared all over again.

James Crossley had been callow, self-absorbed, impatient, a ladies'
man. Finch was none of those things. Finch was direct, brusque, had
a dark sense of humor. Crossley had been, for awhile, finicky about
food. Finch had cured him of the last of that during the worst times,
with stew made from leather belts, made from dogs and rats.

Crossley never swore. Finch had trained himself to swear to fit in.
To break up the rhythm of his normal speech patterns. Crossley liked the river. Finch kept waiting for something to leap out of it. Both
liked cigars and whiskey. Both were as dependable as they could be,
indifferent to music, and hated small talk. Although Crossley had
had more chances to hate it than Finch.

Crossley had been part of his father's network as a youth, something
he'd only known later. Even if he'd had an inkling.

His father passed information on Frankwrithe to Hoegbotton,
and information on Hoegbotton to Frankwrithe. Built things for
Hoegbotton only to give Frankwrithe the intel to blow them up.
Used the contacts to feed Hoegbotton sensitive information on troop
movements from supposed "sources." Neither side having any sense
of the level of betrayal until they came together to fight the gray caps.
After which it became clear John Crossley had been given his orders
by someone working for the Kalif. Creating chaos while providing the
Kalif's secret service with an inside look at both factions.

And why? Why? Neither James Crossley nor John Finch had any idea.
Their father had never told them. Just said once that being a powerful
man meant you made enemies. "Too many people get the wrong idea,"
he'd said. While he hid out in an abandoned mansion in northern
Ambergris. Coughing up blood from the sickness he'd first contracted
while on campaign in the Kalif's territory.

"Look," he'd said to Finch, showing him, "I never knew my face
would be printed on playing cards." One of fifty most-wanted men
and women. On the rebels' list.

Remembered again the pipe his father had shown him.

Crossley was the past. Finch was the present, waiting for the future.
For the air to clear. For all of this to go away.

But two things they agreed on.

Both still trusted in their father, couldn't bring themselves to shun
him. Even knowing what he had done.

Both had loved him.

inch woke with an uneven, sharp surface cutting into his back.
Above, a wavery light showed a shelf of rippling black rock.
Glittering stalactites pointed down at him.