Hints of bobbing islands in the waves now. Some of them too close to ignore. Yet Finch ignored them. Corpse islands made from workers who had died in the camps. Reborn as floating compost for fruiting bodies. And far, far below them, the decaying docks, the drowned part of Albumuth Boulevard. All of the dead, still in the buildings where they had worked or lived, the onslaught of water so sudden. Slamming into them. For a time lit up by the strobing of the giant squid that had patrolled the bay. Long since gone, driven out by the pollution. Finch couldn’t take it. Not this morning.

“Water can behave like a person,” his father used to say. Treacherous. Tides and swirls and eddies. Sucking boats down with them.

The past didn’t seem like another world. The past seemed like it had never happened. Couldn’t have happened. The leap to this too hideous, too nightmarish. Better to have no past at all. Suddenly, he needed Sintra. Needed her badly. Could almost smell her perfume. Wanted to be back in his apartment, next to her.

“Where do you live?”

“A place with four walls, and a ceiling.”

“What are the neighbors like?”

“Noisy. Sad. Temporary…”

Resented Wyte irrationally for a moment. As if Sintra could’ve replaced him on the boat. Backed him up. Except she couldn’t.

“What can you hear from your window, Sintra?”

“The sound of detectives asking questions.”

“Finch.” Wyte made it sound like a warning, jolting him from his thoughts. “Over there.” Pointing, like he wanted a distraction, too.

Just behind them: another boat. Much larger, coming in from the southeast. Flat-bottomed. Lagging in the water.

Finch had brought his gun against his own better instincts. Drew it now. Then looked closer and holstered it.

“Just prisoners,” he said. Could as well be us.

Wyte took a second look, nodded.

Soon the boat slid past their prow, heading for the towers. It held about thirty people from the camps. Guarded by two gray caps and a Partial. The men and women dressed in the dull sack robes of their status. Some wearing old-fashioned masks that might or might not work. Heads bowed not from prayer but from hopelessness. Thin, with light-green skin. Shoulders slumped.

“During the day?” Wyte said, almost pleading to be told he was wrong.

“During the day,” Finch said, annoyed. Best just to be thankful not to be in the camps.

The Truffidian priest in the back of the boat caught Finch’s attention. In full regalia, down to the golden chains. The same priests had walked side by side with Ambergrisian infantry invading Kalif lands. The gray caps had broken them. Treated them almost like pets now. Their eyes locked, the older man bowing his head to avoid Finch’s stare. Noted the hooded look. The slight shake. He was on the gray caps’ drugs. Did this in return for his fix. Turncoat.