Finch by Jeff VanderMeer Read Online Free PDF Page B

Trying to forget. Finch's father dead almost two years.
    Just after midnight: a sound like a giant flame opening up and then
winking out. A devastating whump, as of something hitting the ground
or rising from it. When they looked outside, they'd seen a dome-like
haze above the north part of the bay. Green-orange discharge like
sunspots. They'd just watched it. Watched it and not known what
to say. What to do. Barricaded the house. Spent the rest of the night
with weapons within reach.
    In the morning, a paralyzing horror. Across the bay, when they
slipped out through back alleys to get a clear view: the seething area
that became known as the HFZ, and no sign of anyone alive. No sign
of the tanks. No messages from the rebel leadership.
    Thought but not said: Abandoned. Gone. On our own.
    Then the realization, as the gray caps began to appear in numbers in
the streets, and as their surrogates the Partials began to help occupy
the city, that the war was over for now. That each citizen of Ambergris
would need to make some kind of peace with the enemy.
    Always with the hope sent out across the water toward the HFZ:
that the tanks, the men, might come back. Might re-emerge. That the
rebels were not dead. Destroyed.
    Lost.

     

4
    id-afternoon. A soft, wet, sucking sound came from the
.memory hole beside his desk. Finch shuddered, put aside his
notes. A message had arrived.
    Some detectives positioned their desks so they could see their
memory holes. Finch positioned his desk so he couldn't see it without
leaning over. Tried never to look at it when he walked into the station
in the morning. Still, the memory hole was better than the dead cat
reanimated on Skinner's doorstep, message delivered in screeched
rhyming couplets. Or the mushroom that walked onto Dapple's desk,
turning itself inside out. To reveal the message.
    Exhaled sharply. Peered around the left edge of the desk. Glanced
down at the glistening hole. It was about twice the size of a man's
fist. Lamprey-like teeth. Gasping, pink-tinged maw. Foul. The green
tendrils lining the gullet had pushed up the dirty black spherical pod
until it lay atop the mouth.
    Finch sat up. Couldn't see it. Just heard its breathing. Which was worse.
    The gray caps always called them "message tubes," but the term
"memory hole" had stuck. Memory holes allowed the detectives to
communicate during the day with their gray cap superiors. Finch had
no idea if the memory holes were living creatures or only seemed
alive. Fluid leaked out of them sometimes.
    Once, impulsive, Finch had crumpled up the wrapper around the
remains of his lunch and shoved it down the hole. Lived in fear the
rest of the day. But nothing had happened. When he'd thought about
it since, it had made him laugh. Heretic, down there, hit in the head
with a piece of garbage. Maybe cursing Finch's name.
    Now Heretic's message vibrated atop writhing tendrils.
    Finch leaned over. Grabbed the pod. Slimy feel. Sticky.

    Tossed the pod onto his desk. Pulled out a hammer from the same
drawer where he kept his limited supply of dormant pods. Split
Heretic's pod wide open. Spraying slime.
    Beside Finch, Wyte winced, got up for some coffee.
    Disgusted, or was it too close to home?
    "There's no pretty way to do it, my friends," Finch called out. "Just
look away." No one acknowledged him this time. Too usual. Even
Finch's refrain.
    In amongst the fragments: a few copies of a photograph of the dead
man, compliments of the Partial.
    And a message.
    Pulsing yellow. An egg of living paper. He pulled the egg out of the
shattered pod. Began to massage it until it spread out flat. Kept spreading,
to Finch's surprise. Then began to unspool. Like a long, wide tongue.
And kept on growing.
    That was unusual enough for the other detectives to gather round.
    "What in the hell is that?" Blakely asked, Gustat beside him. Dapple
shyly peeked over Blakely's shoulder. Albin and Skinner were out on
a call or they'd