Talk of one tower had led to talk of the others.

Skinner: “I hear the towers are being built over the ruins of the old gray cap library. For some ritual.”

Wyte: “I heard it’s a power source for more electricity. When it’s done, the whole city will be lit up again. They’re nothing if not practical.”

Gustat, snorting his disdain, “Lit up for sure, because it’s a weapon. Why else out in the bay? From there, it looks over the whole city. It’ll shoot out some kind of energy. Another way to control all of us. First thing they’ll do is destroy the Spit.”

Blakely: “You’re full of shit. It’s a huge statue to their god. Or a memorial. Whatever, those are just its legs.”

The “island” around their refuge is just floating debris that has matted round. Encouraged by them. Camouflage. Stability. Someday, the whole thing is going to rot. They’ll have to go elsewhere. Or maybe by then the city will be theirs again and they’ll have their pick of pubs. Won’t have to be part of the same chain gang, the same galley crew.

One day they might even get around to building a bridge. But for now, the detectives have built a place to moor a boat, and used the boat to bring across an amazing amount of booze. Salvage from every murder scene. Every call of domestic abuse. A history of Ambergris in alcohol, from Smashing Todd’s to Randy Robert’s. A smell like sweat and beer. Better than the smell of the station. No electricity, but they’ve hidden an icebox in the waters below the rotting floorboards at the far end of the main room. Keeps cold enough. They bring food as they have it. Stock the place with gray cap rations too. Tastes like crap, but the food—if that’s what it is—never goes bad.

Gustat: “What god? They don’t worship a god. They’re too practical, like Wyte says.”

Albin: “Too practical? By what measure? This is just them working up to another Silence. Better hope the rebels get to it first.”

Dapple, uncertainly: “Not true. They can kill us all now if they want to. They don’t need more help.”

Albin: “Not enough of them for that.”

Blakely again: “Some people think it’s some kind of gate. They swear late at night you can see things moving through it. That you can see strange stars.”

The detectives never talk about work. But, rumor? Rumor is like news from some far distant, more exciting place. Especially about the two towers.

Once, Finch offered his opinion. “They’ve got limits, first of all. You can see that already. They couldn’t control the effects of the HFZ. They need help from the camps to build the towers. When the towers go faster, they put up fewer other buildings. The electricity goes out. Or their radio station goes silent. They have limits.”