BOSOMS, BUTCHERY, AND A BRAZEN BOAR
I took a Way in from the Library just in time for the third murder. The cops (they call themselves Withstanders in Last Light, but if it grunts like a pig…) had locked down all the official Gateways, but you can never keep a Wanderer out if he knows the right knock. (And, in the case of this particular Way, if he has a cloaca. The less said about the actual procedure, the better.) The Way opened into what was, according to my travel agent, the erotic library of a snake-worshipping sex cult; and perhaps at one point it had been, but I was barely able to get half an eyeful of the pornographic bas-reliefs along the walls before I was chased out by the new tenants, a gibbering horde of cybernetic rat-things. Had to ditch my hat as a distraction. Good thing I always carry a backup.
(My travel agent got a real earful for that, I tell you what. An earful of hot lead. Can't let a man who would drop a Doctor of Journalism into a literal pile of vermin get away with it. Paid him a visit as soon as I got back to the Library, packing serious heat. Bang. One shot. Straight through the dome. My editor wants me to note, for legal reasons, that this is not a confession to murder — Torok, my travel agent, is some sort of clockwork robot-man, and his head is mostly decorative. He's fine.)
I was dusting myself off and unfolding my collapsible Stetson when the screaming started. First rule of journalism: always run toward the screaming. Got there just after the cops did, which is when you want to arrive, because it means they know you didn't do it.
The crime scene was a four-story tenement, carved out of a colossal marble bust of what could only have been a fertility goddess. It was wedged between a couple of more traditional brick-and-mortar affairs — the left-hand one built partly from the same creamy marble, probably scavenged from the goddess herself — and surrounded by a thick mob of rubberneckers eager to get a glimpse of the carnage within. The front door was tucked right between the lady's divine attributes, and a rookie Withstander was anchoring an exclusion field in the massive mammaries when I pushed through the crowd, brandishing my press pass. Second rule of journalism: speed is the essence of warfare. I had to get the first word.
"Hey there," I said, in my best cop-haranguing voice, "Duke Gathers, Planasthai. Care to comment on the failure of the Withstanders to catch this serial murderer?"
They spluttered for a moment, their hand-me-down armor's speaker whistling and clicking with age. "How did you- We haven't- Who-" Good. Nice of them to confirm my guess.
Third rule of journalism: always go for the throat. Before they could recover, I pressed my conversational advantage. "What effect will this have on Last Light's sex work industry?" I took a step forward. "When will young she-beings be able to walk the streets without fear?" Another step, the cop retreating as I advanced. "Is the killer a cannibal? A Nihl? Or worse — and may the gods forgive me for uttering this word — an elf?"
And then, with my last step, I was past the security cordon, and all bets were off. I pivoted around the stunned rookie, slipped through the door, and crashed horn-first into the chiseled abdominals of a seven-foot bronze statue. A seven-foot bronze statue in Withstander armor, with a captain's silver-fringed epaulettes.
PLEASE ESTABLISH THE PERIMETER, CADET FELUSKES, the statue intoned in the kind of deep, resonant voice you can only really render in small-caps. I WILL SPEAK WITH THE PRESS.
"Uh, yes, Captain. Thank you, Captain." The rookie approximated a salute and returned to their field generators. I could practically see the terror evaporate.
"Ah, Captain," I said, apotropaically tapping my press pass, "your rookie might need a prosthetic backbone. I hear they sell them at the Blackrock scrapyards. If they can't deal with a mere Doctor of Journalism, how will they fare when faced with the real sickos that haunt these streets?"
The captain nodded. THERE IS A LACK OF GUMPTION AMONG THE YOUTH THESE DAYS, DOCTOR GATHERS. BUT I WOULD AVOID ANY DIRECT COMMENTS ABOUT 'BACKBONES'. CADET FELUSKES IS AN INVERTEBRATE AND MIGHT TAKE OFFENSE.
I refrained from expressing my true feelings about squids and their spineless ilk, and pressed on. "So, Captain, anything you can share with the press about your investigation? Any suspects? Any leads? And, uh, may I have your name?"
YOU MAY NOT HAVE MY NAME, DOCTOR GATHERS. I AM QUITE ATTACHED TO IT. He chuckled, and I swear I felt the ground shake. BUT YOU MAY CALL ME CAPTAIN ADENIEL. I WILL HAPPILY ANSWER YOUR OTHER QUESTIONS, BUT NOT HERE. PLEASE.
He turned, and gestured for me to follow. The stairs thankfully did not creak under his weight, carved as they were out of solid stone. We made it to the second floor before he spoke.
YES, he said, pausing his ascent, WE HAVE A SUSPECT. I AM HAPPY TO SHARE THIS INFORMATION WITH YOU, DOCTOR GATHERS. I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A GREAT SUPPORTER OF THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. BUT I MUST, AS WE SAID WHEN I WAS BARELY FORGED, PLAY A SHINWO MIRROR-TILE, AND ASK YOU A QUESTION OF MY OWN. He turned to face me, and stared into my eyes.
Have you ever stared into a furnace? Or the depths of a bonfire, or a crucible of molten steel, anywhere that's lit with that red-orange incandescence, where heat and light are the same. Imagine that, hold it in your mind. Give it a few rotations, maybe. Now picture its opposite. That's what was in Captain Adeniel's eyes. Cold, and dark, and still.
DOES THE BLACK MOON HOWL?
I licked my eyes in genuine confusion. "Uh. No? Yes? Maybe? I have no idea what that means." It sounded like some sort of call-response codephrase, but reporters generally don't have those. "Do you think I'm a spy? I'm hardly ever a spy. I'm not one right now."
He frowned, his bronze brow creaking as it wrinkled. NO, SORRY. MY MISTAKE. IT'S JUST… YOU ARE FROM THE LIBRARY, YES? A WANDERER? NORMALLY THERE IS A PROCEDURE. YOU APPEAR TO HAVE… BYPASSED IT. VERY IRREGULAR.
"Ah. That. Yes." I knew about the procedure. I knew I had bypassed it. Fourth rule of journalism: never follow the rules. Except for the rules of journalism. I would have to get creative. "I didn't do that." Fuck. Fifth rule of journalism: always lie to cops. Really more a rule of life in general, but it's frequently helpful in my profession. Time for a course correction. "… because I have a press pass. I didn't need to. Journalistic privilege, don'tcha know."
OF COURSE. Captain Adeniel nodded solemnly. WELL. WITH THAT OUT OF THE WAY. PLEASE BRACE YOURSELF, DOCTOR GATHERS. THE CRIME SCENE IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART OR THE WEAK OF GLAND.
He led me up one more flight, then down a hallway, almost too narrow for his armored shoulders. At the end was a wooden door guarded by two more Withstanders, a pair of young humanoid women in identical suits of armor. They saluted in unison.
AT EASE, LIEUTENANTS THROOP. I'M TAKING DOCTOR GATHERS HERE TO SEE THE SCENE.
The lieutenants spoke at the same time. Creepy. Like those horrible little girls from The Shining if they grew up and started carrying laser swords. "Is he the new coroner, sir?"
(I later learned that the Lieutenants Throop were a Pandrogyne, the result of a years-long ritual that transformed them from a married couple into a single mind-soul occupying two bodies. Plastic surgery, hormone therapy, matching tattoos, changes in height and weight and eye color, the works. Horrendously difficult procedure. Requires total trust and acceptance. I thank God every day that I'll never love anyone that much.)
Adeniel shook his head. NO, DOCTOR DE KLAAG WILL BE HERE SHORTLY. DOCTOR GATHERS HERE IS A JOURNALIST.
The lieutenants stared at me with such disdain I could taste it. Clearly they did not have a high opinion of my profession. This is understandable — I don't either, journalists are a pack of liars and scoundrels that you can trust about has far as you can throw them — but I am not a mere journalist, and I resent being lumped in with the tabloid scribblers and common muckrakers they have in these parts. I had to defend my honor.
"Duke Gathers, Doctor of Journalism, at your service," I said with a tip of my hat. "On assignment from the Planasthai. Don't worry, lieutenants. I'm a genuine professional. Licensed and insured."
"Why," they spoke again, still in unison "does a journalist need insurance?"
"Well, I ask myself that very same question when I get the bill." I could feel myself begin to ramble. Probably the handful of pills I took for Way-sickness making themselves known. And by handful of pills I mean noseful of pixie dust. And by pixie dust I mean cocaine. "But, you know, the usual. Slander and libel insurance. Personal injury for if an interview gets a little rowdy. Malpractice for when I screw up while I'm patching up my interviewee afterwards. And that one is a when, not an if, I am not that kind of doctor. Bail insurance for if the Captain here decides I'm taking too many liberties and throws me in the lock-up. Resurrection insurance, for if-"
Captain Adeniel, thankfully, cleared his throat, interrupting me before I could spill any more of my secrets. WE DON'T DO BAIL HERE, DOCTOR GATHERS. IF I ARREST YOU, YOU'RE THERE UNTIL YOUR TRIAL. BUT I WILL NOT ARREST YOU, BECAUSE YOU WILL BE ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOR.
Normally this would have triggered my worst behavior with a startling immediacy. But Captain Adeniel was very tall, and made of metal, and had really scary eyes. "Yes! I will be. Right. Crime scene?"
INDEED.
The room was set just behind the goddess's eye, her pupil serving as a window. White marble walls like the rest of the building, some covered in ragged cloth drapes — a scrap of thick green velvet from a theater curtain, a moth-eaten tapestry of a white elk, a geometric patchwork quilt. Splashes of red on all these, dark blotches on the velvet, bright spots on the elk's hide. A bare lightbulb on the ceiling, pull-cord dangling; a lamp on the particle-board nightstand; another lamp by the rusted metal locker that serves as a wardrobe, overflowing with scavenged finery. None of them on, of course; power's too precious here to waste it on the dead. A beam of sickly yellow light from this island's false-sun shines in through the window, landing on the bed, and on its unfortunate occupant.
She was dead, of course. Nobody loses that much blood and keeps living. I'm not going to go into more detail than that — you can pick up any old Last Light tabloid if you want gore. Well, you can't. You're not here. But the True Crime section of the Library is as deep as sapient depravity, and I'm sure you can find something to sate your appetite for slaughter. The Planasthai has higher standards. Which I am following to the letter, because I'm on probation after that piece I wrote about the Noodle Shop Killer. It will suffice to say that she was dead. And also that she had a large hole in her chest, the reason for which will be obvious momentarily.
KEFSAGUND HRODSDAUGHTER, the Captain said. A SEAMSTRESS, SPECIALIZING IN THE RECLAMATION OF SCAVENGED CLOTHING, AND AN OCCASIONAL PROSTITUTE. SATYR FATHER, HUMAN MOTHER — NOTE THE HORNS. I noted them. They curled back from her forehead like a ram's horns, spiraling around her temples. THE CORONER HAS NOT YET ARRIVED, BUT THE PATTERN MATCHES THE FIRST TWO VICTIMS. A SINGLE STRIKE TO THE CHEST, WITH AN ARMORED HAND, REMOVING THE HEART.
"And…" It took me a moment. I'm not completely soulless. "And you know who did it?"
He nodded. SHE WAS SEEN LEAVING THE SCENE OF THE FIRST CRIME, AND SPOTTED IN THE AREA JUST BEFORE THIS ONE. ONE OF YOUR GUESSES EARLIER WAS CORRECT, DOCTOR GATHERS — THE CULPRIT IS A NIHL. ONE OF THE WORST OF THEM. A heavy sigh escaped him, and the room grew a few degrees colder. LORIEL REMINANZ. THE OATHBREAKER.
"She's… She used to be one of yours, right? A Withstander?"
YES. SHE IS ALSO, UNFORTUNATELY, MY WIFE.
FALLEN ANGELS AND RISEN DEVILS
My hotel claimed to be the oldest such establishment in the universe. It's entirely possible that this was true. The White Phoenix Inn had transported itself to Last Light generations ago, when the first cracks of instability began to show in the firmament of its homeworld, and had never closed its doors in the intervening centuries. Easy to stay open when you don't need any staff — the Inn's eponymous guardian spirit ran the place with a host of terracotta golems, animated and controlled via the phoenix's own fire. The one that showed me to my room was sculpted in the form of a young woman, half her face shattered, gold kintsugi lacquer highlighting the cracks. She took me to my room, bowed, left. Totally silent.
I freshened up, dropped off exactly zero luggage (I keep all I need in my coat pockets — spare underwear, ammo, various pills and powders, a selection of typewriters, et cetera) and headed down to the bar. Captain Adeniel had promised to meet me there and explain his bombshell revelation, and I was too happy to get away from the gory mess that was the crime scene to make much of a fuss about the cliffhanger. He was waiting for me in the lobby, having traded his armor for a knee-length kilt and a strappy leather harness for his laser sword's scabbard. A less professional writer would wax poetic about tight black leather over rippling bronze muscles; they could spend pages on the sculpted perfection of his boyish face, no longer hidden by a helmet; they might speculate on what lay under the kilt, how it compared to the admittedly impressive length and girth of the Captain's laser sword. Thankfully, I am a professional, and so I will not be doing that. This was a business meeting, not a date, and I treated it with appropriate gravitas.
(Sixth rule of journalism: never fuck your sources. I learned that one the hard way. If you know what I mean)
Another of the Inn's terracotta servants tended the bar. Captain Adeniel ordered "phoenix tears", and got a glass of something clear and odorless and radiant, too thick to be water, flowing like honey on the moon, defying gravity just enough to unsettle. I had a beer. And a shot of whiskey. And a couple of pills. And a canister of nitrous oxide. Even a journalist of my caliber sometimes can't face the world sober. We found a booth, tucked away in a corner, and I made war on my own brain cells while the Captain sipped his drink. One last hit of nitrous and I was ready to rumble.
DO YOU HAVE ANGELS, DOCTOR GATHERS? His already-echoing voice was distorted further by the nitrous reverb on my senses, as though he were shouting up from the bottom of a well. OR DEMONS? IN THE LIBRARY, I MEAN, OR WHEREVER YOU'RE FROM. ARE THESE CONCEPTS MEANINGFUL TO YOU?
"Some," I replied, "None of them locals, per se. There's the Seraphim Stacks, there's usually a host or two browsing those, and the Church of the Word Made Flesh has its own force of origami cherubs. The Pandaemonium Archivists and the Printer's Devils for the other side. But they're not from the Library, nobody's really from the Library, not originally." Not strictly true, as those of you rushing to your keyboards to tag me in offended posts about your ancestors are no doubt aware. But it's true enough for the question he was asking.
WE HAD BOTH, IN MY HOMELAND. LOCKED IN ENDLESS WAR. SINCE THE BEGINNING, OR BEFORE IT. He stares off into the distance, lost in memory. THE HOST OF THE TEN THOUSAND HEAVENS. THE LEGION OF THE NINE THOUSAND, NINE HUNDRED AND NINETY-NINE HELLS. IT SOUNDS BETTER IN OUR NATIVE TONGUES. THE MYRIAD HEAVENS, THE MYRIAD-LESS-ONE HELLS, MAYBE. THE WORLD WAS A BROKEN WASTELAND. NO GODS, NO MORTALS, JUST TWO INFINITE ARMIES OF SPIRITS, KILLING AND BEING KILLED. A smile flickers across his face. LOVE CAN BLOOM ANYWHERE, DOCTOR GATHERS. EVEN ON A BATTLEFIELD.
He takes a sip of his drink. I can see it going down, glowing bright through his throat, settling in his stomach. I WAS A LEGIONNAIRE OF THE TWO THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEENTH HELL, ANGOL-NANZ. A BRONZE SWORDSMAN, ONE OUT OF TWELVE MILLION IN MY FORGE-BATCH. A SPIRIT PLUCKED FROM THE SOUL-STREAM AND BOUND INTO A BODY. SENT OUT INTO THE WORLD BUT TO DO AND DIE. AND SHE… A long pause. I feel the temperature drop, cold radiating from Adeniel's body. Condensation collects around his eyes and drips down. This is as close as he can come to tears. SHE WAS THE ANGEL OF RIGHTEOUS MURDER, BEARER OF THE SWORD NAMED "END", GENERAL OF THE HOST OF THE SIXTH HEAVEN. LORIEL.
Another sip, the tears flashing into steam, the glow in his belly burning brighter. SHE WAS LAID LOW. BY THE PRINCE OF MY HELL. MY GENERAL, MY MASTER, MY FATHER, IN A WAY. A LUCKY SHOT, AN ARROW CLIPPING HER WING, AND SHE FELL. LANDED AMONG OUR RANKS. AND I COULD HAVE KILLED HER, I SHOULD HAVE KILLED HER, BUT… He turns, meets my gaze, and I feel that cold again, the ice inside him overpowering the phoenix-fire. SHE WAS SO BEAUTIFUL, DOCTOR GATHERS. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IN THE WORLD. AND I COULD NOT. I PROTECTED HER, I KILLED MY OWN BROTHERS SO SHE COULD LIVE. I DO NOT REGRET IT. EVEN NOW. He sighs. AND WHEN THE BATTLE WAS OVER, WHEN WE WERE THE ONLY BEINGS LEFT ON THE FIELD, WE FINALLY SPOKE. AND WE DECIDED TO FLEE OUR WORLD. IT HAD ENDED A LONG TIME AGO. THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT WORTH FIGHTING OVER.
LORIEL TOOK MY NAME, DOCTOR GATHERS. REMINANZ WAS THE LEGIONNAIRE, THE SERVANT, THE DEMON. SHE TOOK IT UPON HERSELF, AND GAVE ME A NEW NAME. ADENIEL. HE-WHO-LOVES-BEAUTY. The tears are falling again, freezing on their way down. Two lines of ice from his eyes to his jaw. AND WE CAME HERE, AND WE JOINED WITH A KNIGHTLY ORDER, FELLOW REFUGEES WE HAD MET ON OUR JOURNEY. THE FIRST WITHSTANDERS. GUARDIANS OF THIS FINAL SANCTUARY. AND THEN SHE BETRAYED US. He finishes his glass in a single gulp, and leans back in the booth. I DO NOT KNOW WHY. NOBODY DOES.
"Shit," I said, hitting that sweet NO2 again, "that's fucking heavy, dude. That's some serious, uh, lore. And she's the one killing the girls? Do you know why?"
He nodded. RITUAL PURPOSES. DEATH MAGICK. PROBABLY TRYING TO KILL A HOLDER, OR ROT AN ISLAND, OR SOMESUCH. A shrug. ALL NIHL PLOTS ARE THE SAME. REGARDLESS OF THE MEANS, THERE'S ONLY ONE MOTIVE. THE END.
"Damn." I hate death-cults. Pointless waste of time. Give me a sex-cult any day. "Uh, so, what's the plan? The next step in the investigation?"
WE BELIEVE WE KNOW WHERE SHE WILL STRIKE NEXT, AND WHEN. AUGURS AND ACTUARIES HAVE ALL BUT CONFIRMED IT. WE WILL BE THERE, LYING IN WAIT. AND YOU, DOCTOR GATHERS, WILL BE THERE WITH US. I'LL SEE YOU IN THE MORNING.
And before I could get a word in, he got up and left. He forgot to close his tab, though. Seventh rule of journalism: never turn down free drinks. Didn't make it back to my room until the wee hours. The hotel golems practically had to drag me there. So when you read the rest of this article, and my choices don't make sense, or my recollection seems incomplete, remember: I was more hung over than you've ever been in your fucking life.
DAWN OF THE FINAL DAY
I got maybe two hours of sleep. Soon as my head hit the pillow, a cop was pounding on my door. It was Cadet Feluskes, the squid-kid from yesterday. Much less flustered — I think they'd gotten a crash course in press-wrangling. They started talking as soon as I opened the door. Someone taught them the second rule of journalism. "Dr. Gathers. Captain Adeniel sent me to get you. You'll be riding along on the-" And then they stopped talking, because I puked on their boots. I'd gotten the gist, anyhow.
"Yep. Stakeout. Catch the bitch." I stumbled back into my room, threw on my coat and hat, and brushed my teeth with a bottle of Jack. "Sorry about the boots. Where we going?"
"Uh. The… The dockside slums. Nine Eyes Davis Avenue, across the street from the Imperial Lady." They weren't totally broken. Good. "It's a… House of ill repute?"
"Brothel. Gotcha." This was where I made my first mistake of the day: I took my recorder out of my pocket so it wouldn't fall in the toilet while I pissed. And then I left it on the bathroom counter, recording nothing, for the next eighteen hours. Further dialogue will be approximate. "So, what are we waiting for?"
I gingerly stepped over my barf-moat, and rushed downstairs, Feluskes trailing in my wake. There are no continents in Last Light, only islands, and so they lack that most basic of amenities, the continental breakfast; thankfully, I had described it in loving detail to the clay-faced bartender the night before, and the phoenix clearly approved of the idea. There was a whole spread waiting in the lobby: mediocre pastries, unripe fruit, coffee so strong it woke me up from across the room. Eighth rule of journalism: never skip breakfast. The stakeout could wait. Feluskes had to wash my vomit off their boots anyway. Only took me an hour, hour and a half tops to house enough rubbery eggs and burnt toast to power my journalistic engine. Then off we went, fast as my little legs could carry me.
PLAN A: THE AMBUSH
The great Zen tactician, Daisetsu Sorei, wrote: "There is only one ambush. All hunters are the same hunter, and all prey the same prey." I don't know what this means. I found it while looking up motivational quotes to put on the wall of my gun range. But I couldn't get it out of my head during that stakeout. Maybe it's memetic or something, I don't know, you find all sorts of shit in the Library. At least it took my mind off the boredom.
The Imperial Lady, across the street, was the gaudiest pagoda you've ever seen in your life. Six stories, jade roof tiles, gilded beams. Well, most of the tiles were missing. And the gilding had been scraped off long ago. And the top floor was sort of collapsed in on itself? Hold on, lemme try again.
The Imperial Lady, across the street, had once upon a time been the gaudiest pagoda you've ever seen in your life. Now it was a cheap brothel, and it looked like it. Most of its employees were roughly humanoid, two-ish arms, two-ish legs, two-ish tits. They hung out on the porch wearing as little as they could without breaking any laws, half-heartedly waving at passers-by and occasionally taking a customer inside. Probably not as often as they would like. The inside looked alright, at least, from the few glimpses I got through the windows. Beds with actual sheets. Heating. Lights. Probably smelled crazy, but at least there would be perfume involved.
Our stakeout accommodations, not so much. The building wasn't abandoned, because there were too many refugees in Last Light to abandon any building, but in a better world it would have been. No heat and no light — and I'm cold-blooded. Was practically in hibernation by the end of it. No furniture except a mattress that was literally crawling with bedbugs and a stool that collapsed as soon as I tried to sit on it. Stunk of cat piss and garlic. And yet, no matter how I complained, how much I begged and whined and made lewd gestures in the direction of a very fetching gecko-woman, Captain Adeniel wouldn't let me do some recon from the inside. It's inhumane. Or maybe inchameleone.
But alas, my neologizing fell on as deaf an ear as my other pleas. IT WOULD COMPROMISE OPERATIONAL SECURITY, DOCTOR GATHERS, he said, AND GETTING YOUR CLOACA MOISTENED BY THE STICKY TONGUE OF A LUSTY GECKO MAID IS NOT WORTH LOSING TRACK OF MY MURDER-WIFE. Or, you know, something of the sort, I forgot I left my recorder behind so I didn't take any notes. AND BESIDES, YOUR IDLE FANTASIES ABOUT MY OWN PECTORAL MUSCLES SHOULD BE ENOUGH TO TIDE YOU OVER. He didn't say that part, because he couldn't read my mind, but if he could have he would have. ALTHOUGH I AM A MARRIED MAN. YOU KNOW THIS. YOU ARE NO HOMEWRECKER, DOCTOR GATHERS. EXCEPT FOR THAT ONE TIME IN COLLEGE THAT YOU THINK ABOUT WHEN YOU ARE ALONE AT NIGHT WITH ALL YOUR MISTAKES. Alright, Fantasy Adeniel, cool it.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the stakeout was quick. An hour, maybe two, catch the murderer, back to the hotel in time for lunch. But I checked my watch compulsively through the whole ordeal, and I can confirm that it was seven hours and forty-eight minutes between when I first set foot in the stink-hole (as I began to privately and then publicly call the apartment) until one of the sentries finally pinged Captain Adeniel with a sighting. Loriel Reminanz was approaching. Running across the roofs. Withstanders moving into position. Total silence in the stink-hole, except for the moment-by-moment updates in everyone's ear but mine. Getting closer to the Lady. Four blocks. Three blocks. Two. One.
And then she vanished.
And then I heard a gunshot, and then a scream, cutting through the street-sounds, piercing and anguished.
And then we followed the first rule of journalism at a dead sprint, to an unassuming apartment block two doors down from the Imperial Lady, to the Oathbreaker's real target, to a woman who would not be dying now if the Withstander augurs and actuaries were just a little more precise.
PLAN B: WING IT
Ghuidann Kellec was nineteen years old. She lived with her mother and three siblings in a small apartment on the fifth floor of The Ideal, a building that had once been considered the height of luxury, and was now just a few steps above absolute squalor. She made most of her meager share of the family's income by selling her mother's hand-woven scarves and babysitting the neighbor kids. She was taking classes from the clergy of a knowledge-god, staying up late to study, borrowing and stealing all the books she could. She wanted to be a teacher. And she never went anywhere without a jury-rigged one-shot slug-thrower hidden in her coat. It had saved her life before; in a more just world, it would have saved it again.
She was still alive when I got there, just behind Adeniel. Gasping, heaving, trying to get air into lungs that were filling with her own blood. Her heart was still in place, but her sternum had been crushed, shards of her ribs penetrating her vital organs. Bleeding out on the inside. Her gun was in her hand, the end still smoking, splattered with a thick white-gold ichor. Angel's blood. A trail led out the other end of the alley, shimmering pearls on the concrete. Captain Adeniel hesitated, for a moment, torn between tending to the victim and chasing her killer; and then Ghuidann breathed one last time, a horrible rattling wheeze, and went still. And away we went.
Out the back of the alley, into a maze of narrow streets. Follow the cries. Loriel is not being gentle with passers-by, ramming through crowds, leaving a perfect hole for us to follow. Seven of us now, six Withstanders and one Doctor of Journalism. Ninth rule of journalism: cardio, cardio, cardio. I have not followed this rule as closely as I should. A puff on an inhaler and a handful of stims keep me going. She's heading downhill, toward the docks.
From the warren of streets to an open-air bazaar. Can hear the docks from here, the horns of the ships, the shouts of the stevedores, layered over the hawkers' cries and the crowd-rumble. Pushing through the mobs, Adeniel leading the way, a bronze icebreaker in a human sea. Well, a mostly-humanoid sea, at any rate. Slowed down some, more than Loriel would be. Worries that we might lose her. A fist-fight up ahead, the Oathbreaker pushed a man into a potter's stall, shattered the lot, he won't pay for any of it. Words turned to blows quick. Feluskes peels off to settle the fight, and I don't blame them. Our quarry has killed dozens of Withstanders over the years, most of them rookies like the squid. It's not cowardice if you're right.
One last row of shops and we're out. There, in the distance, a fleeing black form. Crowds are lighter here, sailors and dockworkers and scavengers, none of whom want to tangle with the law. She's running for a ship. A rusted hulk, can't possibly be sky-worthy. Doesn't matter. Adeniel says something into his helmet radio, confirms it, and then the thump thump thump of naval guns, and then the ship explodes into smithereens. Tenth rule of journalism: artillery, artillery, artillery. (That's another one of Daisetsu's little epigrams. Not as hard to figure out as the first one. Rarely applicable in my line of work, but when it is, you really don't want to forget it.)
The barrage makes Loriel pause in her flight. Surprised at her husband's ruthlessness, maybe — that ship had a crew, even if it was a crew of Nihl, and the Withstanders are rarely so cavalier with collateral damage. We draw nearer, and I finally get a good look at her.
Withstander armor is like a medieval knight's armor, and like a beetle's armor, and like an M1 Abrams main battle tank's armor. A full-body suit, for those who aren't made of bronze, head to toe plates of some futuristic alloy that flexes at the joints like stiff cloth. Heavier on the chest and back, on the thighs, more angular. A smooth, rounded face-plate on the helmet, like the golden guy from Daft Punk. Most suits are silver-grey, with a matte finish; Loriel's is all black, and shimmers like an oil slick, refracting light at certain angles into dark ripples of rainbow. She turns, and I can see the wound on her stomach, a hole straight through the armor, bright heat within dripping out onto the ground. That poor dead girl's gun did more damage than it should. Got her hands on something dangerous. Good thing she used it on the right person.
Loriel stands for one more moment, thinking, maybe, cataloguing her backup plans. And then she's off, around the edge of the island, and we're right behind her.
PLAN C: MAKE SOMETHING UP
More streets. More alleys. They all blur together in my memory. We're herding her now, Withstanders coordinating across the island, blocking roads and building barricades, reducing Loriel's options. Driving her into a net. The Plaza of Broken Tombs. A wide square, in a wealthier neighborhood, its paving stones carved from grave markers and cenotaphs. Not as haunted as you might think. Even ghosts get broken down for fuel here, and people know to reincarnate quickly or never come back at all. The exits are small, easily fortified, and there's a Withstander bastion at one end, ready to unleash hell. A perfect place to trap our quarry.
Should've known that somewhere that steeped in death would have Nihl all over it.
They came from below. Tombstones stood up once more, as death-cultists climbed up from underneath. Behind the Withstander lines, stabbing the knights in the back. Up through the basement of the bastion, straight into the command bunker. A decapitation strike. Not as many deaths as you'd think, if there's one thing a Withstander can handle it's a close-quarters brawl, but all it needed to be was a distraction. And while the Withstanders were busy, the Oathbreaker slipped the net. And we, Captain Adeniel and a handful of his lieutenants and yours truly, followed.
PLAN D: CROSS THAT BRIDGE WHEN I COME TO IT
Back to the edge of the island. An industrial zone, factories and warehouses, trains and trucks. She's heading for a crossing, connecting this island to the next. "Ironeye Bridge," the Lieutenants Throop inform me, their unity unbroken by their heavy breathing, "Built by the railroad consortium. Dangerous to cross on foot. Trains every few minutes. Could try to shut it down, but the consortium would stonewall us. Not worth the effort. Hope you're good at dodging."
I gasped out something I don't remember and prepared to die. Going through a trainyard now, weaving between boxcars, feet slipping on gravel. The bridge is dead ahead, Loriel just stepping on it. Two parallel tracks across a quarter-mile of emptiness. Nothing below but the end of everything. There's a train coming. Running down the other track, praying I won't slip, praying nothing comes up from behind. They won't stop for us. Paste on the ties or slapped off into the abyss, either way we're dead. The train blasts past us, hot wind in its wake. My hat flies off, drifts out, and I save it with my tongue. Tastes like coal dust.
We switch tracks once the train is past. Loriel is gaining ground on us. Must be something on the other side she thinks will break the tail. SHE WISHES TO GO TO GROUND, Captain Adeniel says, no trace of exertion in his voice. WE SUSPECT THERE IS A NIHL STRONGHOLD BENEATH THIS ISLAND. IF SHE MAKES IT THERE, WE HAVE LOST HER. He says more, but the next train overtakes us, and his voice is lost in the rumble and the rushing wind. We're on the final stretch. Loriel is already across.
She stops, turns around. Something's wrong. Holds up a hand, snaps her fingers. And then I can hear the first explosion.
It starts on the first island. Two shaped charges, where the bridge connects to land. Snapping beams of reclaimed iron, severing bolts, cracking concrete. I can feel the tracks start to sag under my feet, and find my second wind. Then the second set of charges, a third of the way down. Metal buckles and twists. Adeniel grabs me by my coat, and leaps. The third set, just behind us. I feel heat, and hear nothing but pain. A moment of weightlessness, then we land, safe and sound, on the next island, just as the bridge collapses entirely, falling into the pit. The railroad consortium are not going to be happy. Nobody offers Nihl insurance.
I lie on the ground, and breathe, and try to decide which god I should thank for my continued life. And then Adeniel hauls me to my feet, and we're off again. I should give up, but I've made it this far. Eleventh rule of journalism: see the story through to the end. And the end, I promise, is close.
PLAN E: PUT MY HEAD BETWEEN MY LEGS AND KISS MY CLOACA GOODBYE
Down through a manhole. A sewer tunnel, lined with green ceramic tiles. Mosaics of medical deities. Holes carved in the walls, their inhabitants peering out. A mole-man squinting at the light of our torches, a crowd of pale malformed children staring silently, a horse-shaped mass of worms trying to sell me something unspeakable. Adeniel barely fits down here. Helmet scraping at the ceiling. The locals retreat into their holes when they see the Withstander armor. You don't live down here if you want to be known to the authorities.
Running through ankle-deep sludge. I'll need new boots when I get home. Left, right, left, left, following Loriel's trail of ichor, pearlescent-white atop dark sewage. Green tile becomes red brick, red brick becomes bare rock, bare rock becomes reinforced concrete. (Everyone builds a sewer when they come to Last Light. Sewers mean civilization, and that's one thing nobody's willing to give up, even at the end of days.) A glimpse in the distance — there she is. The tunnel's dried up. We can hear her footsteps. One last turn, and she's silhouetted against the open sky.
(You'd expect the sewage to be pouring off the edge into oblivion, wouldn't you? But they waste nothing in Last Light, not even their own shit. That's good fertilizer. The sewers all flow inwards, to the processing plants at the heart of each island, where the Nightsoil Guilds refine it back into the raw materials of life. The cycle of existence is the same everywhere, but here's it's staring you right in the face.)
Loriel Reminanz turns, and looks at us — at her husband. Black rainbows flowing across her armor. She nods, and though she has no face, I could swear she smiles. And then she falls backwards, out into nothing.
We run up to the edge, the Captain at the head of the pack. Our quarry falls down, down, past the bottom of the island, almost past the great colossus upon whose back the island rests; and then she opens her wings. She may have lost her halo, her flaming sword, all the other vestiges of the war-angel she used to be, but she still has her wings. Radiant white metal, with a touch of gilding at the tips of the feathers, maybe a five meter span. Beautiful. She catches the wind, and swoops up from her plunge. And then I draw my gun.
I don't know why I did it. Something about that last victim. Hearing her dying breaths. I shouldn't have been able to make the shot, not at a moving target at this distance, not with a revolver. A Colt Single Action Army. Pearl handles. Engraving on the barrel — "Ultima Libertas Imprimendi". The Final Freedom of the Press. Chambered in .357 Magnum. A beautiful gun. I call her "Margaret", and she's been with me for years. Margaret took the wheel, I think. One lucky shot, clipping Loriel's wing, and she fell. And this time there was nothing below her but the void.
THE LAST RULE OF JOURNALISM
Captain Adeniel didn't talk to me much after that. Probably because I killed his wife. His death-cultist serial-killer wife. I don't blame him. He was still staring down from the sewer pipe when I was dragged off by a cheering crowd, what seemed like all the Withstanders in the city packed into that dank tunnel, fighting to be the first to buy the Oathbreaker's killer a drink. I won't have to buy my own beer in this town ever again. Not that I'm ever coming back. Up until the wee hours again, but not alone this time — Adeniel's lieutenants, the Throops and their colleagues, kept me company and the rabble away. We went on a crawl of cop bars, smoky taverns with photos of fallen Withstanders up behind the bar, tended by serious men and women and et cetera with wiry muscles and more scars than most. Only the hardest motherfuckers make it to retirement age here.
I checked out of the White Phoenix Inn the next morning (or, more precisely, the next Journalist's Morning, which starts around noon-thirty), and headed towards my Way out. Heavy Withstander presence on the streets, all of them looking a little hungover. Did my best to dodge them. There's only so many free drinks a man can take. Travel agent didn't lie about the exit, thankfully — this won't save him — and the bookshop that housed the Way was still standing, still operating as such. The only cybernetic rat-things around were browsing through the cooking section. The Way was in the basement, among piles of abandoned tomes: books in languages long-dead, travel guides to lost cities on sunken continents, biographies of forgotten kings, genre fiction paperbacks. Captain Adeniel was waiting for me down there, paging through a bodice-ripper. I wasn't particularly surprised.
I SHOULD THANK YOU, DOCTOR GATHERS, he said, gently placing the book on a pile of a thousand others. FOR KILLING THE OATHBREAKER. ENDING A THREAT TO LAST LIGHT. AND I CANNOT. I AM SORRY.
I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything. Just gave him a nod. Then I turned around three hundred and sixty degrees and moonwalked straight into the Way. That was the knock, unfortunately. Not particularly dignified, but at least nothing went up my cloaca. Last thing I saw of Last Light was Adeniel's face, false-tears of condensation dripping down.
Last rule of journalism: nothing really matters. I helped stop a murderer, but that world is still ending. Entropy marches onward. The lights are going out. I'd take them with me if I could, all the poor bastards trapped on crumbling islands floating on a sea of nothing. But I can't. Their universe is doomed. There's no escape, not for the locals; the Ways won't open if you don't have a future. All I can do is tell their stories, and pray that the Last Light keeps on shining.