Read Online Finch by Jeff VanderMeer by Jeff VanderMeer - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeff VanderMeer
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Southern Isles.
At the docks with their suitcases beside them. Looking faded,
remote, and confused. Grandpa had been a carpenter. Grandma
a homemaker. There were no relatives on his mother's side. His
father was four years old in the photo. This image was all Finch
was willing to risk.
Once, Sintra had asked about the people in the photo. He'd said
he didn't know them. That he'd found the photo on the street and
liked it. True, to a point. Hadn't known the four-year-old. Never
really knew his grandparents. Just another nonmemory from a lost
life, and most days he didn't regret that.
On the back of the photograph, his father had scrawled a few
lines: "Sometimes a man will see in his own image a desert, and it
is the need to make that desert bloom which drives him again and
again to action, as hopelessness compels us to our end. Sometimes,
too, a man will flee in the enemy's direction, eager to weather any
punishment-physical or mental-that proves he is still alive. Or,
he does so from a pride that lies to him, tells him he can change
what seems unchangeable." From a book? His own thoughts? Finch
would never know.
Feral jumped up on his lap. Began to purr as Finch petted him.
The rough-smooth taste of the whisky scratched and soothed his
throat. He sank further into his chair. Maybe Sintra would come by
tonight.
Never lost.
"Yes, I know, fat boy," Finch murmured. Could sit there all night.
Forget what he had to do and pull out a book that he'd read three or
four times already. Pretend he lived in a better world.
Turned on the small radio on the table next to him. Feral
stopped purring for a second. Only one station across the dial:
the gray caps' station. Gone any cacophony of voices and music.
Usually just a single signal, filled with cryptic clicks and whistles.
Punctuated by propaganda delivered in flat tones by human
readers. ". . . A spy is caught and killed just outside the Zone ... Sector 509 has been scheduled for renovation. Anyone living there should
relocate immediately."
But, tonight, nothing. That made thirty-seven days of static. What
did it mean? Was it just another slackening of attention? Or something
more serious? Finch had noticed a pattern. The new dislodged the old.
A puppet government in place for six months dissolved when the gray
caps turned to building the camps. Electricity no longer reliable since
they'd started in on the two towers. These failings brought a twisted
optimism. Maybe they can't do everything at once. Or maybe there was a
purpose to all of it that he just couldn't see.
He pushed a complaining Feral off his lap. Walked back into the
kitchen.
The memory bulbs lay on the counter. Vaguely round. Pitted and
whorled. Smelling of both salt and offal. Already rotting?
Finch looked down at the cat, which had followed him expecting a
treat. Wondered what would happen if he fed a bulb to Feral.
"You want to eat one of these and I'll eat the other?" he asked Feral.
The cat walked back into the living room. Finch laughed. "Smart
choice." Picked up the phone receiver, dialed Rathven's number. A
crackling interference. At least it's working.
Through the static: "I'm taking one now. Give it an hour. If I don't
call back, check on me."
"I will. Be safe."
"Thanks."
Finch put the receiver down. Be safe. Don't slip on the carpet. Don't
fall out the window.
Which poison first? Finch picked up the orange one. Get the worst
over with first.
Each time he ate a memory bulb, he became someone else. Different
when he returned.
These would be his fourth and fifth. The first had belonged to a girl
of ten and had given him nightmares for a year. Montages of a ragged
doll. Soup made with dog bones. A bleak apartment without even
wallpaper. Turned out there'd been no foul play. Her parents dead,
she'd starved to death. The second had been a young man, the third a
young woman. A double suicide unspooled in his head. Left him with longings he didn't
At the docks with their suitcases beside them. Looking faded,
remote, and confused. Grandpa had been a carpenter. Grandma
a homemaker. There were no relatives on his mother's side. His
father was four years old in the photo. This image was all Finch
was willing to risk.
Once, Sintra had asked about the people in the photo. He'd said
he didn't know them. That he'd found the photo on the street and
liked it. True, to a point. Hadn't known the four-year-old. Never
really knew his grandparents. Just another nonmemory from a lost
life, and most days he didn't regret that.
On the back of the photograph, his father had scrawled a few
lines: "Sometimes a man will see in his own image a desert, and it
is the need to make that desert bloom which drives him again and
again to action, as hopelessness compels us to our end. Sometimes,
too, a man will flee in the enemy's direction, eager to weather any
punishment-physical or mental-that proves he is still alive. Or,
he does so from a pride that lies to him, tells him he can change
what seems unchangeable." From a book? His own thoughts? Finch
would never know.
Feral jumped up on his lap. Began to purr as Finch petted him.
The rough-smooth taste of the whisky scratched and soothed his
throat. He sank further into his chair. Maybe Sintra would come by
tonight.
Never lost.
"Yes, I know, fat boy," Finch murmured. Could sit there all night.
Forget what he had to do and pull out a book that he'd read three or
four times already. Pretend he lived in a better world.
Turned on the small radio on the table next to him. Feral
stopped purring for a second. Only one station across the dial:
the gray caps' station. Gone any cacophony of voices and music.
Usually just a single signal, filled with cryptic clicks and whistles.
Punctuated by propaganda delivered in flat tones by human
readers. ". . . A spy is caught and killed just outside the Zone ... Sector 509 has been scheduled for renovation. Anyone living there should
relocate immediately."
But, tonight, nothing. That made thirty-seven days of static. What
did it mean? Was it just another slackening of attention? Or something
more serious? Finch had noticed a pattern. The new dislodged the old.
A puppet government in place for six months dissolved when the gray
caps turned to building the camps. Electricity no longer reliable since
they'd started in on the two towers. These failings brought a twisted
optimism. Maybe they can't do everything at once. Or maybe there was a
purpose to all of it that he just couldn't see.
He pushed a complaining Feral off his lap. Walked back into the
kitchen.
The memory bulbs lay on the counter. Vaguely round. Pitted and
whorled. Smelling of both salt and offal. Already rotting?
Finch looked down at the cat, which had followed him expecting a
treat. Wondered what would happen if he fed a bulb to Feral.
"You want to eat one of these and I'll eat the other?" he asked Feral.
The cat walked back into the living room. Finch laughed. "Smart
choice." Picked up the phone receiver, dialed Rathven's number. A
crackling interference. At least it's working.
Through the static: "I'm taking one now. Give it an hour. If I don't
call back, check on me."
"I will. Be safe."
"Thanks."
Finch put the receiver down. Be safe. Don't slip on the carpet. Don't
fall out the window.
Which poison first? Finch picked up the orange one. Get the worst
over with first.
Each time he ate a memory bulb, he became someone else. Different
when he returned.
These would be his fourth and fifth. The first had belonged to a girl
of ten and had given him nightmares for a year. Montages of a ragged
doll. Soup made with dog bones. A bleak apartment without even
wallpaper. Turned out there'd been no foul play. Her parents dead,
she'd starved to death. The second had been a young man, the third a
young woman. A double suicide unspooled in his head. Left him with longings he didn't
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