Finch raised his arm. Smashed his fist into the desk. Just to feel the pain shoot up through his shoulder. Stood. Swept everything off 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 fuck 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.

“Do you like that, Heretic? Do you?” Might have been screaming it. Didn’t care.

Blakely pulled him away, hand on his shoulder. Finch shrugged it off. Whirled on him. Looked at Blakely like he didn’t know him. Saw Blakely had his gun out. Controlled himself, arms outstretched, palms down.

“It’s okay, Blakely.” But it wasn’t okay. How much else could fall apart? What was left? “I just need some things from my desk and then I’m gone.”

The Photographer had said they’d be watching him. Now they’d have to watch him deal with Wyte.

Blakely backed away. Didn’t put down his gun. “You’re crazy, Finch,” he said. “You’re crazy.” Gustat stood there, mouth open.

Finch reached under the desk. Pulled the ceremonial scimitar in its scabbard from its hiding place.

Blakely backed even farther away. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s my sword,” Finch said. Brought the belt with the scabbard around his waist. “Never seen a sword before, Blakely?” Already had his gun. Didn’t really need anything else. Never would again.

At the door, he planned to turn and say something. What, he didn’t know. But there was nothing to say. Instead, he just pushed the filing cabinet aside.

Left Blakely and Gustat standing there, looking like two lost boys in a room suddenly grown huge.

3

Wyte’s door had a sagging “17” on it. Half shadowed, half in sunlight from the decorative stone wall running parallel to all the apartments. The blue paint had a rust-like stain running through it. An old bullet hole decorated the upper left-hand corner. A faded, torn welcome mat. Sweat and mold and the fading stench of piss. It depressed Finch. He’d only visited Wyte there a few times. Late-night drinking sessions. Bold statements about escape or joining the rebels that nobody remembered in the mornings. Commiserating with Wyte over his estranged wife. His far distant children.

Finch had taken the long route, trying to shake any watchers.

Knocked once. Twice. Gun in one hand. Sword in the other.

Nothing.

Knocked again.